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wordsablaze · 3 years ago

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Trust Fall

day four, where damian’s improvised escape route is creative but also a literal nightmare for dick...

A/N: some day i’ll write about my faves without hurting them. but not today. whumptober prompts: “do you trust me?” / pushed

It’s not that Dick is scared of falling.

Of course he’s not, he grew up in a circus and spent his days soaring through the air as he flung himself from one pair of hands to another so he’s more than accustomed to dropping and catching himself.

But it’s different when they’re on patrol.

He hates watching his siblings throw themselves across buildings just as much as doing so fills him with pride. They’re good at it, they’ve all been trained well and it’s satisfying watching them land their jumps perfectly, but there’s still a part of Dick’s heart that will never get over the fear watching his family fall, the fear of watching someone else he loves plummet to their death.

He’d just never expected to experience the reverse.

And it’s almost poetic how it’s Damian sharing that experience with him, the one person he’s scared for the most. Because Damian is small and he is far from fragile but he is a child and Dick is constantly terrified that his line will snap or his foot will slip or his hands will fumble and he’ll end up falling.

But no.

It’s Dick who ends up falling.

The case they were solving had led them to a series of weapon shipments and opened up a trail of weakly hidden smugglers. It hadn’t initially taken long to figure out who was organising everything but the masterminds were a lot smarter than the men they’d hired to carry out their dirty work and it’s several weeks before Nightwing and Robin manage to intercept an incriminating meeting.

Of course, the meeting is on a rooftop.

And a particularly tall rooftop at that. From a business viewpoint, it’s ideal: it’s away from prying eyes and means that whatever they discuss is less likely to be accidentally discovered by a guard or a resident or a rival spy. But from a vigilante viewpoint, it’s a pain: it’s difficult to access, staying out of sight is far harder than usual, and there’s almost nowhere to go if things turn sour.

Almost nowhere to go, because vigilantes are nothing if not creative. So when their hiding spot is unfortunately discovered - not because they’d been unprofessional but because a stray cat decides to have some sort of crisis right next to them - there’s no choice but to be creative about their escape.

“Do you trust me?” Damian quietly asks as they back away from the men glaring at them, so quietly that it takes Dick a moment to realise the question had been asked at all.

“With my life,” Dick replies honestly.

He thinks he sees Damian smile one of his extremely rare and shockingly genuine smiles but he doesn’t get any time to appreciate how precious it is because his feet are suddenly separated from the ground and his field of vision shifts from the city skyline to the faint line of stars in the sky.

“No!” he shouts, but it’s too late.

Before he can even think of grabbing onto the edge of the roof or anything in the vicinity, gravity has done its job and yanked his head backwards, downwards. He can feel his body flipping over itself, catching sight of the cars parked below him before he rights himself in the air and scrambles to find his grapple gun.

The wind screams past his ears as he falls but he can’t hear it over the taste of his heartbeat anyway. He should be compartmentalising because come on, he’s a professional and he’s trained for this his whole life, but he can’t think and he can’t find his grapple and he’s falling and falling and falling and he wonders if this what his parents had felt like, if they too had wished they could just stretch a little further, if they’d watched the boy they love stand tall above them as they fell and fell and fell and-

There.

He almost sobs as his fingers latch onto the right part of his belt and aims almost blindly at where he thinks is up. The grappling hook latches onto something but his appreciation is once again cut short as he finds himself being pulled sideways and slammed into a building, the unrelenting brick knocking all the air from his lungs in a way that will surely leave an impressive set of bruises later.

It takes him far longer than it should to realise that he can’t stay dangling on a building all night. Eventually, when he can hear car horns and distant shouting instead of just his own frantic heartbeat and muddled echoes of memories, he lets his head fall against the brick and lifts a hand to activate his comms. “Robin?”

Mercifully, Damian replies almost immediately. “I’m waiting at the back entrance.”

There are a hundred things Dick could say to that but in the end, he just sighs. “On my way.”

He scales down the building on autopilot, nothing mattering until he sees Damian leaning against a door, looking almost bored with the whole situation. If it weren’t for the way he all but launches himself at Dick as soon as he’s in sight, it might have seemed like pushing his brother off a roof hadn’t affected him at all.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, looking over Damian for any injuries even as he nods. “Are you sure? How did you get down? Did any of them hurt you?”

Damian pulls back only enough to meet Dick’s worried gaze, his arms still firmly looped around Dick’s stomach. “There was a small vent in the east corner, I escaped through it easily but you would have been too tall.”

Oh.

Dick smiles, ruffling Damian’s hair. “You did the right thing, Robin. That was smart, and impressively quick thinking.” He waits until Damian’s shoulders relax and the guilty frown fades from his face before adding: “I totally understand why you did what you did today but please, please never do that again.”

He doesn’t think Damian knows how his parents died and it’s unlikely that he’s aware how the fear of falling still haunts his nightmares so many years later but there must be something telling in his expression because Damian nods quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers solemnly.

Again, Dick smiles as warmly as he can. “It’s okay, Robin, I love you.”

They use the fact that the men who’d spotted them on the roof are probably on their way down after them as an excuse to move on and head back to the cave for their reports, but Dick would be lying if he said he doesn’t pointedly avoid taller buildings for the next couple of weeks.

dick please admit that you have trauma so your siblings don't accidentally make it worse--

thanks for reading !! masterlist | dc sideblog: @batfamvibes

#whumptober2021 #no.4 #do you trust me?#pushed #dc #batman #fanfiction #dick grayson #damian wayne #hurt dick grayson #batfamily #hurt comfort #angst #nightwhump #mine #no beta we die like the flying graysons

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cinaja · 3 years ago

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Before the Wall Epilogue

Masterlist

----

Ten years after the Wall

The crops have been coming along well this year, just the right balance of sun and rain and wind promising a rich harvest. It leads to a good mood throughout the human parts of the Continent. In the aftermath of the war, they have all made their experiences with food shortages, and so everyone is relieved that they seem to have moved past these times. All the bigger is the shock when, only a week before the grain was meant to be brough in, heavy thunderstorms with rain and hail ruin most of the harvest in one of Angolere’s northern provinces.

Andromache spends two mildly exhausting days visiting the region, travelling from city to city and offering reassurances that everything is under control, there are no risks of food shortages. Her presence has no practical purpose, the local authorities are more than capable of handling the situation, but everyone is nervous enough that they need someone to reassure them that all will be well.

By the time she reaches the last village, she is drained, although she is too well-trained to show it. As patiently as in the first village she visited yesterday, she listens to the town spokeswoman describe their situation, allows her to show her the village and the mostly-ruined regions.

“We will send grain from other regions,” she promises, as she did in every place she visited so far. The south of Angolere had rich harvests these years, and the other queens have already promised to send food as well should we not get by after all.”

She accepts an invitation for dinner and spends a few hours sitting in the townhall together with most of the village, making pleasant conversation, before she excuses herself. When she steps outside, she expected to be greeted by one of her guards. Instead, Yanis is waiting for her, leaning against a fence.

When he sees Andromache, he offers an exaggerated bow, grinning broadly as he straightens. “Good evening Your Majesty. May I be your escort for the evening?”

Andromache grins back. “I don’t know. You see, I have a husband who is waiting for me at home with our children.”

“I hear those children are sleeping already, and your husband missed you terribly these last few days and thought he’d pick you up.”

Andromache laughs and leans over to kiss him.

“How did it go?” he asks, wrapping an arm around her middle.

“All good,” Andromache says. “I barely needed to do anything, just reassure people a bit.”

These days, all problems she has to deal with seem easy. There is still a lot of work – drafting laws, dealing with arising problems, day-to-day governing work – but it only ever seems pleasant. What is a disagreement over a new law compared to the horror of war? Or to the initial years afterwards, when there were millions of displaced, traumatized people to deal with and they came close to starvation almost every year. Six years ago, a loss of harvest like this would have meant famine and deaths. Now, all she has to do is organize for food to be sent over from different provinces.

Things are good.

“I’m sure you were brilliant,” Yanis says with a broad smile. “Meanwhile, I have won a significant victory in the never-ending battle of convincing Leli that when her teachers tell her something, it is not a suggestion but an order, and I managed to keep Tano from breaking any priceless artifacts while running through the palace.”

Andromache laughs. “You’re my hero,” she says, half-teasing and half-sincere.

Yanis quit his work in the palace guard when Andromache got pregnant with Leli six years ago and has been staying at home to raise her and – three years later – Tano ever since. He could have kept his job had they hired someone to look after their children, but for Yanis, there was never even a question in that regard: He wanted to be there for their children as they grew up. It makes it easier for Andromache to know that even when she is busy at work, sometimes for days at a time, he is home with their children.

“My first meeting tomorrow is at eleven,” she says. “That ought to leave plenty of time for a nice family breakfast.”

----

Mor spends her days travelling the Continent, dealing with anyone her uncle currently wishes to improve relationships with. She has yet to decide whether she loves or hates her new position. Both, perhaps. She loves that it allows her to travel far and wide, to leave the Night Court and its restrictions behind, if only for a few weeks at a time. She loves the protection it gives her.

She hates the memories it brings up, though. For her, the Continent is full of memories of happier times. (No, that is not right. She shouldn’t think back to the years of war and wish herself back into that time. But then, to go back would mean getting Andromache back, and for that, she would accept a hundred years of war. But Andromache is on the other side of the Wall, married now and forever lost to her.)

Sometimes, Mor also hates the people she has to deal with. Today, it is Shey, who has been loosely allied with the Night Court ever since the war ended. Mor doesn’t know exactly how that came about, but her uncle exports iron for weapons and armour to Shey and he sends Mor to visit the emperor at least once a year.

Today is the first day of that annual visit and Shey is holding a welcome-celebration for her. It is a huge honour – Shey is easily the most important person on the Continent now, and him holding a celebration in honour of the emissary from a tiny Prythianian court is very unusual.

If Mor had been stupid enough to think it is for her sake, she might have actually felt honoured. But this celebration isn’t because of her, none of this is because of her at all. It’s all about Miryam and the fact that everyone knows that Mor was friends with her. That is why there are no doors locked to her on the Continent, why everyone so readily meets with her. Because Miryam and Drakon were her friends, and so to host her is to flaunt some sort of connection to them.

No, Mor does not enjoy the party at all, even if the music is brilliant, as is the food. She just makes conversation because it is what is expected of her and downs glass after glass of the clear, sparkling wine favoured here in the north to make it bearable.

She wonders what they would all say if they knew how things ended between Miryam and her, that she abandoned her before the end and left her to die. If they knew that she was so terrible that Andromache could no longer bear to so much as be around her anymore. If they knew about the charmed necklace that still lies unused at the bottom of some drawer in her rooms in Velaris.

No one knows about any of that, though. And no one ever will. Maybe one day, Mor will even be able to fool herself into believing that the sole reason her and Andromache split up was the Wall, that she never argued with Miryam and the only reason she isn’t visiting her is out of worry for her safety. It is not today, though, and so she downs another glass of wine and smiles at the nearest dignitary and allows him to pull her to the dance floor.

----

No one is coming for him.

Jurian fought against that truth for years, but he has given up on denying it for a while now. What use is it to lie to himself? No one is coming to save him. His allies, his friends, seem to have forgotten entirely about him. They moved on with their lives and likely never thought of him again, didn’t care enough to bother freeing him from that terrible nightmare his life turned into.

Jurian hates all of them. Andromache and Nakia and all the others for leaving him behind. Drakon for pretending to be his friend and then betraying him and making Miryam turn away from him. Miryam for turning against him. For not saving him. For dying. Her, he hates most of all.

----

Drakon puts down his quill and scans the contents of the text he just finished once more before putting the paper on the stack with the other usable results. That stack is the only tidy part of the table he was working on, the rest is a mess of books, most of them lying open on the relevant pages, and crumbled papers filled with ideas he dismissed as useless already. A few of those even ended up on the floor.

Well, that ought to be enough for now. He’s done with his edits on the draft for the new tax law they will be discussing later today. He still wants to show his edits to Miryam before then, but he still has plenty of time left for that.

Rising to his feet, he sets about cleaning up his mess. The papers he doesn’t need anymore go into the fire, he closes the books he used for reference and puts them on a second stack next to the one with the finished edits. He will be taking them with him, just to be sure.

Carrying the eight books as well as the stack of papers is a difficult task, given that he still doesn’t have proper use of his right arm. He has to carry the books with his left hand, the papers stuck between his useless right arm and his body. That movement alone hurts, but he is used to it by now. (There are magical prosthetics that function almost as well as an actual limb. But… well, Drakon hasn’t decided yet.)

A look at the clock reveals that it is almost seven. Drakon was in the library for the last four hours, and by now, Miryam should probably be awake. (Their sleeping schedules do not align very well lately. They usually go to bed together, but Miryam rarely manages to sleep more than half an hour before waking up again and then spends most of the night working, going to bed only in the early hour of the morning, while Drakon generally manages to sleep for a few hours but then cannot go back to sleeping when he wakes up. Miryam sometimes jokes that at least their inability to ever sleep through the night makes them both very productive rulers.)

Books balancing on his left hand, he walks through the halls of the library and out into the city. They founded their new capital nine years ago, and everything about the city still screams new. Many houses are only half-finished, as are all government buildings. Right now, their government meets in an improvised city hall and most of the high-ranking government members (including Miryam and Drakon) live in nearby houses. The council insisted that they start building a palace sometime, but that hasn’t been a priority yet.

The city Drakon is walking through now is nothing like Sajeo or any of the other cities in Erithia, all of whom were old, each building full of history. Drakon does miss Erithia, but he doesn’t think that difference is necessarily a bad thing, at least for their purposes. Not all history is good, after all, and in their situation, it certainly isn’t helpful. As it is, they all get a fresh start. There are human houses being build next to faerie ones, and all of them are equally new. They are all starting over together, and in a few centuries when this city has matured a bit, that will be the history the people living here will be able to look back upon. It will be one of unity, Drakon hopes.

----

Miryam frowns at her reflection in the mirror. Hair mussed from sleep and still wearing her long nightdress, she doesn’t look particularly dignified, but that is not what she has a problem with right now. No, the problem is that she looks young. It’s like she hasn’t aged at all in the last ten years. If she is being honest, the years of peace actually make her look far younger than she did at the end of the War. Then, at twenty-five, she looked more like thirty-five than she does now.

“Would you say,” she asks, turning to look over at Daín who is floating over her bed, “that I look my age?”

Daín is silent for a moment, cocking his head to the side to study her. “Now?” He asks. “You want to talk about that now?”

Miryam shrugs.

“Mortal ages are terribly hard to tell just by looks, really. There is no telling how old anyone truly is, as evidenced by you now looking younger than you did when we first met,” Daín says. When Miryam gives him a flat look, he quickly adds, “But in your case, I would say that you look twenty-five, for the simply reason that you haven’t aged a day since you were resurrected. Which is what you were getting at, isn’t it?”

Miryam glares at him, trying to ignore the sting of the words. “You knew the entire time,” she says, more statement than question. “And you never thought to tell us? Even when we spent the last five years trying to figure out if I was aging or not?”

“And yet, through all that time, you never thought to ask me,” Daín says with a sharp smile. He has been getting better at mimicking precise expressions lately. “You ask about everything – history, human culture, magic, the other worlds. Yet this one thing, you never brought up, not once in the four years since you decided to talk to me again. Neither did Drakon.” He shrugs. “I figured you didn’t want to know.”

Like it or not, he might have a point. Miryam didn’t want to know. If she is entirely honest, she still doesn’t. She never wanted to be immortal, not even in the not-actually-immortal way the Fae are. She always thought that having a limited number of years made those years more precious.

“Resurrections are a tricky matter,” Daín offers. He actually manages to sound comforting. “There is no telling what side-effects there might be. Even I still cannot tell exactly how it works.”

“Well.” Miryam wraps her arms around herself. “I suppose the alternative was to be dead.”

She doesn’t like the idea of being immortal. Not at all. But if there is one thing she knows for sure, it’s that she prefers it to having died and stayed dead at the end of the war. These last ten years certainly weren’t easy, but they were good. The best ones of Miryam’s life, probably. She wouldn’t have wanted to trade them for the world.

“So you’re alright with it?” Daín asks.

“I guess I’ll have to be,” Miryam says with a shrug. At least it doesn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. It isn’t ideal, but she would rather have a too-long life than a too-short one. She smiles at Daín in a way that is hopefully reassuring. “And now, I need to get dressed. So, you know.”

“I’m already gone,” Daín says, winks at her and vanishes.

Miryam glances at her reflection once more before turning to her wardrobe. She sincerely hopes that she is at least only “immortal” in the way the Fae are, which isn’t so immortal at all. But well, that is a question for later. For now, she has other things to worry about, and for those, she needs to dress.

Drakon barges into the room just as she buttons up her jacket. He doesn’t look at Miryam – cannot, because he is balancing a stack of books on his left hand, it swaying dangerously with each step.

Miryam picks up the four books at the top and stands up on her toes to kiss him over the now-smaller stack of books he is still holding. “Busy morning?” She asks, smiling softly.

Drakon smiles back and manages to place the rest of his books as well as the stack of papers he was holding under his right arm on the nightstand without any incidents.

“Yes,” he says, turning back to Miryam and wrapping an arm around her. “Very productive, though. I reviewed the new tax law we were drafting, and I think it should probably work out. Maybe you could read over it once more before the meeting later, though. And I brough along the books I used for reference, just to be sure.”

Miryam’s smile deepens. Of course be brought the books, as if there will be anyone but him at the meeting who read all of them.

“Sure,” she says, although she doesn’t think her reading over it will accomplish anything but making Drakon feel more secure about it. “I’ll read them right after breakfast.”

That way, they will still have time for small changes before the meeting, even if Miryam doubts she will find anything of note. She learned a lot about law-making in the last years and she would say that she is decent, but especially when it comes to the small details (which is what they are dealing with at this stage), she’s nowhere near as good as Drakon.

They go have breakfast on the small balcony belonging to the set of rooms they share. It is Miryam’s favourite place in the entire city, high enough that she can overlook the square below as well as some of the nearby streets. As her and Drakon eat and discuss the things they both worked on during the night (the tax laws for Drakon and a logistic issue with distributing food for Miryam), Miryam looks out over the city.

By now, the city has awoken and the square is full with people rushing about, going about their daily activities. Humans and faeries, all living together in peace. A woman is hurrying along, trailing two small children behind her. A young Seraphim girl and a human boy are playing together by the fountain. Next to them, a group of adults sits and eats a quick lunch, likely before going to work.

Miryam could spend hours watching them. On bad days, when her nightmares are worse than usual and the shadows of what happened chase her, she sometimes does. Watching the people down there go about their lives, happy and free and at peace, always makes the guilt and pain easier to bear. These people will have good lives, they and their children will be free, and that alone makes all that it took to get them here worth it. It makes everything worth it.

----

A/N: So, this is the final chapter. After over a year and 370k words written, I can't quite belive that this story is actually over. Writing this story has been lots of fun (and I might revisit it for a few oneshots sometime), and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

At this point, I'd also like to thank everyone who read this story and left comments or likes - all of you have really made my day every time. A special thanks goes (once again) to @croissantcitysucks for all the wonderful conversations we had about this story, for all the great feedback and help when I had problems, and, of course, for all of the backstory surrounding Daín and the Mother (also, I'm looking forward to you acotar rewrite so much and I can only recomment everyone read it when it comes out!) It's really been so much fun!

Tags: @femtopulsed @aileywrites

#this is it guys #the last chapter #i can't believe this story is over #i will miss these characters #might write smth with them again if I have time #i hope you liked this (hopeful - like I promised) ending #and ofc the story in general (although if you stuck around through the last 370k words i hope you did lmao)#before the wall #THE LAST CHAPTER!!!#miryam #jurian #drakon

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ghosts-and-blue-sweaters · 3 years ago

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Tell me about Elmer. Feel free to gush, but for starters from the Serious Oc Ask Game, 3, 6, and 9.

Little info about the character:

Elmer's a clone trooper, one of only 10-ish others who were trained as spies. He had a very lonely childhood, doing one-on-one training with his instructor and rarely meeting any other clones

He's very cynical, and has a "I'm done with everything" kinda personality. He is NOT an animal lover, but somehow gets roped into caring for 10+ creatures of various sorts, including a bird named Alaber

You can read more about him here:

Who in their childhood frightened/hurt them? Have they overcome that? How? How do they view that person now? How would they react to meeting them again?

Oh gosh you had to pick THAT oh boy okay here we go-

So when Elmer was a cadet, he was trained by a Zygerrian named Bernard. Bernard was a very quiet man, and whenever he did speak his voice was soft. Elmer was always trying to figure out what Bernard was thinking and if he was proud of him :'(

Their relationship wasn't all touchy-feely; neither of them worked like that. But it was a good relationship. They truly loved each other, though neither of them ever admitted it (Elmer because he didn't know how to express that, and Bernard because he was scared of doing so)

One night, Elmer gets kidnapped from his room, taken to a mysterious place and tortured endlessly. He's never asked any questions; he's just tortured. And he doesn't know why

Several weeks later, Bernard comes and rescues him, rushing him back to Kamino and tending his wounds

A few days later, once Elmer's come to and is feeling a bit better, Bernard says something like this: "If I had known what they were going to do that to you, I never would've let them take you away."

Elmer just freezes. "Let them?"

Panic-stricken (Bernard hadn't meant to let that slip) the Zygerrian explains that he'd hired people to kidnap Elmer. He explained that it was a hardcore training exercise of sorts. He explained that his only intention was for Elmer to learn more by being "in the thick of it" as opposed to a simulation

Elmer's BEYOND betrayed, and one by one, he points to his various wounds and scars, shouting that he'll always have them because of Bernard. "They never even asked questions! They just tortured me! And they never kriffing told me why, you son of a bantha!"

Their relationship is permanently scarred after that

Bernard tries desperately to restore it, apologize, help somehow, but nothing works. Elmer's terrified of him, envisioning more kidnappers showing up late at night while his instructor stands by and watches

Eventually, Bernard decides to leave and entrust Elmer to someone else

So Bernard definitely scarred Elmer at that point (he looked 16)

Elmer's gotten over that in the sense that he doesn't cry himself to sleep or have night terrors anymore, and he doesn't think about it very much... but it still hurts. He's still a little scared of the dark, and of open spaces with no cover, and people in dark cloaks

Elmer really tries hard not to think about Bernard, but when he does, it's very conflicting. On the one hand, he's got the kind Bernard, the one who sat with him on the couch and gave him milk from a glass and smiled softly and helped him through nightmares

And on the other hand, he's got evil Bernard, the one who hired people to kidnap his own cadet and left him there for weeks and didn't do anything to save him

I don't think even Elmer knows what he'd do if he met Bernard again. He doesn't know if he'd cry or scream or shout or throw a punch or run away or race closer... he just doesn't know. And that's why he doesn't think about it

What keeps them going when all seems lost?

Hmm... Elmer's a very cynical person, so when things aren't going well, it's very hard for him to hold onto hope

But I'd say that his friends keep him going. He'd do anything for them, and he won't rest until he knows they're safe. If they ever ceased to exist, it would not be good for Elmer. Not good at all

How did their life begin? As in, what inspired you to create this character, however cheesy the reason may be.

Yeah this might get weird-

So, last summer, I watched Pixar's Luca for the first time. There's a scene at the end where Luca's holding onto the outside of a train, staring off into the distance as it races away

And I just thought, what if a clone did that?

Very random idea, but I decided to roll with it... and I created an OC whose sole purpose was to hold onto the outside of a train with the most awe-struck expression on his face

No name, no story, no nothing, just that one image

IF I COULD DO ART I WOULD TOTALLY DRAW THAT IMAGE YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH I WANT THAT

Eventually, I ended up fleshing him out a bit more. I wanted him to dress like someone from the 1800-1900s, so I gave him a trenchcoat and a flatcap. I looked up names from that time period and settled on Elmer

And then I was like, "I sHouLd mAkE hiM a SpY"

So he become a spy

After that, I kinda stopped coming up with ideas for him. He was one of those OCs that was just... there. In the background, associated with an image, not really having a purpose

A few months later, I took part in an online writing class, and the assignment for one week was to write a story going up to 2,500 words. I got the idea that maybe I could do something with Elmer?

So I decided to do that

Now, my original plan was that Elmer was going to be a very innocent guy. Y'know, wide-eyed, smiley, filled with wonder by the smallest things, such as a leaf or ants

...and then when I started writing, Elmer decided he was going to be snappy, cynical, and just done with life. Oh and British

After I finished, I just frowned at the paper and went, "That wasn't how it was supposed to go. Elmer, you're supposed to be different."

I tried to revise it to the version I wanted, but no matter how hard I tried ELMER WOULD NOT LISTEN TO ME

LIKE DUDE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO LIKE LEAVES AND STUFF NOT ANGRILY THROW BIRDS AROUND WHAT ARE YOU DOING

At some point, I just accepted that Elmer was going to be very different than I envisioned, and now I wouldn't have it any other way

Seriously, I've never experienced anything like that before. I'm usually the one in control of my OCs, not the other way around XD

#ask game #my ocs #elmer #bernard #ask

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writingletterstothefire · 4 years ago

Text

She Loves Me

Chapter 1

A/N: Hi guys. It’s been a minute. Here is the long awaited (by no one) She Loves Me AU. I’m putting chapter 1 out here in the hopes that people waiting for updates will spark some creativity in me again. I’m sorry it’s short. If you enjoy, let me know

Word Count: 1703

Warnings: not proof read.

The sun was blazing down on you as you scurried down the busy New York sidewalk. The summer had decided to be blazing hot this wonderful morning, and you had decided to be extraordinarily late for work. Well, perhaps ‘decided’ isn’t the right word— you’d overslept on account of staying up extra late to finish a letter to your Special Friend.

There was no shame in using a dating service, you knew that, yet for some reason the very thought of joining one was something that you had scoffed at for so many years. “I want to meet someone organically,” you’d complain to your friends, “those services are full of strangers who have the weirdest quirks.” To be fair, that had been true in your brief experience using a dating service in college. It was definitely an odd time, figuring out exactly what ‘watersports’ meant. Needless to say, it had taken one single date for you to decide to withdraw your application and swear off dating services.

But you were getting older. And men seemed to just get more and more picky, the older they got. So, when you stumbled across an advertisement in your Sunday newspaper for a matchmaking service called ‘Special Friends’, you jumped at the opportunity. The directions were simple; you filled out the survey in the paper, mailed it to the listed address, and then your answers were compared with other submissions to find the best match for you. Once you received your match, you were to write a letter to them introducing yourself and signing off under the title of ‘Special Friend’. The two of you were given a specific P.O. box to drop your letters off to, provided by the matchmaking service. The only real rules were that the letter had to be handwritten, and you were only allowed to give real names if both parties agreed on it.

Your Special Friend was a true kindred spirit. It had been six months of trading letters back and forth, and the two of you spoke about everything, from your childhoods to your favorite books, from dream destinations to worst fears. About three months into this correspondence, you knew that, whoever this Special Friend was, you loved them. You stayed up until all hours of the night writing draft after draft until you formed the perfect letter. Because of this, you were often late for work in the morning.

Late. That’s right. You were very late. You willed your feet to move you as fast as they possibly could, cursing yourself for choosing this morning to wear heels. Finally, you managed to burst through the door just minutes before opening, scurrying to the back to drop off your bag. You made a mental note to yourself to start carrying flats in your purse, in case of emergency.

You’d just finished touching up your makeup in the small staff room mirror, when you felt someone sidle up beside you. You didn’t have to turn your head to know who it was. The smug energy emanating from his every pore was enough to confirm your suspicions of who was next to you. Santiago Garcia. Your worst nightmare in human form.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Garcia?” You didn’t even spare him a glance as you finger-combed your hair, which was now windswept from your impromptu jog.

“Not at all, Miss Y/L/N,” Santiago flashed you a smile that, in any other circumstance, would have been charming. You, however, knew that pure contempt lurked behind those pearly white teeth. “I was just marveling at the rare sight of you, here, on time!”

“And why would that be something to marvel at, Mr. Garcia?” you scowled.

“Well, simply because it’s never happened before!” Santiago leaned against the wall, charming smile morphing into the smirk that often adorned his chiseled face. “You know, Miss Y/L/N, you may want to stop frowning so adamantly. At your age, those frown lines tend to stick around.”

“At my age?!” you nearly shrieked at him. “Mr. Garcia, need I remind you that you are older than I am!”

His smirk only widened. “Yes, but you seem to forget that one of us is ageing with grace, Miss Y/L/N.”

Your scowl deepened, and you shoved past him, making your way to the front of the store. You never did understand why Santiago didn’t like you. From the first moment you stepped into the department store, it seemed like he was trying to usher you out. Sure, when he thought you were a customer, he was the most charming man you’d ever spoken to. But once he had realized that you were trying to apply for the new salesperson position, he wanted nothing to do with you. He had insisted that there were no positions available, but Frankie Morales, his friend and co-worker, was quick to usher you to the owner’s office. Mr. Bailey had been a hard man to charm, but when you made your first sale to a woman who was insistent that she was just browsing, he hired you on the spot. After all, you’d gotten her to buy not one, not two, but five jars of various creams and lotions. None of Mr. Bailey’s workers had ever managed to sell that much in one go, not even his prized Mr. Garcia.

Making your way to the front of the store, you said hello and gave a kiss on the cheek to Frankie and each of the Miller brothers, Will and Benny. All three of the boys were quick to welcome you, despite Santi being the unspoken leader of the pack. They quickly became your protective band of brothers, something you’d long wished for as a young child.

“Good morning Frankie! How’s Elisa doing this morning?” You asked Frankie, your tone surprisingly chipper after dealing with Santi in the staff room.

“Round as ever!” Frankie exclaimed, a wide grin on his face. “The doctors estimate that the baby will be here in about a month, and Mr. Bailey’s been so kind as to let me have a month off after the baby arrives. I know it’s going to take a toll on Elisa, and I want to be there for her as much as I can.”

Sometimes, Frankie just melted your heart. It was so plain to see how much he loved his wife and their incoming baby. Their little family was everything you wanted. You only hoped that one day someone would love you just as much as Frankie and Elisa loved each other.

It was beginning to seem as though your Special Friend was never going to reveal himself to you. You had offered to meet for dinner on a few occasions, and each time he insisted that he had prior appointments. You didn’t want to assume anything, of course, but you were getting worried. Surely he wouldn’t lie to you about having a prior engagement, would he? But then, if he was so eager to meet you, as he claimed to be, then why did he never offer an alternative date?

On your way home from work, you stopped at the P.O. box. Your Special Friend had forgotten— or, well, neglected, you supposed— to write you the past two days, but you were adamant about writing at least every other day. You knew how much the letters meant to you, and if they brought him even half as much joy, you wanted to be sure he got it. Perhaps, if you hadn’t been so caught up in your own head, you would have looked up and seen the figure walking away from the wall of P.O. boxes.

To your surprise and delight, there was a letter waiting for you in the box when you finally opened it. If you hadn’t been so excited to read it, perhaps you’d have noticed the flash of a coat turning the corner as they walked away from the wall of boxes.

You hurried to open the letter.

Dear Friend,

I am so sorry to have not been able to write these past few days. Work has been an absolute train wreck, what with the most irritating co-worker constantly fumbling about. Somehow, the boss claims it’s my fault. Could you believe it? My fault that my imbecile of a co-worker is incapable of doing the simplest task that doesn’t involve talking a mile per minute?

But enough about that mess. I am supposed to be apologizing to you, my dear, sweet friend.

I know that you have been wanting to meet me. I am so sorry that I haven’t been able to make any of our appointments. As I’ve told you before, I was once in the army. An experience in war is one that I don’t wish on anyone. It takes a toll on you, emotionally, mentally, and physically. Because of my experience, I’ve decided to counsel other veterans and help them through their traumatic memories. On the nights you had wished to meet me, I’d had previously arranged counseling sessions, as well as one doctors appointment, a check up to see how I am recovering after all of my surgeries that I’ve told you about.

All of this to say, dear friend, that I’ve cleared my schedule for the night of the 27th. If you are available, I would love to meet you at the Ambrosia Garden down on the corner of 12th Avenue. I’ve made a reservation for two under the name Elizabeth Bennett, after you expressed how much you loved Jane Austen’s ‘Pride & Prejudice’. If you show, I will be wearing a purple rose on my lapel. I will look for you, where you will be holding a copy of ‘Pride & Prejudice’, with a purple rose tucked between the pages.

I sincerely hope to see you on the 27the, dear friend. I’ve been longing to meet you since we first exchanged letters, so many months ago.

Sincerely,

Your Special Friend

You had to meet him. You would get to the Ambrosia Garden on the 27th, no matter the cost. You’d find out who your Special Friend was if it was the last thing you did.

#santi garcia x reader #santiago garcia x y/n #santiago garcia x you #santiago garcia fanfiction #santiago garcia #santiago x reader #santiago garcia x reader #she loves me au

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p-artsypants · 3 years ago

Text

The Ghost of Smokey Joe (5)

Nightmare

No lyrics in this chapter, because the song in the title has no words. But it really embodies everything I wanted to say with the chapter.

Also, ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN CHOO CHOOOOOO

Ao3 | FF.net

—

“Do you have those drafts ready for the meeting?” Asked Marinette, peering into her co-worker’s office, a very peppy woman named Jill.

“Of course! I’ve gotten them matted, just like you asked. 10, right?”

“Yes! Thank God someone is doing their job right today.”

“Oh, Marinette, where are your shoes?”

Marinette looked down to her bare feet. “Oh, I wore pumps that are great for working at my desk and walking to the water cooler, but they got kicked off somewhere around 9 this morning.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Have you seen Tim? He’s fixing the sizing sheet and I can’t find him anywhere!”

“Did you try his office?”

Marinette’s jaw dropped. “Tim has an office?! Since when?”

“Since always? Are you okay? You look like you could use a nap…or at least a cup of coffee.”

Marinette groaned. “No naps! No more coffee! My heart is just a hum now anyway! I haven’t been able to sleep the last few days and last night I didn’t sleep at all. I got this weird phone call—“ she stopped herself before she said too much. “Anyway, yes, Tim does have an office. I forgot.”

“And he’s always so good at emails, you never need to talk to him. I know. We had this same conversation last week.”

Marinette groaned again as she covered her face in shame. “Why is Mr. Agreste doing this to me?”

“Speaking of Mr. Agreste, have you gotten any answers from him today? I’ve sent three emails and he’s not responding at all. Apparently Tim’s having the same problem with Adrien.”

“I haven’t heard a thing from the manor. Not Gabriel, not Adrien, not even Nathalie. We’re supposed to have a meeting at 2, but I haven’t heard if that’s still on.”

“Doesn’t Adrien usually come into the office on meeting days?”

“He did…I don’t know what's up with him. He was being super cagey with me yesterday when I went to talk to him.” She sighed, hunching her shoulders. “I’m worried.” She didn’t disclose the truth of the conversation, that Adrien had effectively ended their friendship. It was too painful, but too fresh to ignore.

“I’ve been working here since Emilie was still around. Gabriel went through a huge personality shift when she disappeared. Maybe Adrien takes after his dad? Maybe something happened?”

“Ugh, don’t talk like that, I’ll just worry more!” An alert beeped from her phone, letting her know she had an email. “Ah! An intern’s job is never done! See you later!”

“Good luck, Marinette!” Jill called. After she left, she added, “you’re going to need it.”

At two o’clock, the department heads and designers all came together in the conference room. Marinette set up her laptop to the screen and had the presentation open, as well as the Skype call to Gabriel.

He had yet to join the session, but it was still a few minutes before the meeting officially began.

“I see you’re wearing shoes now,” said Jill.

“I don’t know if I could handle the ridicule from Mr. Agreste if he saw me bare foot in the conference room.” Marinette chuckled weakly.

“As if Gabriel would ever reprimand you,” said someone else. “He adores you.”

“That must be why he took a vacation and told no one,” she laughed again. Was her filter fading with all this sleep deprivation? Probably.

Finally, the call started, but Nathalie took the helm instead.

Before questions could be asked, she announced, “I’m afraid this meeting must be postponed.” No ‘hello’, no ‘thank you for your patience and hard work’. It was enough to make Marinette snap in all of her exhaustion and emotional turmoil.

“Nathalie, with all due respect, everyone is here and ready to go. Why isn’t Gabriel ready?” She huffed.

Nathalie glanced away from the camera, a tell that she was about to deliver a great blow. “Mr. Agreste is deceased.”

The room went silent. Someone dropped a pen.

Marinette fell into a chair, feeling like the ground was shaking under her.

“Early this morning, both Gabriel and Adrien passed away. A joint visitation and funeral will be held at the manor on Friday evening and Saturday morning, respectively. Everyone is invited, but it’s not mandatory, of course.”

Marinette couldn’t swallow the lump in her throat; it was so thick.

“The fall line will not be released this season. Two weeks paid vacation will be passed on as we prepare the new head designer to take Gabriel’s place.”

Someone asked, “Who is the new designer?”

Most heads looked to Marinette, knowing the answer.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng has been determined to be the new head designer.”

She sputtered out of her shock. “What? Me?! No! Surely not! I’m just an intern!”

“Intern to the head designer,” someone clarified. “We all knew you were going to be hired as his assistant soon. It was obvious.”

“But—but—“ she stammered. It was rather obvious, thinking about it. Gabriel was just waiting for her to secure that college degree to make it official. “I can’t! I just—“ Without any preamble, tears burst forth and rolled down her face.

Adrien was gone.

Her best friend. The love of her life. Without a goodbye, and on such horrible terms.

Screw the responsibilities, the job title didn’t matter. She didn’t care at all.

Several arms wrapped around her, her coworkers, her friends, comforting as best as they could.

“No one is expecting you to jump right in,” Nathalie explained. “You were quite close to both of them.”

“What about you?” Marinette rasped out.

“I had my moment earlier. I’m in business mode now. If anyone would like more details, please reach me privately.”

And she left. Like a whirlwind, leaving destruction in her path.

“Can you get home on your own?” Someone asked Marinette.

She thought she confirmed affirmative, but someone led her from the room with an arm around the shoulder. Maybe it was Tim. She didn’t really know. She didn’t really care.

When she arrived home, she dropped her purse on the floor. Where were her other bags? At the office? Oh well, didn’t matter now.

Nothing mattered anymore.

“Girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Alya and Nino were home, they were here and alive, and they didn’t know.

They didn’t know and she had to tell them.

“He’s gone,” She whispered.

“Who?” Asked Alya, resting a comforting hand on her arm.

“Adrien…he—he’s dead.”

“…what?” Nino squeaked out. “H-how? Why?”

“I don’t know…he and Gabriel—“ she stopped and flexed her hand. Her phone was still in her hand. It held answers.

She called Nathalie on video.

“Hello Marinette. I’m glad to see you made it home safe. I was worried.”

“What happened?” She blurted. “Nino and Alya know that he died. What happened?” Because there had to be a reasonable explanation.

Nathalie’s face morphed from serious business to pain and pity. “Are you sure you want to know?”

God, with a preamble like that, it couldn’t be good. Not painless like Carbon monoxide poisoning in their sleep, and not instant like a car accident.

“Please Nathalie, I have to know.”

She breathed shakily and admitted, “it was a murder-suicide, as enacted by Adrien. He first stabbed Gabriel, and then himself.”

“Augh!” Marinette sobbed out. It was an ugly sound that couldn’t be controlled or silenced.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could lie…but I can’t. Adrien had been acting strange lately…I think Gabriel knew this was going to happen.”

“No! You’re lying!” Marinette yelled. “Adrien loved his father! He would never—he’s not like that!”

“Marinette, I saw them. Adrien was obviously deeply disturbed.”

“SHUT UP!!” She ended the call and dropped the phone on the floor.

Then she looked to her friends, who were both bawling like her. Nino moved first and pulled her into a tight hug. Alya came around the other side, crushing her in a Marinette-sandwich.

“You’re right, he wouldn’t do that.” Alya offered. “But they’re both gone, so we can’t prove anything.”

“If Nathalie didn’t tell the office, then the truth might never come out,” Said Nino, nodding in reassurance. “Only the four of us will have any idea.”

After a long time, numbness started to set in. There was a degree of disbelief in her still, where she may have heard it, but she didn’t see it.

That left room for doubt.

Without a word, she took her phone from the floor and wandered back to her room.

After the door closed, Tikki appeared. “Marinette…”

But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at her phone screen, like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

Then she started a call.

It rang and rang and rang and rang…

“Hey there, it’s Adrien, I’m not available to answer right now. But leave me a message or shoot me a text, and I’ll get back to you. Hope you have a great day!”

The phone beeped.

“Adrien,” she sobbed. “Adrien I know—goddamnit this sucks. I’m too late. I love you so much, and I’m too late. I wish I told you sooner. Even last night when you called—I’m sorry I didn’t know you were struggling. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to help you. I loved you so much and I couldn’t save you and I’m so sorry…”

“Marinette…” Tikki tried to tell her to stop.

“This is the closest I could get to telling you. And you’ll never hear it and—“

The phone beeped again, signaling the end of the recording.

She saved it, and set the phone down.

“Marinette…”

“What is it, Tikki? What’s so important?”

“I have to tell you something…but it’s really really bad.”

“Well, hit me with it. Today is literally the worst day of my life.”

“Adrien…well, he was Chat Noir.”

As if the day couldn’t get any worse.

“What?”

“Chat Noir. He was Adrien.”

“But—but he can’t be. You must be confused.”

“Marinette, he literally wore the earrings before.”

“I KNOW!” She screamed. “But you have to tell me he's someone else! Because I can’t lose both of them! I can’t do it Tikki!”

“I know it hurts. You two were literally soul mates. The Ladybug and Black Cat always are.”

“You’re not helping!” She sobbed.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Tikki allowed Marinette to sob for a while, letting her anguish spill out of her. Tikki just kept watch for the Akuma that never came.

“You know what you have to do next, right?” Asked Tikki.

“What?”

She sighed. “You have to go to the visitation and take back the ring.”

“I can’t do that!” Marinette cried, horrified. “I can’t! There’s no way!”

“We’ll he can’t be buried with it. You have to, Marinette.”

Marinette crawled into bed, still fully clothed and wept and wept and wept until her tears burned her cheeks and exhaustion took hold.

All the chapter titles are songs from my spooky halloween playlist that inspired this fic (and their lyrics will be in the chapters)! You can find that playlist here. The playlist will be updated as the fic goes on.

#ml #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #the ghost of Smokey Joe #adrienette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #chat noir #ladybug

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firstfrostfall · 4 years ago

Text

A Cold Lament - Chapter One

a tommy shelby fanfiction

In the winter of 1918, the Shelby brothers returned home from a war-torn France. In the winter of the following year, the middle brother, Tommy, recognizes an opportunity for his family to move up in the world, and it came in the shape of a misplaced crate of weapons.

In the meantime, per the request of his aunt, he gives a struggling young woman a job.

Little did he know, that like the smell of snow on the wind in late autumn, everything was going to change, and it wasn’t just because of some stolen guns.

Takes place during Season One.

“This is a story, told the way you say stories should be told: Somebody grew up, fell in love, and spent a winter with her lover in the country. This, of course, is the barest outline, and futile to discuss. It's as pointless as throwing birdseed on the ground while snow still falls fast. Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over the pool. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying ‘snow,’ my lips move so that they kiss the air.” - Ann Beattie, Snow

WINTER, 1918

Tommy returned from France in the afternoon, after days of riding in a cramped train. Before that, he was crammed in the back of a cattle truck, and before that, well, he was deep underground, caked in mud and blood, digging away in a French tunnel.

It was cold when he stepped off of the cart, shoulder-to-shoulder with his brothers and the hundreds of other men who piled onto the platform. Former soldiers, all of them. Former. What did that make them now?

The sky was a broad, gray hand, and the wind smelled like snow. It was that certain smell that came around when the trees were bare and noses were red. Clean and winter, wide open. Like the whole world was about to change.

For two weeks after returning home, Tommy filled his days with other people, so as to avoid the quiet. Work with Polly in the shop, cards with Arthur at the Garrison, guns, and horses with John, nights with the same pool of working girls over and over again. Without people, the emptiness that came along with the quiet consumed him. He tried to remember what he was like, before the war, but he soon learned that it was impossible to recall, because he was in the after now.

At night, he would lie awake in bed, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes to avoid sleep. Not that it came easy to him, anyway. But there were times, albeit few and far between, where he would fall asleep, and he would find the quiet. Or, rather, the quiet would find him.

The quiet parts were all nightmares, dark rivers of mud and lost souls. He could never tell whether they were souls he knew now, or if they were people from the past, soldiers, screaming in voices made of wire. He would wake with a start, panting and covered in sweat, followed by a sense of relief that it was over. It wasn’t real. Sometimes the dreams would follow him during the day, usually in the sounds of shovels scraping against his wall when it was just him, alone in his bedroom, and the only other noise was the heavy thumping of his heart.

When the dreams that chased him into the day became more frequent, the cigarettes in bed turned into a pipe of opium. It kept the quiet out.

There were few opportunities after the war. Most jobs were an exercise in shared misery, toiling away in a factory for 15 hours a day- at least. So, he took matters into his own hands. It started as glancing encounters with petty crimes. Little shipments of illegal goods, a fixed race or two, then a little more, and a little more… Instead of people, Tommy found a new way to keep the quiet at bay.

Organized crime was a lucrative business, after all. Under the umbrella of the Peaky Blinders, it gave his family name a new sense of meaning, a sense of power.

And then, as if by divine intervention, a crate of guns were dropped at his doorstep. From that moment on, just like the smell of snow, the whole world changed. His whole world changed.

THE BRINK OF WINTER, 1919

He was at The Garrison with his brothers, sipping whiskey and listening to the two of them argue. Cards were scattered across the table, each play held in place by half-empty pints of beer and overflowing ashtrays. Their shared cigarette smoke made the air in the tiny room hazy and thick, so much so that Tommy could feel his eyes stinging each time he blinked.

They were in the middle of a card game until Arthur was losing and subsequently blamed it on John for cheating. Arthur had put a heavy wager on himself winning, which was a poor move on his part- John always cheated at cards. Tommy shook his head, their bickering nothing but static in the back of his mind. Another way to keep out the quiet.

Their argument was interrupted by a knock on the window that separated their private room from the bar. Arthur’s words slurred together and bellowed something along the lines of “open up,” at whoever was knocking. The barkeep, Harry, poked his head through.

“Good, uh, morning,” He nodded to the three of them. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but, there’s a boy here asking for Mr. Shelby.”

“Which one?” John laughed, sipping his pint as he elbowed Arthur in the side.

Harry leaned away to shout a question at someone from across the bar, before turning back to them. “Thomas, he says.”

“The one who matters the most,” Tommy deadpanned, a slight smirk on his lips. He waved a hand at the barkeep. “Send him in.”

Harry muttered a quick “yes, sir” and promptly closed the window.

Arthur, who sat closest to the door, kicked it open. A young man, who really was more of a boy, after all, stood before them. Removing his cap and gripping it tightly in between his fingers, he took a few hesitant steps into the snug.

“Mrs. Gray says she needs you at the shop, Mr. Shelby,” He shifted from foot to foot. “At once, she said.”

“At once,” Arthur repeated with a grin, clapping Tommy on the shoulder. “What did you do now, eh?”

“Looks like I’m on my way to find out,” Tommy pushed himself up from the booth and finished the rest of his whiskey in one swig. “Tell Mrs. Gray I’ll be right there,” He nodded to the boy and flicked a spare coin from his waistcoat at him. “Go on now.”

Tommy shrugged on his cap and jacket and followed the boy out of the pub, a fresh cigarette perched between his lips. He walked through the streets of Small Heath with his hands shoved in his pockets, watching the boy’s pace hasten in front of him from under his cap. The sky was dark, a thick curtain of gray, save for the tiny bulb of sun that just barely broke through the clouds. It was ominous, no doubt threatening a chilling rainstorm later, or perhaps, snow.

It was almost winter again.

He tipped the brim of his cap to the nameless working men who flitted in and out of the betting shop, a cloud of breath escaping their lips with each hurried “G’day, Mr. Shelby” that they gave him in passing.

The shop was busy, filled with the chattering of hopefuls who placed bets, the sound of a man shouting names and scratching too little chalk across the green board. He noticed his aunt, Polly Gray, hunched over a desk, eyebrows knitted together in concentration. She fidgeted with a cigarette in between two fingers while she read over what he could only assume was a packet of ledgers.

He stopped short in front of her. “You needed me?”

“Oh, Thomas,” She flicked the ash from her cigarette and sat up, the legs of the chair scraping against the uneven floorboards. “What’s your schedule for tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” He replied, “Depends on who’s asking.”

Polly scoffed, beckoning him to follow with a flick of her wrist. “Your aunt’s asking, come with me.” She led him to their family’s parlor, allowing him to step ahead of her while she drew the curtains that separated them from the rest of the shop.

“I have a favor to ask,” She glanced at him from over her shoulder, balancing the cigarette between her lips while she tied the curtains together tightly. She let out an audible sigh and finally turned around to face him.

Tommy leaned against the wall, still tending to his own dwindling cigarette. “What’s the favor?”

“I need to hire someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend,” She replied. “Well, the niece of a friend.”

“Niece?”

“Are you a fucking parrot?” Polly snapped at him. Shaking her head, she leaned over the table to twist out the remaining stub of her cigarette into an ashtray. “I’d have already hired her myself, but since you’ve been back, I need to jump through a few more hoops before making any executive decisions.” She sighed, clearly bitter. “Nothing gets done without your knowledge.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Who is she?”

“I know her aunt from church, she asked me if I could get her a job.”

“You’re asking me for a favor? For another favor?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Seems like a bad deal to me.”

“I didn’t ask if it was a bad deal or not, I asked if I could hire someone.”

He exhaled, bringing the cigarette to his lips and looking away from her. A headache started building up in the back of his skull. “Why here?”

“She trusts that I’ll look out for her niece,” Polly answered quickly, “She has many children of her own, she can’t afford another mouth to feed anymore. Her husband died in France,” Polly paused, taking a seat at the table. “The bottom line is, she thought to ask me for help, and that means something.”

“What’s the name?”

“Caldwell.”

Tommy remained silent for a long while.

“She’s having hard times, and doesn’t want to kick her own flesh and blood out onto the curb.”

“Aren’t we all having hard times?” He raised an eyebrow.

“She’s desperate. Will you help me, or not?”

“This isn't women’s business.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Her aunt was good to me, while you boys were away at war, back when it was women’s business,” Polly rolled her eyes. “I’m just trying to pay that good nature forward.”

“Since when did you start paying things forward?”

“Since today,” She huffed, “I’ll ask again. Will you help me or not?”

“Why should I waste company resources on a girl we don’t know, for a job we don’t have. Have you met her before?”

Polly glanced away from him, purposefully silent while tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Her aunt says she’s a good girl.”

“A good girl,” Tommy scoffed, dropping the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray at the center of the table. “Exactly what we need, a good girl . So you don’t know her?”

“Says she’s a hard worker too.”

“Do you even know her name?” He narrowed his eyes at her and then added. “Besides the surname.”

Polly avoided his gaze, instead fidgeting with the golden rings on her fingers.

“Would you just give this a chance?” She cleared her throat. “You don’t even have to hire her. But would you at least see her? Interview her?”

“What job am I supposed to interview her for?” He blankly stared at her. “What have you promised?”

“I haven’t promised anything.” Polly continued, “But I know she’s good with numbers. She’s got certifications.”

“Ah, certifications,” He rolled his eyes, sarcasm lacing his voice. “I’d reckon then that she could find a job, literally, anywhere else.”

“It’s not that easy, Thomas,” Polly shook her head, “If you don’t want her working in the shop, we can find something else for her to do. It’ll be my responsibility.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Her aunt trusts me, she knows I’ll look after her. This is important to me.”

He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes for a moment. The headache that started in the back of his skull had traveled all of the way to his forehead now. When he opened his eyes, he saw a worry wracking his aunt’s face. He began walking toward the curtains but stopped short.

“I’ll see her tomorrow,” Tommy turned on his heel to face her, emphasizing each word with a jab of his finger. “Three o’clock at The Garrison. But if she’s even a second late, it’s over.”

Polly smiled, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Tommy tossed a cigarette stub onto the sidewalk and twisted it into the cement with the heel of his shoe. He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and peered at it, then glanced up at the gilded sign of The Garrison. It was almost three o’clock.

I’m asking as a favor, Thomas. Ridiculous. He was quickly learning that most favors were an additional headache for him.

The pub was empty, save for Harry who was wiping down the bar top. The barkeep caught his eye and tilted his head in the direction of a booth, where his aunt and another person sat. From where he stood, the other person was the back of a neat head of red hair. Polly didn’t notice him initially, seemingly engrossed in conversation, so he tipped his cap to Harry and made his way into the private room.

The window to the bar popped open, and the barkeep, ever-dutiful, appeared.

“Whiskey,” Tommy said, never looking directly at him. He took a seat at the booth and dropped his cap onto the empty space next to him. “And tell my aunt that I’ll be waiting in here, I’d like to speak with her first.”

Harry muttered a quick affirmation in response and disappeared from sight. By the time he returned with his drink in hand, there was a brisk knock at the main door to the room. Before Tommy could say anything, the door swung open, and it was Polly who stood there.

“You didn’t even say hello.”

“This is your favor,” He gave her a pointed nod. “Not mine.”

She rolled her eyes.

Tommy jerked his chin toward the pub. “You walked her here?”

“Keep your voice down, she’ll hear you,” Polly glanced behind her quickly and waved a hand at him. “Yes, I walked her here. I wanted to make a good impression.”

“A good impression, eh?” He motioned to her with the drink in his hand. “You’ve got an hour of my time. Bring her in.”

He didn’t have the slightest clue as to what job he was interviewing her for.

Polly couldn’t have left him anymore unprepared. He didn’t know anything about this girl, besides her surname, and perhaps that she could add a few numbers together, and her aunt was poor as the poorest. He vowed, at that very moment, that this would be the last time he would do a favor for anyone ever again.

He had better things to do. Better things that specifically involved a misplaced crate of guns that had fallen right into his lap a few days prior, and were currently gathering dust in Charlie Strong’s yard.

Polly left the door ajar. He turned to the frosted window that gave a blurry view of the streets beyond the pub. The sky was still overcast, just as it was the day before. The clouds were significantly darker, it looked like snow was more likely than rain. Then, an unfamiliar voice tore him from his musings. It was crisp and clear, with an accent that hinted at expensive schooling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby.”

When Tommy turned to look at her, he wondered if he’d managed at all to mask his surprise. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t… this. By the sound of her accent and smooth skin of her face, this girl, or woman, rather, in front of him couldn’t have been any older than twenty. Young, with fair skin, dressed sharply in a cream blouse and green skirt, not a wrinkle or crease in sight. In one hand, she held a folder, and with the other, she brushed a few auburn curls behind her ear. She looked at him expectantly, giving a flash of a smile framed in bright red lips.

Polly painted him a completely different picture. He assumed this girl would be showing up in moth-eaten clothes, raspy voice from working in a factory of some sort, gangly and thin. She was thin, yes, but didn’t look impoverished. She looked like a high society bitch, dropped in the middle of a dreary factory town. It was humorous, in a way.

He took a measured sip of his drink and motioned for her to take a seat.

“Miss Caldwell, was it?” His voice trailed off as he studied her, waiting for her to fill in the blanks.

“Anna,” She answered, smoothing out her skirt on her lap. “Anna Caldwell. Thank you for seeing me today, especially on such short notice.”

He could see why Polly walked her here, and it became quite clear to him that it wasn’t just to make a good impression. She, Anna , that was her name, didn’t fit in around Small Heath one bit. It was evident in the way she was dressed, and the way she spoke.

She looked greener than the fucking grass at Easter. Certainly didn’t fit in around Small Heath. Certainly not fit for waltzing around Small Heath.

“Yes, well,” He cleared his throat, “Polly spoke very highly of your aunt.”

“My aunt speaks highly of her,” She replied. “They got to know each other during the war, as I suppose many women did.”

Tommy nodded, reaching for his drink. For a while, he attempted to make small talk. It was like pulling fucking teeth. Eventually, he reached his breaking point and decided to cut to the chase. One could only talk about the weather for so long. An attractive woman, he supposed, made it easier, but he wasn’t here to make nice with her, he was fulfilling a favor for his aunt. It was a business transaction, as simple as that.

“Why do you need this job?”

“Well,” She opened her mouth slightly, and then closed it, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of the question. “My aunt is a busy woman. I’ve been staying with her for a while now, and I think it’s time that I start finding my own work, to support myself. To ease the burden on her.”

A politer explanation of the situation in comparison to what Polly told him. He suspected it was a half-truth, on Anna’s part.

“I see,” He extended an open hand to her. “You brought a resume?”

Anna nodded fiercely, carefully opening the folder and handing him a thick piece of paper. He took it from her and slowly began scanning each line. She didn’t have much experience, in, well, anything. There were a few CPA courses dated from a couple of years back, a reference or two. No example of any steady job. In fact, she had never worked at all.

“There’s been few opportunities after the war, finding work has been difficult.”

Few opportunities after the war, he hummed at that.

“Where are you from?”

“A little village far from here,” She answered, shaking her head ever so slightly, causing a few strands of hair to fall in her face. “I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

“Humor me.”

“Eastcliff, it’s far south of here.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” He turned the page over. “And you’re living in Birmingham now?”

“Yes,” Anna folded her hands on the table. “A few streets away from this place, actually.” She glanced around the room. “Although I haven’t come around here often.”

He fought a smirk from appearing on his lips. Of course, she’d never come around these parts.

“You took some CPA courses?” He raised an eyebrow, peering at her from over the paper.

She nodded, leaning close to him to point at something on the paper. As he laid her resume on the table, her fingertips brushed across his knuckles. His eyes flicked toward hers and held her gaze. He noticed her cheeks flush, if only slightly when he pulled his hand away. She cleared her throat and tapped a finger on a certain line.

He looked at her hands while she spoke, her words melding together and becoming a lull in the back of his mind. Her hands were smooth, not a callus, or scar for that matter. Not the hands of a factory girl. He glanced up to her face next. Murky blue eyes, fair with a dusting of freckles across her nose, red curls framing her face. No work experience, few references, allegedly from a small village in fuck knows where. It was almost like she appeared out of thin air.

“Well, Miss Caldwell,” He finished the rest of his drink in a single swig. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Gray, and see what we can do.” He reached for her resume, “May I?”

He really had no intention of hiring her. There was no job available, especially since she barely had any experience in, well, anything. It would take a little more than a pretty face to change that. She would turn out to be a bad investment.

“Of course, please keep it.”

Tommy folded it into a small square and tucked it away in his jacket. Standing from the booth, he gestured to the door. “After you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby,” Anna turned to him, smoothing all of her hair over one shoulder. It was long, he noticed, stopping just below her collarbone. “I appreciate the time you took to speak with me today.”

He shook his head. “It was no trouble.”

Polly approached them from the booth she was sitting at, placing an empty glass on the bartop in the process. “Anna, would you give me a moment with my nephew?”

“Of course,” She nodded, her heels clicking against the floor as she went to retrieve her coat from the booth she was sitting at earlier.

“So?” Polly asked him under her breath, eyes darting between him and Anna. “What did you think?”

Tommy leaned against the bar, watching as the girl bundled herself up in a wool coat and matching hat. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I expect you to do the right thing, and help someone out.”

He rolled his eyes, the right thing. “She doesn’t seem to be struggling,” Tommy jerked his chin to Anna. “Look, she has a nice coat.”

“Oh, please,” Polly hushed, nudging him in the side as she walked by.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby.” Anna waved before stepping out of the pub. “Thank you again.”

“I’ll be right out,” Polly shouted to her when the front door closed with a jingle.

“I don’t know what to say, Pol,” He pulled his cigarette case from his waistcoat and placed it on the bar. “There aren’t any open positions at the shop,” He nodded to the door, “Especially not for a girl like her.”

“What do you mean? I’m sure she’d be a fine secretary.”

Tommy scoffed, perching a cigarette in between his lips. “What do we need a secretary for?”

“Having one would keep the shop running smoothly, we could always use the extra hands there. Doing the boring work you boys don’t like. There’s more to this business than just blood, you know.”

“I told you I’d interview her, and I did.” He cupped his hands around the lighter, waiting for it to catch. “She has barely any working experience on her resume besides a few courses. Hiring her would be a waste of time and resources. How old is she?”

“Twenty-three.”

“In that case, she could make some good money on her back,” He dragged the cigarette from his lips and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“You’re despicable.”

“It’s an option.” He shrugged, glancing at his aunt from the corner of his eye. “I interviewed her. Favor fulfilled.”

“What am I supposed to do? Go out there and tell her there’s no job here for her?”

“This was your idea” Tommy deadpanned. “I already told you what she could do. Plenty of men around here would be willing to pay a pretty penny for a night with her.” He pointed to the door with his cigarette. “I’d bet, barely broken in.”

“Is this fun for you?” Polly snapped, jerking her head toward him.

He chose not to answer.

They stood in bitter silence, save for the sound of Polly incessantly tapping her foot on the ground. He glanced around the empty pub, dim light filtering in from the windows. In a few hours, the place would be booming with people, with just Harry managing the bar by himself. It was fine enough for him to do that during the war, there were barely any men around then, anyway. Nowadays? With the men back and in desperate need to drink away their sorrows, he was in over his head, each and every night.

Tommy grimaced. An idea trickled into his head. He peered at his aunt from the corner of his eye and cleared his throat.

“You’d be doing the girl and her aunt a favor if you just told them to pack off,” He reached for his cigarette case and shoved it haphazardly into his coat. “You had to walk her here, you say she’s good. Why would you even want her working with us in the first place?”

“Her aunt trusts me,” Polly sighed. “She knows I’ll keep an eye on her. Can’t say many other places offer that- peace of mind.”

Tommy hummed in response. He turned on his heel to face the bar and started banging his open palm against the bar top.

Polly raised an eyebrow at him.

Red-faced at the sudden noise, Harry came running from the back room.

“Another drink, Mr. Shelby?” He nodded his head toward Polly, tossing a stained cloth over his shoulder. “Mrs. Gray.”

“No, no drink,” Tommy spoke with a cigarette between his lips. “Are you still hiring?”

“Hiring? For the extra help around here?”

“Exactly that.”

Harry paused, glancing from Tommy to Polly then back again.

“Well, uh, yes. Yes, I am.”

Tommy tilted his head to Polly. “Would you look at that?”

Harry knelt behind the bar and began rifling through the shelves for something. Bottles and other miscellaneous items clattered together while he searched. “I put an advertisement in the paper,” He called from below. Eventually, he stood up and placed a crumpled newspaper in front of them. “Not many applicants, though.”

“You’re kidding, Thomas.” Polly took a step closer to the bar.

Tommy thumbed through the newspaper to the advertisement section. He scanned through each job posting line by line, until one, in particular, caught his eye.

“Here we are,” He folded the paper and handed it to Polly, tapping a specific headline with his finger. She snatched it from him and brought it close to her face, eyes narrowing at the fine print.

“She’s never done this kind of work before,” She muttered, never looking directly at him.

That was evidently clear to him. Her hands were a dead giveaway. He still wasn’t even sure if she had done any kind of work before. “You said she’s a hard worker, eh? There’s always time to learn.”

Polly didn’t reply, still clutching the newspaper tightly. She shook her head.

“You can go out there and tell her that it’s either this,” Tommy motioned to the pub around them. “Or on her back. It’s your choice.”

She glared at him, her lips forming a tight-line. Lifting her chin, she tucked the newspaper under her arm. “I’ll show her the advertisement.”

“She’ll be on the company payroll.” He raised his cigarette to her. “Favor fulfilled, Pol, and then some.”

Polly wordless turned on her heel and adjusted the velvet cap on her head. The door to the pub jingled as she stepped out.

“How about that drink?”

Tommy gave him a curt nod. He rested his elbows on the bartop, staring at the glossy wood.

“Huh, would you look at that,” Harry muttered as he uncorked a bottle. “It’s snowing. Early this year, isn’t it?”

Glancing out of The Garrison’s frosted windows, he saw that it had indeed started to snow. Tommy pulled the cigarette from his lips and sighed.

He swore that he had no intention of hiring her.

#tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic

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author-a-holmes · 4 years ago

Text

Underwing Challenge Day 3

"Who is your main cast? Describe as many of your OCs as you can cram into one post."

(Event Link) - (Day One) - (Day Two)

As many as I can cram into one post? Whooo-boy, you have no idea what you've asked for <3

Because Stolen is a Fantasy Romance, it's written in Third Person Close/Limited from the points of view of Stella Korazon and Reilly Mosswolf.

Stella Korazon

"Loving someone forever is the easy part, so long as you actually love them in the first place." - Stella

At the start of Stolen, Stella is a young but very talented thief. She was raised by her Da', Colm Korazon in a wagon that they used to travel the East Coast caravan route of Moryann.

Her greatest skills include being able to read a persons body language, and her pick-pocketing. She was taught how to fight, but her preferred reaction is to evade, dodge, run, or a mixture of the three.

Physically she's small. Short, and very slim, and with long blonde hair to her waist/hips and large blue eyes that make her look younger than she is, a look that she often uses to her advantage.

Stella's also a very good mimic, she can copy people's patterns of speech and behaviors as long as she's given sufficient time to study them.

Her biggest disadvantage is innocence. While Stella isn't naive to the dangers of Moryann, or the darker sides of the world she lives in, her Da' always encouraged social isolation. Teaching her to trust him, herself, and no one else. This makes for a strange dichotomy to her character that I enjoy playing with where she might be able to flirt with a mark and fluster them enough to rifle through their pockets unnoticed, but blush and stumble when being on the receiving end of genuine thanks or kindness.

Reilly Mosswolf

"You're in trouble, and I can help. Do I need more of a reason than that?" - Reilly

Reilly's parents were murdered when he was very young. He's elven, so very young for him was around 22 years, the developmental equivalent to mid-teens.

After his parents death, Reilly had his younger sister to look after, so he took to stealing. He was rather bad at it, and was caught. Luckily, for him, but the Guild Master of the Antillune Thieves Guild, Aldune Lamuird.

Instead of turning Reilly over to the guard, he took Reilly and his sister into the guild and looked after them, training both siblings himself when they expressed a desire to learn the trade.

At the start of Stolen, Reilly is 252 years old, and the current guild master having inherited his position from Aldune. Despite that he, and the guild, are in trouble.

For the previous year or two, there has been a rival guild from the Western side of Moryann beginning to encroach on the Antillune Guild's territory and while it hasn't yet escalated to an all out war, tensions are building.

Not least because around 6 months prior, Reilly's sister was found dead, having been clearly tortured. While Reilly is sure that the rival guild are responsible, he has no evidence and won't put the thieves under his protection at risk for a personal vendetta.

Physically, Reilly has the black eyes and sun-burnished skin of his mother's Desert Elf heritage. He also has black hair that he keeps shoulder length, and a scruff of a beard that helps give a messy edge to a face that would otherwise stand out in a crowd. He also has the traditional Forest Elf tattoo's that span from shoulder to wrist along his left arm; His family history written in elven.

His strengths are his experience, and his willingness to listen to opinions and advice other than his own. Reilly is a strong fighter, and Aldune taught him to carefully balance the racial specific talents of both his parents bloodlines, and to use them to his advantage. He has the powerful blows that belong to the forest clans, but the speed of the desert elves, making him a formidable opponent before he even picks up a blade.

Reilly's biggest disadvantage is his fear of losing people. Over the years, Reilly has lost almost everyone he's ever loved or cared for. His parents, Aldune, his sister Eryn, even a lover or two. He has an inner circle of people he relies on within the guild, six people he trusts above all others, but his best friend and the only one truly able to get through to him is Dara Brookor.

Reilly uses nicknames and pet-names to distance himself from his guild members, giving the illusion of closeness, but using the affectionate names to distance himself, and make sure he can't put a real name to a face should one of the people under his protection turn up dead.

It's when Reilly begins to use a person's real name, that they've truly begun to worm their way under his armor.

***

Stella and Reilly are surrounded by a small supporting cast, each of whom has a very important part to play in either the main characters lives, or the main plot, although that may not come to fruition within the first book...

Dara Brookor

"So you're trying to tell me that, when you realised you were developing a meaningful connection to a person you have known for less than a decade, you didn't panic, pull back, and avoid them like a complete moron?" - Dara

Dara runs most of the administrative side of the Antillune Thieves Guild. She handles all the records, job allocations and thief payments, and is also responsible for pairing up thieves whose skills will compliment each other.

She's also the best friend to Reilly Mosswolf. She met Reilly, and his sister Eryn, when they were attempting to steal from one of her clients. Before joining the guild, Dara ran a brothel in Antillune, and when Eryn Mosswolf tried to disguise herself as an employee to get close to her target, Dara interfered in an attempt to protect her staff.

Once the situation was explained, she ended up helping Eryn and Reilly with their job, and occasionally passing along information on good targets if a client tried to skip out on their bill.

Dara is over six feet tall, and almost half as broad, which is the only sign of her part ogre heritage. She has honey-blonde curls that she keeps cut to her jaw, and dark blue-green eyes.

She made good use of her imposing form to keep her staff protected and her clients in line, but eventually her establishment was set on fire by a competitor, which is when Reilly asked her to work for him instead, in the administrative side of the guild.

The fact that it meant Reilly got out of most of the paperwork was, he swears, simply a bonus.

Dara's strength is her ability to connect with people. While she isn't a thief, her long history in Antillune has given her a network on contacts across the city that feed her a steady supply of information, and Dara can quickly utilise those contacts to seek out any specific leads she or the guild needs.

Her weakness is that she doesn't want to think badly of anyone, and it can cloud her judgement. She doesn't automatically look for deceit and deception, which has often led to her finding herself in dangerous situations.

Thankfully, Dara strikes an intimidating form, can curse like an Antillune sailor, and knows how to wield blades well enough to back up her threats.

Myris Orinan

"I am not the youngest graduate from the college of Wizardry in nearly two centuries for nothing." - Myris

Myris Orinan is, simply put, a genius.

A forest elf in possession of extremely powerful elemental magic, Myris is one of only 3-4 people in Moryann who can control all four branches of elemental magic and manipulate them simultaneously to access the rare Kurro or Healing magic.

He completed his training at the College of Wizardry in less than 100 years, making him one of the youngest graduates to ever complete the training and he is also passable-to-fluent in over ten languages.

Myris is also entirely mute.

Married to Tanar Orinan, the pair met when Tanar had been hired to steal something from the library in the College of Wizardry. Myris discovered the thief, mid-job, because he'd been working late into the night and bound Tanar before demanding an explanation for his presence.

Tanar agreed to surrender the book, and forfeit the contract, in exchange for being allowed to court Myris and the pair were quickly inseparable.

Due to this close association with the Antillune Guild, however, Myris was attacked, kidnapped, and tortured for information on the guild, and on Reilly Mosswolf in particular.

Even though, at the time, he had no knowledge to give, his attackers punished him for withholding information by forcing an alchemical mixture into him that burnt away his vocal chords, effectively rending his magic useless as it's commonly accepted that without the ability to speak a spell, spellcasters and wizards are rendered powerless.

Myris proved everyone's theories on elemental magic wrong however by slowly developing his own language using hand positioning and finger shapes to communicate words and phrases, and with practice and strength of will he gradually taught himself how to cast spells with a non-verbal trigger, instead of a spoken one.

While Myris has physically recovered as well as he can from the experience, and his magic is as strong as ever, despite requiring more effort to cast non-verbally, Myris has been left with a powerful hatred of Vine, and an ever encroaching fear that such an attack will happen again.

After his recovery, and several assessments by the College to prove that he could continue to retain his Wizard title, Myris moved to the Antillune Thieves guild to work as their wizard in residence, providing wards and magical services to the guild in exchange for a modest fee and even working to create unique items to help the guild function better and to keep its members safer.

Myris does not leave the Guild grounds without Tanar by his side, and even then only in exceptional circumstances. If he is required to leave the guild for any reason, it also tends to leave him with nightmares for several weeks.

Honorable Mentions

I had some others I was going to do but this is so long already, and I'm already 7 hours into Day Four that I'm pushing them into an honorable mentions section instead.

Tanar Sotor Orinan, Indre Larieth, Lurall Penrith and Nilion Kurez are all additional members of the guilds Inner Circle.

Tanar is half plains elf and half human, and is married to Myris. He used to be the thief partner to Eryn Mosswolf after Reilly was made guild master.

Indre Larieth is a half-elf who was recruited by Nilion Kurez, but has remained steadfastly loyal to Reilly for many years. Due to her Snow Elf heritage she can appear stand-offish and cold, but she cares deeply for her chosen few, and will go to extraordinary lengths to do whatever she thinks is nessecary to protect them.

Lurall Penrith was once trained by the Ikhari guild of assassins. It wasn't a path he chose, but instead of running her decided to become good enough that the guild would have no choice but to allow him to leave. After he met Reilly, he leveraged the backing of another guild to convince the Ikhari to let him walk away. Lurall now runs the Guild Outpost in the Western Desert, but frequently visits Reilly in Antillune.

Nilion Kurez is a Forest Elf, and has been a member of the Antillune thieves guild since Aldune Lamuird founded it. He helped write many of the guilds laws, and has known Reilly most of his life, having watched him grow up inside the guild, and in many cases been one of Reilly's teachers.

Hawk Denill is the face of Vine in Book One, and the person who hires Stella to break into the guild and steal from Reilly Mosswolf. He is a dark character who I intend to be a thorn in Stella and Reilly's side for at least the first three books. Once a member of Reilly's own guild, Hawk was banished when the guild discovered he was responsible for a series of grisly murders in Antillune. Hawk has returned to the city only recently, confident with the backing of a new guild.

Liandra 'Andy' Jenkin is a bright but brash young thief who Dara partners with Stella once she settles into the guild. Andy is Human, but makes up for the disadvantages this gives her in speed and strength by sheer enthusiasm, and stubborn determination. Andy has a grudge of her own against Vine, since their people laid an ambush on her last job that injured her and killed her previous partner.

Colm Korazon is Stella's Da'. While Colm is also a thief, he's not a particularly good one. He raised Stella in a travelling caravan, using it as a base to sell all sorts of false herbal remedies, imitation magical items, and any other junk he could con people into purchasing. All the while training Stella to do what he could not. By the time she was old enough to blend in with the crowds that gathered around his stall, the items he attempted to sell were merely a distraction to allow Stella to silently search through pockets.

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veralovemail · 4 years ago

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Hi! I would love myself a matchup if it's ok 👉👈

I'm female and pan, I'd prefer one of the males tho, Survivors please!

So uhhhh I differ in my personality a lot depending on the situation! I'm more of a loner around strangers IRL— shy, quiet, I don't like interacting and prefer to stay by the sidelines since being in the middle makes me uncomfy.

I try to be as polite as I can, even keeping in my opinions and pain a lot as to not Hurt anyone. I also tend to blame myself a lot for bad situations I'm a part in unless I know I absolutely didn't do anything!

Also I'm quite hot headed and have a bad temper, though I'm working on it! I have quite the problem with guilt and it comes to me fairly quickly when I do something bad.

Ah yeah I'm really forgetful and also really impatient KNRKS

Now- online!!

I'm a lot more open and chaotic. I like to tease my friends and jokingly make fun of them, etc. I try and stop when they tell me to, but I might understand it as them just joking too if they write it that way in my eyes-

I try to look on the positive side for them and their situations and am always willing to make someone happy even without words since it makes me happy too. I'd say I'm caring to a fault- I don't let loose until they finally do something healthy that they've been avoiding and I do get rather angry if I'm not taken seriously with that, causing me to maybe lash out at someone unwillingly,,- and then guilt pops in like "hi there 😍" KDHDJDJ

Anyway,

I encourage anyone to vent, though I'm not the best at giving advice. I'm more of a person who likes to listen and give support if they need it. Oh yeah- my attention span is REALLY short (as short as me good ol' 5'1 me aNENSJJSJD) so I get distracted pretty easily and procrastinate then.

As for hobbies: I love to draw! (As you might know-)Music is my life (especially Jazz) and video games are, too. Though mostly singleplayer Games since I only really like multiplayer with friends-

What else can I write..

Maybe like- I'm an ISFP-T And I think it was 5w6 that I was given by another test

I also got Philophobia, the fear of falling in love because of bad experiences but I'm tryna work on it!!

I guess I can also write about my appearance? I've got short, curly but chaotic black hair that's p much swept to the side- I'm definitely not that skinny lmao- and as I've said before, I'm 5'1! I usually wear casual clothes (hoodies, e.g!! They're so comfy...) I also got brown eyes and glasses!

I think that should be it.. ah yeah! In your introduction, you should prolly add your ID for others to add you because name search doesn't work! :0

Ok that's really it now- take your time, don't rush yourself and stay safe and hydrated!! 💕💕 Hope your blog takes off!

Sorry for my English by the way- I'm German so I might've messed up on a few things!

OH MY LORD I DID NOT KNOW THAT I HAD TO PUT IN MY ID... oml... thank u for telling me that. and don't worry about it, i can see how it'd be difficult (i actually studied german for my gcses :], it was very fun) but anyways! tysm for sending in btw!! i loved writing this, i hope u enjoy - mod vera ♡

i match you with ... naib subedar!

he kinda takes on to your quiet personality, unlike some of the other people around the manor. it's relaxing to be around somebody who doesn't talk much.

you two most likely met when robbie came over to the survivors' side of the mansion, jokingly demanding sweets... but it most likely sounded authentic. and oh god, is that an axe-

you two accidentally locked eyes but you both had a " ah shit, here we go again " face. it just kinda went from there.

at first, he's a tough nut to crack, but if you try hard enough, within a month or so you gain his trust and he .. deems you a friend?

you both kinda start falling for eachother after a period of time, but naib is great at hiding it BUT SIKE, so are you! it's like a game of who can pine for the other in the most subtle way possible.

however, if you tell him about your own troubles with falling in love, he may just open up a little too about his own troubles.

it's takes a while for you two to build a relationship, but eventually (after a lot of rescues, late night hangouts and just being near eachother) you make it!

when he learns about your more chaotic side, naib tries to keep up with you as best he can, he may just need a little tug to do so.

he loves your smile, especially the one you have when you're talking about your passions.

he also tries to help with your temper, but he's just as bad as you are.

however, he's there whenever you have a bad day - he can almost instantly tell, even if you try keep it to yourself. it could be the way you look at him, try to smile or talk, he does notice the change in your aura.

since your shorter than him, he likes holding you. it makes him feel like he's just protecting you from anything and anything, especially on one of your bad days.

he likes your optimism, looking on the good side of every situation. he once saw you trying to comfort robbie when he started crying about not finding any sweets around and you told him "look on a brightside robbie! now we know for next time to stash some away for you before we eat it all!" AND OH GOD, IS THAT AN AXE?

naib gets frequent nightmares about his time being a hired merc, so sometimes you may get woken up at 3 am because he's a bit distressed and needs a bit of comfort.

other times, he just finds holding you while you're fast asleep enough to put him back in a coma for the next 2 hours.

naib also encourages you to talk to him about stuff. whether it be what made you mad, how much of a bitch vera can be, ect. he's there for you and that man is never gonna let you carry your burdens alone.

saying that, you also have to remind him that he can't carry his own burdens sometimes and when you encourage him to talk to you about what's upsetting him, he'll most likely tell, depending on how bad it is.

he also grounds you a lot!! if you tell him about your forgetfulness, he's most likely going to try and remind you.

" hey, [ name ], you did bring [ item ] into the match, right? "

" um... "

" goddamnit [ name ], i thought i reminded you "

naib takes it upon himself to rescue you, or keep you within his general vicinity if you're in a match with him. he does know you can kite very well though! he just wants you near him for a bit of reassurance.

he can be mean sometimes, but he means it in the most endearing way possible since most of it is sarcasm.

you two kinda have " stab as a warning " vibes so nobody really opposes the two of you. even norton. not even freddy dares to oppose you because the last time he did, aesop almost had to prepare his equipment to embalm the poor fella.

when you lash out at someone, naib is there almost immediately to take you away to calm down and comfort you when your guilt kicks the door down and goes " Hey girlie! Hold still 😎 "

sometimes you have to do the same for him because you both have a tendency to lash out.. but.. never at eachother? you two kinda agree on the same things, there isn't much to exactly disagree on.

please draw him!! watch him while he's training in the garden and draw him, or just a few silly doodles of him.

he likes looking at your drawings, it kinds boosts his ego knowing that he's worthy enough to be drawn.

if he finds out that you like music, he'll tell you about nepalese music, or at least what he knew of it - if you both get engrossed in it, he may try and get you some records to play.

teach him how to dance, if you can. it'd make listening to music together way more fun.

he's very content with you!! he likes kissing you out of nowhere, too. you could just be chilling and naib would come up to you, turn you around and give you a smooch outta nowhere. but only in private.

i feel like neither of you would be big on pda, you just stick to holding hands around the manor.

if this were in a modern setting, you two could probably play a game like phasmaphobia together just for funsies.

all in all, your relationship with naib is mutually beneficial and robbie has learned to never ask for sweets again.

i hope you enjoy this <3 it's my first time writing naib too so i apologise if it's not very good </3

#idv x reader #idv #identity v #idv imagines #idv writing #naib subedar #idv mercenary #identity v mercenary #idv naib #matchup

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hydrasweapon · 4 years ago

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@weaponizedembrace gets the longest starter in history for our thing

Howard doesn’t find Steve. Even after days, after months, he doesn’t find Steve. He keeps on searching, though – maybe because he cannot stand Bucky’s face whenever he comes back empty-handed. In the meantime, Bucky’s injuries heal up. Way quicker than should be possible, he’s as fresh as a daisy – minus the arm, of course. They want to send him home. He tells them very sincerely fuck you and that’s it. He guesses it’s also Carter’s and maybe Colonel Phillips doing that they leave him alone, but he doesn’t care. To be honest, Bucky doesn’t care about a lot of things anymore. VE-day comes and goes and he toasts with the other Howlies but then he walks back to the barracks, surrounded by screaming, partying people, and he feels nothing. The war in Europe is over and he has never felt more lost, not even in the trenches with shells detonating right next to him.

He reads about the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and wonders what Steve would have said to that. Then he has to put the newspaper away because it feels like his heart is going to give up on him. He gets a lot of letters from his family but doesn’t know how to respond, so he only puts them in his duffel or sometimes in the pocket of his jacket and feels bad for never finding the right words.

In late August, Carter tells him that she’s going to go to New York City to continue the SSR’s work and also that there’s going to be an official state funeral for Steve in Arlington. Nobody, not even a super-soldier, could survive months without food or shelter in the icy, windswept wasteland of the Arctic. Bucky listens and doesn’t answer but he turns up the day Carter and Stark leave for the States in Stark’s private plane.

The ceremony is pompous. The Arlington National Cemetery is bursting at the seams because every politician wants to say goodbye to a hero and hopefully get some good publicity while doing that. Bucky has to puke three times behind a tree before he is able to walk up to President Truman to get his own Purple Heart medal and receive Steve’s Medal of Honor because there is no other family member left to take it for him. They even conjured a fucking statue up out of nothing. They want to take photos in front of that statue. Bucky is glad his stomach is already empty or he would have puked on the shoes of the President himself and wouldn’t that be something to put on the front page.

He doesn’t stay longer than it takes to get the medals, do some hand-shaking and take some pictures. There is a speech. The President said some words, too, but the real speech is by Colonel Phillips himself and Bucky can’t listen to that, he just can’t. They will think he’s rude but he’s pretty certain Phillips understands. He leaves the cemetery and promises himself to never come back to this place.

Bucky takes the train up to New York. After half an hour, he feigns to be asleep because people keep thanking him for his service and welcoming him home and it makes his already empty stomach roil again. His parents and Becca are waiting for him at the train station. It’s when Winifred Barnes wraps her son up in her arms, that something breaks inside him. Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath, and now the tears, finally, come. They stream down his face, soak his mother’s blouse, and he cannot get enough air into his lungs, everything is hurting, the pain squeezes his chest, his insides, his heart, and he falls to his knees and Winifred sits down next to him on the cold, hard ground, and just keeps him close and rocks him back and forth like a child, but he will always be her child, won’t he? No matter what.

Bucky doesn’t manage to get a grip on himself for half an hour. All the time, his mother’s tight embrace doesn’t waver; Becca shields his vulnerable left side and his father’s hand is heavy and protecting on his shoulder. George Barnes glares at every passenger even thinking of making a stupid remark concerning this scene on a public station platform.

Then, somehow, Bucky manages to stop crying, or maybe he is just – empty. His father bundles his family up in the car and they drive through Manhattan and back to Brookly, home. Bucky is too tired and exhausted and falls asleep with his head on his sister’s shoulder. He doesn’t even notice when George picks him up carefully and carries him inside as he used to do back when he was a young boy and drifted off listening to the wireless in the evening. His and Becca’s child room changed into Winifred’s sewing room years ago but there’s still his old bed and when his father puts him down there and covers him with a warm quilt, he curls up and sleeps for hours.

During the next couple of weeks, neither Bucky nor his family knows how to treat each other. Winifred bakes a lot, George urges Bucky to play cards with him in the evenings. Becca comes over whenever she can. Bucky visits his grandparents' grave; they had died while he'd been overseas. Apart from that, he doesn't really leave the house: There are always people on the street he knows. They welcome him back and either tell him how sorry they are for his loss or ask where Steve is (if they didn't put 2 and 2 together yet).

He stays in his family home and stares out of the window and lets his mother put some meat on his bones and wonders what on earth he is supposed to do now, without his best friend and without a left arm besides.

It’s shortly after Christmas (a rather silent affair) that Margaret Carter knocks on his door and kind of bullies him into joining the SSR once more. She knows all the perfect words for him to agree -- that Steve wouldn’t want him to spend the rest of his life this way, that he cannot live off his parents forever, that he is still a useful member of society. He agrees just to get her out of his room because she makes him feel scraped raw. Shortly after New Year’s Day, Bucky starts to work for the New York office of the SSR.

The years pass. They are -- mostly a dull succession of days. His sister marries in 1949, a guy called William Proctor, who works for a shipping company and never saw the European Theater due to really bad eyesight. Dancing with Rebecca on her wedding day is one of the few memories Bucky will cherish for the rest of his life. She is so happy.

Unfortunately, being a married woman seems to mean that she absolutely has to marry her brother off, too. She introduces him to friends at least once a month and invites him over for dinner with -- what a coincidence! -- single ladies all the time. She also makes him visit the dance halls with her every other week. He doesn’t mind the last one -- it’s really nice to watch all the couples dance, learn this new Boogie Woogie thing. He is not interested in the gals, though. He simply cannot bring himself to think of love again.

He's no longer working for the SSR but for an agency Carter, Stark, and Phillips formed of its remnants: the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. The acronym makes Bucky want to both puke and cry. It doesn’t change much, workwise, though.

1954 is a big year. He attends the weddings of Dum Dum Dugan and Jim Morita and it’s almost as if the Howling Commandos are back together. Even Falsworth comes to the States for the occasion, him and Gabe sharing pictures of chubby Montgomery Junior and little Steven. Gabe looks a little sheepish when he tells Bucky the name of his son and Bucky might be a little choked-up but he’s certain Steve would have loved this little, full-faced namesake. Only Dernier doesn’t make it.

1954 is also the year Bucky has a vocal dispute with Peggy Carter and quits his job quite aggressively. But what else is he supposed to do when he’s down in former Camp Lehigh for a work thing and crosses paths with Arnim godfuckingdamn Zola? It’s only due to three coworkers that he cannot bash Zola’s face the moment he spots him in the corridor. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about Operation Paperclip. Carter’s words are like poison in his ears. He doubts she believes them, herself. But she has the greater good in mind and was probably overruled in Zola’s case. Bucky does not care. He will not work for an agency hiring this piece of dirty shit. He has nightmares for weeks, always seeing that grubby little face with its evil smirk in front of his eyes.

It’s complicated to find another job. Nobody wants to hire a cripple. Labor work is impossible for him, too. Shortly before Thanksgiving in 1954, Bucky notices for the first time that something is off. That he is -- wrong. When he asks for a job in a nearby factory, the boss asks him how he lost his arm. He doesn’t believe the war-story. “Look at you, you’re too young to have been in the war, son.”

That evening, Bucky stares into the mirror. The guy is right: He looks like he came home from Europe yesterday. He looks like a guy in his mid-20s, not like a man going on 40. His younger sister looks older now. There’s not a single white hair. There are no wrinkles. He drinks a whole bottle of whisky and tells himself he’s having excellent genes.

Shortly before Christmas, he gets a new job thanks to his brother-in-law and works as an accountant in the same shipping company as William Proctor.

1958 is both a joyful and terrible year. Becca gives birth to her first child after years of trying to get pregnant. Little Emily Sarah is the cutest thing on earth and Bucky loves her with every fiber of his being. He tries to ignore the women gushing at him ‘being such a young, handsome father’ when he takes her out for walks. He turned 40 two months ago. He should not look like this.

In late August, George Barnes dies. The doctor speaks of a heart attack. Bucky cries late at night, in his bed, when he doesn’t have to be the strong one anymore. He moves in with his mother again to support her -- so she can keep the apartment she lived in for nearly 45 years already, and so she has company and someone to watch over her. She, too, is getting older and frailer. Bucky could be her grandson, now, given his looks. When their old neighbor Mr. Lowenstein mentions this, Bucky cannot ignore it any longer. He calls Howard Stark.

The passage of time manifested itself in a lot of wrinkles in Stark’s face. That’s how a man his age should look like. That’s what Bucky wants to see when he’s standing in front of a mirror. Stark looks taken aback at his sight, then explains in great detail that he’s an engineer and usually doesn’t do biological stuff but he draws a vial of blood either way and looks at it under a microscope and then tells him that he could be mistaken but the last and only time he ever saw cells like Bucky’s was shortly after they shot Steve up with Erskine’s serum.

Bucky thinks of Zola and his countless injections and fire in his veins and pukes right across Stark’s workbench. Stark says there’s nothing he can do. That was Erskine’s area of expertise, not his. He really doubts Bucky is immortal but he will probably live to see his 150th birthday. Bucky could ask Zola, of course, Zola who’s working for S.H.I.E.L.D. now. But he’d rather cut his remaining arm off than ever seeing him again.

He doesn’t tell his mother nor his sister. He tries to live on as if nothing happened but it’s hard. He notices now that he heals way quicker than the average human being. He gets bonuses because he never calls in sick for work. On a sleepless night, he walks through Brooklyn and over to Manhattan and back to the docks for work and doesn’t feel tired at all. He’s----he’s like Steve now. Or rather, was since that factory in Kreischberg. He just chose to never notice.

He sees his mother age and little Emily Sarah grow up and his own face doesn’t change at all. Sometimes he wonders if everyone he knows is going to die and he will end up alone in this world. It’s a terrifying thought. More often than not he finds himself standing on the docks after work, staring into the muddy water. Steve is down there, too. A cold, dark grave. He wouldn’t want Bucky to off himself. He would be furious. That, and maybe whatever Zola did to his body would prevent him from dying, anyway. So Bucky thinks about it but never acts on it.

In January 1961, Winifred Barnes dies. Bucky, confused he doesn’t find his mother in the kitchen as usual in the morning, goes to check on her. She looks like she’s still sleeping but her hands are cold. Bucky sits down next to her for three hours and cries and hides his face in her neck that still smells like her. It’s only when his brother-in-law pounds on the front door because he didn’t turn up for work that Bucky gets up and calls his sister.

They bury their mother next to George Barnes. Bucky brings flowers every week.

One year later, shortly before the assassination of Kennedy, Howard Stark pops up out of nowhere, looking mad and excited. He talks a lot of gibberish Bucky doesn’t understand, but he gets the gist either way. Howard invented the prototype of a mechanical prosthesis that will work like a normal arm made of flesh and bone does. It’s absolutely batshit crazy. The surgery needed to implant the sensors of the arm into one’s brain will probably kill the test subject. Bucky agrees, anyway. First of all, he doesn’t mind dying. Sooner rather than later (which means in over 100 fucking years). Secondly, having only one arm sucks. He has gotten used to it, over the years, but it’s still crap. And, in the end, if Stark manages to develop a working prosthesis far superior to what they got now, all the other poor cripples will benefit, too.

Bucky doesn’t tell his sister because she would try to stop him. She’s mad as hell at him, though, and refuses to speak to him for one month when he comes back with a metal arm (because of course, he did not die). Emily Sarah thinks her uncle is absolutely amazing.

The arm is better than any prosthesis he had so far. It’s not a real arm but he doubts anything will be like the real thing. He keeps it covered up whenever he goes outside. According to Stark, there’s nobody else who would survive such extensive surgery. He puts the blueprints away for later generations. ‘Now is just not the time’, he says.

Then there’s another war. Bucky wonders why on earth the United States engage in whatever is happening in Vietnam. 20 years later and everyone seemed to have forgotten about Europe. They probably think now that there’s a wall dividing Germany and thus Eastern and Western countries, they have to do their bombing and shooting somewhere else. He’s getting more and more nightmares just reading the newspapers. Steve didn’t sacrifice his life so humans could fight on another continent. But nobody cares about Captain America anymore save perhaps for stupid comics and stupid movies and stupid biographies they want to interview Bucky for.

His mood, never back to being cheery and humorous after the war, turns even darker. There are no more mirrors in his apartment. He’s sick of seeing his young face. He knows Becca and her husband noticed, too, but they don’t say anything. Some ghosts you just cannot explain. Some ghost you just cannot understand if you didn’t see them yourself.

His only glimmer of hope is little Emily Sarah. He lets her dance on his feet. He lets her play with his metal arm. He picks her up from school if his job allows it. He tells her about a guy named Captain America he met in Europe who was really brave and heroic and saved them all. Those stories are her favorite. Unfortunately, she also notices the comics and thinks it’s absolutely hilarious that Captain America has a young friend whose name is also Bucky. Neither Bucky himself nor her parents tell her the truth.

Then, on a rainy day in April 1966, Bucky gets the worst message imaginable. Car accident. Slippery road. No survivors.

He breaks down when he has to pick a coffin small enough for a child.

He lays them to rest next to his parents. Carter is there, too. She puts a huge bouquet of lilies in front of the headstones and squeezes his arm. Her cheeks are wet. Bucky doesn’t thank her, cannot open his mouth because he fears he wouldn’t be able to stop screaming. She knows, though.

Bucky has to clear out his sister’s apartment the next day. When he stands in front of the big mirror in the main bedroom and sees his youthful face, chestnut hair, the skin free of wrinkles, he puts his fist through the glass. There’s a sharp-edged shard embedded in his wrist. He pulls it out and stares at the blood oozing out and then sits down and hopes.

Two hours later, the wound is scabbed over and the dizzy feeling has vanished. He takes the photos and other mementos and leaves the apartment.

Stark does not seem surprised to find Bucky visiting his Estate in Los Angeles. ‘I tried to, you know,’ he tells him. ‘To reverse the effects of that serum. But I did not succeed. Maybe smarter minds in the future will be able to.’

Bucky stares at him, feeling all the pain of the world settling on his shoulders. ‘I can’t wait that long. I can’t. Put a bullet through my head or reverse the effects, I don’t care.’

Stark is silent for a long time. Then he says: ‘Maybe there’s another option.’ And leads him down to the basement.

The thing that looks like an iron maiden from the Dark Ages is supposed to freeze a person like you’d put a piece of steak into the freezer for eating it later. Little does Bucky know that Howard’s idea for it comes from Arnim Zola himself. Having received a terminal diagnosis, there is absolutely no idea too crazy for Zola to extend his lifespan or survive until more advanced medicine will save him. Stark toyed with the idea himself. What if he would get sick? What if he wants to go to a future where he isn’t limited by his own time and state of research? He doesn’t tell Bucky any of that. He only says: ‘It might kill you. It will kill every normal human, that’s for sure. If you don’t die, though, maybe scientists can help you in the future.’

Bucky needs a week to take care of his belongings, money, and the apartment. He never felt more alive in the past 20 years than this week. He only keeps what reminds him of his family and Steve. It fits in two suitcases. He offers Stark all the money he’s got and the billionaire looks affronted. It’s probably only peanuts, for him. He takes it anyway, ‘to make investments. Gonna need money in the future, pal.’

Then, on a Sunday evening, Bucky unscrews the metal arm, undresses, and steps inside the tank-like machine. The metal is cold under his bare feet.

‘Do you really want to do that?’ Stark asks one last time. Bucky looks at him, all the tiredness of the world in his eyes. Then he closes his eyes. He doesn’t feel the cold at all.

#weaponizedembrace #ᴥ ;; au: to the future #(putting this under a read more bc otherwise I'd spam everyone's dash with 5 fucking pages of starter)#(rest my soul)#(this all wanted to get out)#(also)#suicide mention tw #(just to be on the safe side)#(he doesn't really attempt to but he thinks about it)#thread: to the future

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prose-for-hire · 4 years ago

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[I know what you did last] Halloween

Part One // Part Two // Part Four

Pairing: Scooby gang x reader (platonic)

This the third part to a platonic story with the reader as part of the Scooby gang. Set season 3. This is a multi-parted serial killer/slasher fic for Halloween. This one is probably the longest, and with the largest number of deaths. 🖤🦇

Warning: It is a serial killer fic, main characters are going to continue to die (I’m sorry, it’s Halloween).

There is a reference to suicide. I do not describe anything (method, etc) in detail, it is implied. It is not the reader. Violence. Blood mention. Swearing.

Domestic Disturbances – the new norm?

Sunnydale Express, October 1999.

At The Sunnydale Express, we are always using statistics to tell us what may be happening in our town. A large spike in cases tells us that more young people are getting involved in domestic disturbances, both with partners and friends.

Furthermore, young people in Sunnydale are 50% more likely to be in public places after dark and this accounts for their high numbers of disappearances and more recently, their high numbers of serial-killer related deaths.

It comes to light in the recent spate of serial killings that many young people attract attention to themselves by partying, going out late at night and allowing their friends to walk home alone.

After the argument, Cordy stalked off. She was cold. She only had on her cheerleading uniform and it barely covered her skin. She had goose bumps. Hugging herself as she walked. Still muttering under her breath about the group. She had never known a Californian evening to have such a chill in the air, it was as if she had stepped out into the arctic circle.

“Damn it!” She groaned, realising she had left her cell back at the house. She didn’t want to go back, not after she had already stormed out. She rubbed her own arms as she walked, trying to create a little more warmth.

As she walked, she had this strange feeling. As if she was being watched. She kept checking behind her, quickening her pace. She was starting to worry. She thought she had better contact her father, maybe he could pick her up seeing as her car was in the shop.

She eventually came across a payphone and stepped up to it. She took some money and dialled the number.

She heard a noise as she waited and paused, looked around. She squinted into the darkness but shrugged, stepping back up to the phone. She waited, the phone rang out and she sighed not knowing what to do. It felt as if it was getting colder and she swore she could feel eyes on her.

All at once, her fears came true. Her feeling wasn’t unfounded.

He stared, silently just watching her. When she just stared back, he knocked on the pay phone box with his scythe. She started to diall the phone quickly getting as far as ‘91-′ before he slashed the cord.

“Oh, what am I supposed to be scared? Am I supposed to, like, run away? Give you a chase?” She asked, standing toe-to-toe with the masked figure before continuing, “Well, I’m Cordelia Chase, dumbass – who the hell are you?”

“Your worst nightmare” The voice spoke as if he had been chewing knuts and bolts.

“Oh please” Cordelia replied, her hands on her hips as she arched an eyebrow, “I’m from here. Y’know Sunnydale? We slay creeps like you for breakfast”

“Slay this, murderer” He said evenly. Cordelia frowned but didn’t manage to move fast enough as he hooked her on his scythe. The hook so deep it came out the other side of her body. She looked down and screamed, scratching at the mask and trying to pull on it. The killer hadn’t been expecting it. Somehow she managed to unhook herself, whether it was adrenaline or maybe because she was used to having sharp metal stuck through her middle, she really was made of stronger stuff than he had anticipated.

She started to run, clutching her now bleeding stomach. She was going to have to find a really good surgeon to sort this mess out, she sighed. She ran as fast as she could, leaving a trail of thick blood in her wake. She started to falter. If the killer didn’t catch her, then a vampire might. This spurred her on, making her run faster.

She turned down an alley, not able to see him behind her anymore. But she didn’t slow, just kept running. That was, until she ran straight into him. He had caught her off-guard sending her straight into his path. He stared for a moment, almost savouring it before he acted. He stabbed her, slashed at her stomach. The blood sprayed over the costume as she screamed at him, mostly in anger but also out of pain.

She turned, much slower than before and started to try and get away. He paused, just watching her as she went slower and slower. She started to collapse but she didn’t stop propelling herself forwards. She was trying to fight, to survive until her last breath. She started to claw at the gravel with her nails as she ended up crawling to try to get away. The wound was too much.

The next day held yet another American horror story for you to wake up to. One that would continue to haunt you as you tried to live through the days without breaking. You felt trapped. Targeted. Like a caged animal, knowing you were next for the slaughter. But mostly, you just felt sad. Missing your friend.

The sky was overcast and grey. You had never seen weather like it in Sunnydale before. It had filled you with a sense of foreboding before you had even woken up properly.

You were all hung over, but that feeling was nothing compared to how you felt when you had heard. Willow had called but she had only sobbed and hung up on you. You waited by the phone until you had another call. From Buffy.

You had heard about Cordelia’s death the same way everyone else had, through word of mouth. Her body had been arranged publicly for unsuspecting members of the public to pass by. Everyone had told everyone. By breakfast, everyone knew and the media was playing catch-up.

You didn’t go near where her body had been left for everyone to see. You just sat in silence. Your ears ringing, not able to focus. Her body had been horribly mutilated and her intestines had been arranged so that they spelled ‘murderer’. Newspaper clippings arranged around her. You couldn’t stop thinking about how you had just walked away from everyone. Just left them to argue. You felt you were to blame.

Should we blame the parents?

Sunnydale express, October 1999. Official death toll: 6

The police have launched a case that is apparently now being investigated in connection to a now deceased young woman. The alleged murderer, Cordelia Chase, was discovered early this morning who rather ironically was caught spilling her guts to the world. We wonder why it took the act of a serial killer to reveal this. Mr Chase declined to comment.

The Sunnydale Express expects more truth to be disclosed as the vigilante (or, hero, as we may come to know him: you heard it here first) may reveal more as the weeks go on.

We wonder whether the parents should be held accountable in the same way that Ms Chase was.

The police interviews were being conducted on the entire student body. The questions were apparently to be asked about the current murders as well as this recent accusation written using Cordelia’s death.

You were waiting for your turn. You couldn’t help think that it wasn’t a coincidence that you and your remaining friends were the ones called to the principal’s office first. Snyder had never liked any of you, but he had some (in honesty, not ridiculous) suspicions about you. Especially since you looked like walking zombies in the corridors since last year.

You were sat in the waiting area, trying to keep calm. You were staring straight ahead, into a dead man’s eyes. Principal Flutie. You hadn’t really known him very long, you had probably seen this memorial plaque more than you had seen him in person.

But it made you wonder why his death wasn’t investigated with as much importance. Why, when it came to supernatural crimes did nobody ever question it? His death was pronounced natural causes. You had never met someone who had died of less natural causes than students that had been taken over by hyenas eating your face.

It also made you think that ever since those students killed the Principal, you hadn’t seen them around school anymore. You knew at least one of the girls had moved to a different state. And two of the guys played basketball… or was it football? You couldn’t recall (it wasn’t very interesting to you anyway, you were more likely to have murder on the brain). You do remember that Snyder had kept them for at least another year because they won the school trophies.

But it concerned you. It was right that Mr Bates’ death should be investigated, but there are so many other people that didn’t get this much attention afforded to their case. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was someone in the authorities that they hired to weed out the supernatural from the normal crimes and only focus on them.

“Y/n? Your turn” a voice told you and you got up and walked over to the door, your legs working without your brain catching up. You were mostly on autopilot now. The kind receptionist smiled sympathetically at you as you walked in, passing Willow who’s face was red and puffy. She avoided your eye contact and you felt a growing sense of dread.

You came and sat down, opposite three men. Two investigators and Snyder. As soon as you sat down, Snyder was enjoying himself, he had a sadistic smile on his face every time the officer turned back to look at you. You avoided looking at him after a while, your eyes trained only on the investigator. Snyder was agitated and you were trying to keep your composure.

“Where were you on the night of Halloween, 1998?”

“At a party – the same party everyone in town was at” You answered in short sentences, sure you would choke on your words if you tried to say anything else. They knew. About Mr Bates. They suspected you. You hadn’t known the police in Sunnydale to find a lead so quickly. It was as if they had offered themselves to the devil in exchange for half-decent investigative skills.

“Did you see Ms Chase on that date?”

“Yes I saw Cordelia on Halloween” You replied. The questions continued like that for almost an hour. Questions being asked in circles, trying to see if any of your responses changed. They sounded pleasant but there was an underlying accusatory tone that you knew was completely fair. You had, in fact, been involved in the death they were questioning you about after all.

“Do you have any further information?” The investigator asked finally.

“Have you spoken to Faith?” You asked. You didn’t know why you mentioned her specifically but you were still seething from the argument you had with her. You wanted to check, even though a part of you knew the sentence was somewhat loaded with accusation.

“Ms Lehane is not a suspect”

“But you know she was at the party and she was seen with Cordy-”

“Ms Lehane is not a suspect and we have yet to contact her lawyer for a statement”

“Her lawyer?”

“Yes, a representative from Wolfram and Hart. Why, do you need a lawyer y/n?”

“N-no, that’s okay” You offer, getting out of your seat and avoiding eye contact as you left the office.

Weird. Since when could Faith afford a lawyer? And why was she suddenly immune to the authorities? You had never thought of her as having friends in high places.

You walked straight past your class, needing some room to breathe. The walls of the corridor felt as if they were closing in and the acute feeling of misery surrounded you. Everyone felt it. Avoided you in the corridors because of it. You went into the library. Wesley saw you, he nodded, understanding you needed your space. You needed time somewhere you felt safe. The library had always made you feel this way.

You ran your finger along the spines of the books, barely paying attention as you picked one out at random and walked over to a desk in the corner with it under your arm. Even if you didn’t manage to focus on the words, it would be at least some comfort to you.

You sat down in your favourite spot and opened a book that read, ‘Ouija boards and how to use them’. Must have been in the occult section. But it did lead to an idea that started forming in your mind.

That was it. That’s what you needed to do. Maybe they would have some kind of clue, some kind of weakness. Maybe they could tell you who the masked figure really was and if you knew them. You decided you would tell the others during the lunch break that you usually spent in a melancholy silence, picking at your food.

You sat back in your chair, knowing Wesley was watching you - debating whether he should offer a friendly ear. But he ultimately decided against it, he could get a little awkward around discussing emotions and he wouldn’t know what he would do if you started crying. You felt his concern though and you looked up and nodded at him, sending him a tight smile. He returned it and quickly scurried off to do some organising of the books now he had become head librarian.

You sat back in your chair, considering everything that had gone on already today. It was enough to make your head spin. You didn’t know if you could handle much more. You were afraid. For yourself, for your friends.

There was something about these killings. Either someone had done their research or they were very lucky in picking off the exact people they needed to target. You figured it must be someone at school, you found yourself deciding you wouldn’t even be surprised if it was Snyder at this point.

It was late afternoon now and you should be in history class. So should Buffy and Willow. But none of you were. You had closed all of the curtains and lit as many candles as you could find.

You knelt down beside Willow and Buffy, a Ouija board on the coffee table that you sat around. You started to reach for each other, to hold hands but something stopped you.

There was a loud knock at the door and you all jumped violently. Maybe it was Faith finally arriving - you had been waiting for her but she had been so late you had to start without her.

“Y/n? Y/n! Is it true you were friends with Cordelia?”

“Wha-”

“Are you next? Do you think the vigilante will be coming for you now?”

“Why would-”

“Leave. Now!” Buffy shouted firmly. The reporters had all heard of Buffy and backed off slightly. But a few pictures flashed of you both before Buffy slammed the door shut on them. You thanked her softly, all of your faces solemn

The only chance you had now was to contact the spirits, hope they had some kind of information so that you could find the killer and stop him. You could offer them help too. Maybe that was the kind of atonement that would make you feel less guilt? No, you didn’t really believe that. Well, it may save the rest of your friends lives so it was worth it you decided.

You tried to calm yourselves down, you had all been shaken from what had happened. You hoped they couldn’t print anything about you. Newspapers couldn’t publish anything without actual facts, right?

The three of you held hands, closing your eyes and focusing on calling the spirits of the people you loved back to you. The Ouija board was in the middle of the circle, but it was more of an object to focus your minds rather than to speak to your dead friends. You were hoping to manifest them here. To talk to them.

And you did.

But not in the way you had hoped. Xander, Giles and Cordelia appeared. As if out of thin air. You smiled at them, so pleased to see them. Relived to see their faces. Until you looked properly. It was like seeing them in fog. Their faces slightly distorted. The scars from their deaths sewed up but prominent.

“You did this! You did this! YOU DID THIS!” they started to chant simultaneously, getting louder and louder. The grudge they held was strong. You felt it deep within. They hated you. They wanted you in their place.

You kept trying to talk to them, apologise and even plead with them to talk to you. But they wouldn’t. They started to charge towards you, violence in their eyes as you broke the circle in shock. As soon as you let go of your friends hands, they disappeared.

You were all exhausted. It had taken a lot of energy and you were no closer to finding out who the masked killer was. You had little hope for living into tomorrow and your friends all blamed you for their deaths. You had used up all of your options. You had no more plans.

You, Buffy and Willow were still recovering from contacting the spirits when Faith entered, a lot later than you had told her to come. She had needed to meet with someone. Someone she had never told any of you about.

“Where did you get your fancy lawyer from, huh? You live in a fucking motel!” You got up immediately, not bothering with the niceties. You had a bad feeling. Like she was somehow going to spin this back onto you. Something about how she had been acting recently didn’t sit right with you.

“Yeah, thanks for offering me a bed” Faith quipped, but you weren’t getting distracted easily.

“Lawyer?” Willow asked, frowning at Faith.

“Why do you have a lawyer?” Buffy asked, her hand on her hip as she scrutinised Faith.

“I was just told I needed one” she shrugged.

“By who?” You demanded. You knew it. You knew there was something going on.

“By no one!” Faith rolled her eyes, “Stop ridin’ my dick, y/n”

“Don’t do that! You’ve fucking told someone!” You persisted. You could feel it, “You never liked Cordelia and you’ve never mentioned needing a lawyer before - why do you have one now? Feeling guilty over something?”

You tried to swing at Faith but she grabbed your wrist and twisted your arm around your back painfully. Buffy had to run in and broke you up. You apologised to Buffy, but avoided looking at Faith as you tried to calm down. She looked around at the rest of you, sighing. She knew you were all suspicious of her now so she left, slamming the door behind her.

Teen suicide: Trendy or tragic?

The Sunnydale Express, October 1999. Official death toll: 6.

It has come to our attention that, amongst the increased missing cases, apparent self-inflicted deaths have been on the increase in Sunnydale especially in young people. Here at the Express, we like to get the facts so we interviewed some students from Sunnydale high school and paraphrased their response.

‘Life totally sucks’ – anonymous student.

‘We just, like, don’t care’ – another anonymous student.

There you have it, real words from real students. It makes us wonder at The Sunnydale Express, whether suicide really is serious or just ‘the next big thing’?

Willow and Oz were sat on the sofa in Oz’s home. They had the house to themselves and they were making the most of it by watching rentals and cuddling. Oz had an arm over Willow’s shoulder. Luckily, he hadn’t heard about the reporters yet and so his girlfriend was satisfied he had no suspicions. Willow wasn’t really in the room however, she was just staring into space.

“I’m startin’ to worry. You’re not yourself” he said softly, kissing her cheek.

“I’m not?”

“Ever since last Halloween… I know what it is. What you did” Oz stated. Calm as ever.

Horror swept across her face, quickly rounding the corner into panic. She was stunned. Unable to move. Speak. So Oz continued, “You and Xander… it was when you and he started... Right?” his voice was level and his expression was stoic, but there was something there. He was still hurt by what had happened, but he understood that this would hurt more. Now he had died. Now so many of the people she was close to had died. And now she had seemed to stop talking to everyone except Buffy. Everything happening this time of year was bound to take her usual Willow shine.

Willow visibly relaxed at his suggestion, but this didn’t last. Estimations suggest it was around half a second, before a voice boomed into the living room, answering Oz’s question. “Wrong” the gravelly texture to his voice making Willow wince.

Oz got up from the sofa, immediately standing in front of Willow. The figure moved his head from side to side, the signature mask not allowing them to see an expression. But the hairs on the back of their neck was standing on end.

Tell. Tell. Tell. Tell.

As if there were still some spirits left over from earlier in the day, Willow felt it within. He wanted her to tell Oz.

“I- I can’t tell him”

“Tell me what? Will?” Oz asked levelly, his hand comfortingly rubbing her upper arm.

“Tell him… or he dies”

“W-we killed that man. Well, we hid his body a-and then we started getting these notes a-and-” Willow collapsed into sobs as she tried to recall everything that happened, “G-Giles- too and we cleaned it up and made it look like an a-accident”

Oz’s face twisted into shock. He had never been this visibly shocked. Then his face changed. In their horrifying exchange, they had almost forgotten they had a visitor and Oz had moved to face away from him. Oz looked down, his eyes wide in horror.

It made Willow look down too. It was as if a demon was breaking out of his chest. His t-shirt stained with blood as the blade was removed and then repeatedly stabbed into him. Each time the blade sliced through him Willow winced and stared in horror. She was rooted to the spot. That was, until Oz fell forwards into her arms.

“Did I say or? I meant ‘and’” the voice said, Willow was able to hear that he was smiling through his mask. He cleaned off the scythe with his finger and watched. She sobbed, lowering herself to the ground and Oz became dead weight. She held him to her, his horrified look still in his eye as his breathing began to slow. A pool of blood started to surround them as the killer watched, as if in fascination from above.

He let Willow bawl for a while, her salty tears mixing in with Oz’s blood. Then he got bored. “Sign” he stated, brandishing a typed up note under her nose. He started to grow impatient as she didn’t reply and demanded again, “Sign it”

“W-why? What is it?” Willow said between sobs. She was still on the floor, clinging to Oz.

“A confession” He stated, tilting his head to the side before looking down at his other hand that had appeared from behind his back, now there was a noose in one hand and the already typed note in another.

“No!” Willow screamed and started to run but she was still weak from shock. She knew what was coming. She got up, desperately trying to run but it had been too much. It had been exhausting. Hiding. Living in fear. Witnessing everything she had seen and it never got easier. Especially not now. “Oz”, she whimpered.

The figure chased her through the house, she ran up the stairs towards the bedroom. She slammed the door and jammed it closed with a set of drawers she managed to push with some effort.

He had been right behind her and had started to stab through the door with his scythe when he realised it was locked. The door splintered and eventually gave through. He stuck his arm through the gap, swinging the weapon wildly as if he could catch Willow even slightly but she was huddled in the corner.

“Willow dear, light of nobody’s life?” he asked frantically realising this was futile, “Let me in… Let me in!” he started to get angrier, his composure slipping only briefly before he moved away leaving a gap in the door. She heard footsteps descending down the stairs and slowly moved from the corner she had been hiding in. Willow was breathing heavily, tiptoeing to the door to see where he had gone. She paused before hauling the cupboard back. She started to open the door slowly and stepped tentatively onto the landing. As soon as she started to walk slowly he ran at her full pelt. She stumbled over her feet, running down the stairs and past the front door, through the kitchen, checking behind her to see that he was right behind her.

She turned into the living room, shrieking in horror, she had been chased in a circle back to where she had started. He had been toying with her. Humouring her.

She was covered in Oz’s blood and skidded to the floor, hitting her head on the coffee table. She clutched at her head, Oz’s blood mixing with hers as her vision started to go fuzzy until it finally went black…

15 notes · View notes

barisifictionarchive · 5 years ago

Text

MASTER LIST - suggested by the writers

The very talented creators were asked to name the favorite fics they’ve written themselves, so here’s the compiled list with our writers’ suggestions of their best works:

before the alarm. by vadaviita

(392 | General | Complete)

Sometimes, no matter how exhausted you are, you just so happen to wake up hours before you really need to; sometimes, for a moment, you're glad.

Turn the Lights Off, I'm in Love by egirldallon

(545 | Teen | Complete)

It's just Rafael and Sonny dancing. That's it.

Here, In Your Arms by Bicarisi

(626 | General | Complete)

Sonny Carisi has never felt this happy in his life.

Penis Fish, A Tale of Lost Love by rellkelltn87

(726 | Teen | Complete)

Barba is trapped on a beach with thousands of urechis unicinctus, the species of spoon worm colloquially known as the “penis fish." (Trust me, kids, you don't want to Google that.) This is basically a Twitter gag that went too far. Also, it's formatted as a TV script.

Probably don't read this if you're squeamish about weird-looking aquatic life forms.

I will escort myself out of the fandom now.

Discouraged by BarbaLovesCarisi (CaptainAmericasShield)

(1142 | Teen | Complete)

Carisi goes home to Barba after being blindsided in Arraignments. Again. He’s feeling discouraged and starts to question if he really is suited for being an ADA. Rafael comforts him and convinces him he’s wrong and things would get better.

all of this silence and patience, pining and desperately waiting by wayward13

(1392 | Teen | Complete)

"You grew a beard."

Rafael laughed and looked back and forth between the two of them.

"What is with you two? Does it look bad?" he asks with a smile bringing his hand up to rub his cheek briefly.

"No! You- uh you look really good, Barba," Sonny stammered, "I mean- happy. You look really happy."

"I am."

Good Thing Go by minnesotamemelord

(1501 | General | Complete)

Rafael Barba says his goodbyes.

finally safe to fall by adabarbacarisi

(1600 | Mature | Complete)

Rafael loved fiercely and deeply, when he fell for someone he was as passionate and intense with that love as he was in his work. It seemed it was in his nature to be a little too much, a little too bold, for a lot of people. He had accepted that perhaps that world-changing, earth-shattering, heart-soaring kind of mutual love wasn’t in the cards for him.

That is, until Sonny Carisi entered his life and changed everything.

Family by Ava_now

(1656 | General | Complete)

Happy Valentine's Day! Here, I got you a baby!

Harbor in the Storm by BarbaLovesCarisi (CaptainAmericasShield)

(1959 | Teen | Complete)

After the end of Sunk Cost Fallacy, Sonny Carisi needs help. Rafael Barba is the only one who can help him.

Only say my name, it will be held against you by Bicarisi

(2053 | Mature | Complete)

Sonny and Rafael had been friends with benefits for over a year. But what happens when it becomes something more?

Begin Again by glammetalkitten

(2389 | General | Complete)

The morning Sonny wakes up as an ADA and not an NYPD detective, he’s, you know, a little nervous. New job, life-changing kind of nervous.

Forgiven by BarbaLovesCarisi (CaptainAmericasShield)

(2476 | Teen | Complete)

When Rafael Barba shows up out of the blue after almost three years, Sonny doesn't know what to think. He wants to be upset, but Rafael makes it almost impossible. Rafael disappeared off the face of the earth and Sonny can't let himself forgive him that easy. With as sincere as Rafael seems, Sonny can't help but think maybe he was deserving of his forgiveness.

Where's the Love Without Remorse by girldallon

(2809 | Teen | Complete)

Some secrets are purposely kept, for a reason, good reasons.

You Raise Me Up by BarbaLovesCarisi (CaptainAmericasShield)

(3041 | Teen | Complete)

The Undiscovered Country never happened. Jack McCoy hired Sonny as an ADA then promptly retired, leaving room for Rafael Barba to become the new DA. He takes care of Sonny and supports him, even when no one else does.

White in Your Hair by FreckledSkittles

(3299 | Teen | Complete)

It's been too long since Sonny has seen Rafael. Things have changed, but it feels great.

Call by Coop_Scoop

(4119 | Explicit | Complete)

Rafael finally decides that living in Florida really isn't for him, he hasn't worked since he got there. But he needs to make a few calls to try and get back to where he wants to be and maybe get the person who has haunted his mind since he left.

he doesn't look a thing like jesus by hanzios

(5029 | Teen | Complete)

The first time he summoned the archangel, Sonny was on his couch, reading a Wikipedia page about translated Hebrew transcripts from the Old Testament.

He Who Can Endure It by abogadobarba (daltonfightclub)

(5478 | Teen | Complete)

They were always so close to the precipice of something more, but ever the pragmatists, were also privy to the many ways in which a whisper of impropriety could destroy a career such as theirs, cut down a man by half and leave him aching besides—and that’s before accounting for the scandal of it all.

But before all else, Sonny was a man of His word. So, he learned to endure it.

OR: The one in which Carisi is the new ADA and in a little bit over his head (with both the law AND Barba).

High School Barisi by icedcoffeebro

(8693 | General | WIP)

Sonny is part of the tech team in theatre, and Rafa is the understudy for the main role. They bump into each other more than once.

Taken from my brain during Stop-Motion class.

TW for mentions of parental abuse.

Do You Mind? by Larkin21

(11288 | Teen | Complete)

Pre-Barisi, set in early season 17. Barba's feelings toward Carisi grow beyond a grudging respect for a coworker, as told in missing moments from episodes 2-5.

This is the first part to a multi-part prequel for my story, Mind If I Drop Over? This part is Barba's POV and it's rated teen, mostly for language. All other parts of the series are (or will likely be) rated explicit.

Carisi's Goddamn Legs by juniperhoot

(11502 | Explicit | Complete)

Rafael Barba is obsessed with Sonny Carisi's legs. And the rest of him, come to think of it.

But damn, those legs.

Moments in Time by tobeconspicuous

(11640 | Teen | Complete)

When Catalina was a child she knew that there was something special about her. Her mother said magic flowed through their veins and that some people would never understand.

Catalina was unsure what her mother meant by that until one day when she was ten years old, she found a young boy in her backyard.

The truth within words by Subaruchan192

(11944 | Teen | Complete)

'Dear Rafael, You're gone. It's strange. It’s been a week since you left and yet I can still feel you here. I can feel your eyes on me, but when I turn no one is there. I hear your voice in the hall, but when I go around the corner it's someone else. You are gone, and it is strange, and it makes me sad every time.'

One week after Rafael Barba left without a word, Sonny can't stand all those words left unspoken anymore and decides to write a letter to express them. Along the journey, he discovers that he has been in love with Rafael for a long time only to realize that he is too late.

Or is he? Let's find out.

A Nice Young Man by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)

(12767 | General | Complete)

After the events of episode 16.16 (Barba's grandmother passes) and 16.7 (Sonny's brother-in-law is assaulted by his female parole officer), Carisi reaches out to Barba because that's just his way. Barba is a bit confused about what to do about it all.

We're All Just Passing Through by nukablastr

(13790 | Teen | Complete)

After a series of disasters cause Rafael to miss the last train back to Boston, a chance encounter with a stranger may redefine what it means to go home.

Little One You Have To Take Better Care by MollyKillers

(19270 | General | Complete)

Everyone is born with a dragon inside them as a part of their soul.

Rafael believes because of the coldness in him his dragon is dead. However, when he meets Dominick (call me Sonny) Carisi something in him stirs.

Credo by snakeling

(19833 | Mature | Complete)

If a one night stand is the only way Sonny can have Rafael, he'll take it. But he wants so much more.

Catching Feelings by soul_writerr

(21034 | General | Complete)

Sonny and Rafael are such close friends that everyone around them thinks they're dating. They think that's hilarious, until Sonny starts dating someone else and Rafael realizes he made a huge mistake.

But now it's too late to fix it, so he tries to move on.

A Healing Year by adrianna_m_scovill

(24706 | Mature | Complete)

Rafael Barba learned how to protect his heart from the world, and he gave up on the hope of ever falling in love - until Sonny Carisi made him want all the things he'd accepted he would never have.

The Second Assistant by soul_writerr

(35357 | Teen | Complete)

Sonny is an idealistic, driven journalist who can't find a job. When he starts as Runway's Editor in Chief Rafael Barba's assistant, his life turns into a nightmare. Until it doesn't. And he gets better clothes out of it.

Devil Wears Prada AU.

#barisi #fic rec #themed list #master list #suggested by the creators #less than 1k #less thank 5k #less than 10k #10k to 25k #25k to 50k

92 notes · View notes

msbluebell · 5 years ago

Note

When you get the time could you please please please write more thoughts on the change the past AU? I am so in love with that one I adore AUs that have characters travel back much further than expected and so have the ability to affect events that would cause major stuff later on but also have to deal with more uncertainty as to what might happen in the future because of those events that were changed, even slightly.

The fun part about sending someone so far into the distant past is that the events you mostly want to prevents are a long way off. It’s too late for Duscur, but there’s still a chance to change everything else.

But, in doing so, new problems are always created and they all have unforeseen consequences, just like decisions where you didn’t time travel.

In this reality, Dimitri was able to save Glenn from his original fate. In doing so he not only prevented Ingrid’s loss of her original fiancee, but also prevented the conversation that would stain Felix’s relationship with his father. Not only that, but he has a steadfast ally that is his proud bodyguard, and a loving brother figure.

A drawback, though, is that now Glenn is one of the people living with the unresolved trauma of Duscur. Dimitri worked mostly through his during the first lifetime (though a lot of those wounds are reopened now that he’s lived through it twice, still, he knows how to handle it better than the first life). Glenn would probably have frequent nightmares like Dimitri had, definitely some unresolved anger and a short fuse, and deep resentment of the people that caused this, which he knows to be Patricia and Cornelia. It’s like blending Dimitri and Felix during the first half of the game into one huge mess. His only consolation is that he and Gustav were able to save Dimitri. Still, he has nightmares, and can often be seen beating a training dummy to death.

Glenn’s reaction could also affect Felix in a new way. Felix could still grow up with his hatred for the concept of Martyrs and Knighthood through seeing what it has done to his beloved brother. Still becoming the Felix as we see him in the game, but with a wee bit of a softer edge and an obvious protectiveness of his brother. Whenever someone mentions what a great knight his brother is he gets defensive, which makes some people think he’s jealous. He’s not. He just wants people to stop bothering Glenn. He also is fiercely protective of Dimitri, as he was in the game, but more open about it because the incident where they had to put down that rebellion and he saw Dimitri’s blood-lust for the first time didn’t happen the same way.

Felix has seen what Duscur has done to the both of them and he’s not tolerating bullshit.

Ingrid also changes a bit. She no longer has the fear and anxiety of trying to find a new husband to save her family. Now she can focus fully on being a knight and marrying Glenn when the time comes. She’s happier for it, and while her views on knighthood are a wee bit more sour, she’s still valiant and determined to be the best knight she can be.

Sylvain isn’t really in a position to change much, so he doesn’t. Dimitri tries to do something about Miklan, but it’s ultimately fruitless as the deep issues there were much too late to resolve.

Another thing that changed with consequences was naming Cornelia as a suspect. Now she’s under heavy investigation and house arrest. However, Cornelia is also a local hero and very popular. While Dimitri does have support, Cornelia is not without allies, and she strives to ruin Dimitri as a result of her disgrace. She can’t exactly pin the tragedy on him, but she can make him seem like he was delusional with grief when he accused her, saying that she was rather cold to him as a consequence of their positions, and she just so happened to be there when he needed to blame someone.

(”Bullshit.” Glenn hisses, white-knuckled, “He knew well before any of it. She’s a lying witch, and she will face justice.”

“Be patient, Glenn.” Gustav squeezes his shoulder, “She will not win.”)

Dedue is a mild change. He’s happier now. His sister and mother work in the palace kitchens, under the personal protection of Prince Dimitri. Dedue, himself, has sworn to work as Dimitri’s personal vassal. Dimitri says he would rather have a friend, though, because they’re hard to come by in this castle. Dedue’s mother is wary, at first, and hates the castle. She does warm up to Dimitri, though, after a few months. It’s hard not to like Dimitri when he is so eager and respectful, calling her Ma’am like she’s someone important, and treating her like she has the wisest word in the room. She doesn’t care for Faerghus, but Dimitri melts her iced heart. Dedue’s sister is quite, rarely speaking. She just wants to work the kitchen and go back to her room, like Bernadetta, but a selective mute.

Dimitri is glad for Dedue’s family, because he’s happier, and they’re good people, and they keep him focused on something other than just Dimitri’s health. Dedue still puts a lot of focus, but Dimitri can remind his friend that he needs to go home and see his mother and sister now, get him to rest.

Another change that Dimitri will forever argue that he couldn’t have foreseen was his Uncle Rufus suddenly taking a personal interest in teaching Dimitri finances personally. It came out of nowhere to Dimitri, because his uncle was hands off and...well...indifferent to him, preferring to count sums and estimate taxes and investments to knowing his nephew. However, now his uncle is taking an interest and personally making sure Dimitri is a first rate financial genius and Dimitri cannot for the life of him figure out why.

Gustav doesn’t leave. Dimitri knows he keeps meaning to, but the prince always finds one excuse or another to keep him too busy to leave. This goes on until Gustav forgets to leave at all, too worried by the potential enemies Dimitri may have and the stress that is left behind.

Dimitri also makes sure to finance Annette’s tuition at the School of Sorcery, of which Annette was enrolled thanks to personal recommendation. Gustav didn’t know until the letter arrived. Annette squealed for days, gushing about how Dimitri was the best, and oh father did you tell him I want to go to school? You’re the greatest! I’ll never be able to repay him! I should make cookies! Thank you!

Jeralt buys a house just outside the city, a cabin of sorts, and sets it up as the headquarters for his Mercenary group. Instead of traveling around, they take letters and walk-in hires for work. Jeralt distributes troops as need be for every job, and some of his mercs can talk smaller, more medial jobs such as being a bodyguard for a week or escorting someone to the next town safely. The headquarters isn’t far off from the hunter’s cabin, and they make decent money pretty fast. And with the roads so unsafe these days, and people nervous, they’re making a lot of money with the new setup. Jeralt sets up a room for Byleth with a window that, while it can’t see the castle, face’s it’s direction. It’s a bit of comfort for his kid.

He’s taken to decorating his own room a bit. It’s actually pretty nice. Feels homey, like he didn’t mess his kid up. He takes Byleth shopping a bit sometimes, when they’re gathering info and making connections in the city. They get things to decorate the kid’s bedroom. Some pots for plants, a picture for the wall, a fur carpet. It makes his kid seem more human, more alive. Maybe having a home base is a good thing after all.

Jeralt and Gustav often meet in a pub in the city. They keep their conversations purposely vague, but in actuality they’re covertly sharing their information under the guise of two old friends having a drink.

Byleth makes sure to meet and befriend Annette early on, careful to be encouraging of her studies and interests. Annette takes to the friendship quickly, beaming every time she meets up with Byleth. Byleth quickly becomes her best friend in the city, and she’s constantly dragging them around to shop and buy sweets. She helps decorate their room, and choose clothes that will fit. And Annette is super proud of their friendship, even if Byleth doesn’t really smile or anything.

Annette confesses, one day, over shared sweets from that shop she likes, that her new goal is to go to Garreg Mach so she can meet Dimitri officially and thank him for getting her into school. Byleth assures her it will happen.

Dimitri isn’t allowed to leave the castle unless Gustav and Glenn are with him anymore, and even when he does get to leave the places his uncle lets him visit are heavily restricted, so Dimitri and Byleth have to covertly see each other. A festival thrown by the Bard’s College, just so happening to be in the same shop, a visit to the schools or church. The moments are fleeting, like mist in the wind, but precious to them both. A glimpse of one another fills them with conviction, makes them remember they’re real, that they’re not alone.

They sneak chances to hold hands, during the festival for a dance, during church for a hymn, any chance.

It’s enough to keep them going.

#fe3h #Fire Emblem Three Houses #Change The Past AU #Dimileth #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #Faerghus #byleth eisner #jeralt eisner #gustave dominic #glenn fraldarius #felix hugo fraldarius #ingrid brandl galatea #annette dominic #sylvain jose gautier #asks

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athenadcvell · 5 years ago

Text

The Cleaning Lady

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Warnings: Nope

Word Count: 2,198

Dialogue Prompt: "For some reason, I'm attracted to you."

A/N: So, I decided that I'll use a random generator website to generate a dialogue prompt... and those websites gave me Steve Rogers and this. This is my first X reader fic, so yes, it is very very very bad, and very cringe. Read it tho and lmk what ya think!

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It's hard doing work when you have literal Gods walking beside you on the daily basis.

Y/n knew this when she was hired as one of the many maids in the Avengers base. She was thoroughly explained to all the rules and happenings of the building, and what her daily duties were. Despite her training, she didn't quite prepare herself for this.

She's been working in the Avengers base for quite some time now. Enough time that some of the Avengers have learned her name. Well, one Avenger has learned her name.

Steve Rogers. Steve Grant Rogers. Captain America. Everything about him was just so... charming to Y/n. The way he walked with authority in each step, but still treated every person he encountered with the same amount of respect and kindness. And not to mention he was Captain America. Leader of the Avengers.

And apparently Y/n's newest crush. She didn't exactly expect to fall for the Avenger, yet here she was. How could she not? He knew her name, and he always made sure to ask her how she was. Granted, she had seen him to do that to pretty much everyone he walked past, but she felt like it was different with her.

"Y/n," E/c eyes snapped up from the freshly mopped floor, attention caught by the deep voice. Y/n's heartbeat quickened as she noticed Steve walking towards her. "Hey."

"Hi, Steve," She smiles politely. Y/n would normally never refer to one of her technical 'bosses' by their first name, but Steve insisted on it. She also wished she had known he had gotten back from his mission. She hadn't worn any makeup today, and her h/c hair clung to her sweat slicked neck.

"How are you? Anything new?" He asked cheerfully, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"Not much," She shook her head, tucking a stray strand of hair away. "What about you? Did you have a good mission?"

"It was successful, yeah, the-"

"Rogers!" Before the superhero could say more, he's cut off by Natasha Romanoff gracefully striding into the room. She doesn't pay Y/n much attention, as usual. Ms. Romanoff is by no means rude, however, she is quite busy, and doesn't normally take time to acknowledge the help. Like most of the other Avengers.

Which is what made Steve special.

"Would you quit flirting with the staff and get the report room? Stark called a team meeting ten minutes ago, and if we leave him waiting any longer, I worry he'll self combust," Steve chuckles lightly at her wording, waving silently to Y/n before following the Widow out.

And leaving Y/n a blushing mess. Flirting. Natasha had said he was flirting. Though it didn't exactly seem that way, right? No, he was just being polite. Of course he was.

Or what if he wasn't? What if, all this time, Steve has perhaps been flirting back with her?

"Don't get your hopes up," Y'n jumps at the sudden voice, whipping around quickly. She finds a fellow coworker, Sylvie, standing there and wiping down a table. The two of them don't exactly speak much, but they're on good terms. Y/n finds Sylvie funny, with her blunt attitude and sassy jokes.

"What are you talking about?" Y/n stupidly asks. Sylvie rolls her dark eyes.

"You. And Steve Rogers. Don't get your hopes up."

"What hopes?"

"Oh, c'mon, L/n," Sylvie stops wiping, arching a brow. "I've been watching you're interaction with him for awhile. It's clear you have a little crush, and I'm tryna help you from getting hurt."

"I don't have a crush," Y/n mumbles stubbornly, looking down to hide the blush painting her cheeks once again.

"Oh yeah, totally believing you right now," Sylvie snorts, laying a hand on her hip. "All I'm saying, is that if the Avengers were to go for anybody, it wouldn't be us."

"I heard Mr. Stark slept with two of the cleaners and one of the tech ladies after he and Pepper Potts broke up," Y/n argues back, before quickly adding, "Not that I'm trying to sleep with anybody. I'm just saying."

"Yeah, and you're proving my point," Sylvie waves her off. "If we were to have something with an Avenger, it would just to be bang some stress off of their system. I mean, look at us. We clean up their shit. There are world renowned doctors and engineers, skilled agents and hackers that are friends with them. We don't stand a chance."

Y/n doesn't respond to Sylvie, her words honestly stinging a bit. Because she's right. To Steve, Y/n is just that one cleaning lady. And she's stupidly fallen for him because he was nice to her. Oh how her standards have lowered.

*** "Disgusting," Y/n grimaces as she scoops out the last bits of coffee grounds that have clogged up the sink. She dumps them into the trash and slips off her gloves, sighing. It's late. Very late. She was supposed to go home three hours ago, but agreed to do some overtime and take care of last minute cleanings. By herself. Sure, the staff of cleaners is small already, but this was just ridiculous.

Y/n stops at a bathroom to change out of the uniformed pants and t-shirt she normally has to wear, and changes into a more comfortable pair of light wash jeans and a hoodie. Pulling her hair into a quick ponytail, she gathers up her things and leaves.

Or, at least she tries to. However, on her way out, as she passes a few of the bedrooms, she hears something a bit unsettling. What sounds like soft murmurs and cries waft out of a certain doorway.

"Not my business," Y/n sighs, continuing to walk ahead. Until she hears a faint,

"Bucky, no!" Steve. She can't hear the voice well enough to know for sure, but she does know who Bucky Barnes is. The WWII American soldier. The only Howling Commando to die in duty. Steve's best friend. The Winter Soldier.

Y/n shouldn't investigate. It's really none of her business. She may have heard it wrong.

But, as usual, curiosity and worry gets the best of her, and Y/n finds herself walking towards the door she hears the whimpering coming from. Taking a deep breath, she taps gently on it three times.

She hears a quiet gasp, rustling, and then silence.

"Yes?" Steve's voice hoarsely asks.

"Steve?" Y/n calls gently, laying her palm against the door. "It's Y/n."

"Uh," There is more rustling on the other side, before the door is thrown open. Steve stands there in nothing but a pair of cotton pants, his hair a mess at the top of head, and his bright blue eyes tiredly staring down at her. Y/n can't tell if he looks adorable or hot. Perhaps both. "Can I help you? Shouldn't you be home? I didn't know anyone was even allowed to work this late."

"Normally not, but I was offered overtime and took it," Y/n explains hastily, playing with the strings of her hoodie. "I-I heard you talking... I think you were having a nightmare. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"You heard me?" Steve suddenly seems ashamed, looking down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I didn't even realize I talked in my sleep."

"Oh no, it's fine," Y/n quickly cuts in, holding her hands up. Guilt gnaws at her when she sees the expression on Steve's face. The embarrassment and regret for catching someone else's attention. She should've just left.

She should leave. Right now. The door is only a few yards away, and with a quick goodnight, Y/n could be out that door and home in no time to stay awake for hours overthinking about this very scenario.

Or, she could try to be a good friend and comfort Steve. Perhaps it's the exhaustion coursing through her, or the adrenaline she gets from talking to Steve, but next thing Y/n knows, she asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"The nightmare?" She mentally kicks herself at his expression and tone. Clearly, Steve didn't expect her to carry their conversation any further, but he doesn't seem upset about it. A good sign? Maybe.

"Yeah," Y/n shrugs, tugging on her sleeves. "If you don't want to, that's fine. Totally understandable. But- uh- I just want to make sure you're okay..." Her voice trails off, e/c eyes drifting down to the floor.

"Sure," Y/n's eyes snap up in shock. She didn't expect that answer. Steve clears his throat, stepping aside. "Come on in."

Y/n steps past the much taller Captain, taking a moment to study Steve's bedroom. She's cleaned some of the other Avengers' bedrooms, however, Steve is one who requested that no one clean his room. When asked about the choice, he had said he just feels weird having someone else clean up his belongings.

It's very clean, and very simple. There are a few things that make it Steve Rogers room; the compass laying on bedside table, the three picture frames of the Avengers, Steve and Bucky, and the Howling Commandos. Not to mention the shield laying on the floor.

"So," Y/n jumps, almost forgetting that Steve was here with her. When she turns around, she finds that he had put on a hoodie. "What did you... hear, exactly?" Steve rubs the back of his neck, taking a seat on the bed. Y/n gives him a small, comforting smile.

"I didn't hear much," She admits. "Most of it just sounded like muffled cries. But I heard you say Bucky," Steve sucks in a breath, nodding. He doesn't speak for a few seconds, and Y/n almost thinks that's her cue to leave. But then he opens his mouth.

"I don't... I don't normally talk about this kind of stuff," He says quietly, pressing his thumb into his palm. "But I feel different with you. Like I can trust you," His pale blue eyes snap up in the dim lighting, stealing Y/n's breath.

"You can," She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. Steve nods, his features softening as he stares back at the floor.

"It's just... these... nightmares," His brows furrow as he speaks, the confusion and hurt evident in his tone. "Of Bucky. He was my best friend."

"I know," Y/n nods, urging him to continue. "I read up about him once."

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "Bucky died, partly because me. I couldn't grab him in time, I couldn't reach to him. If I had just-" Steve stops speaking suddenly, hanging his head low. Y/n stands quietly, not quite sure why he stopped all of a sudden, until she notices the silent tear dripping onto the hardwood floor.

In some situations, words aren't needed. Words can't possibly begin to heal the wounds that have reopened themselves. But silence?

Silence brings a peace and comfort that may not heal, but it begins to.

So wordlessly, without a word needing to be spoken, Y/n drops her bag and slowly sits down beside Steve. She pulls his head into her shoulder, laying her chin atop his blonde locks and rubbing his back. No more tears fall, but a newfound connection is found as she shows him the compassion he needs in this moment.

Steve slowly looks up, slowly wiping the wet streak the tear left below his eye.

"I'm sorry. You probably want to go home-"

"No, it's fine," Y/n shakes her head, heart pounding at how close they are. Is she moved her in the slightest, their noses would touch. "Truthfully, Steve, I... I want to hear about what you're going through. I care about you," She takes a deep breath, looking down at her lap. "And since you shared something personal about yourself, I want to share something about myself as well."

Here goes nothing.

"I-" Y/n swallows down her fear, looking up slowly through her lashes. "-have feelings for you, Steve. I just need to let you know. Because they're stupid, and I'm stupid for catching feelings for an Avenger, but I did, and I just needed to let you know and I'm sorry-"

Y/n's rant is brought to an abrupt halt as Steve leans forward swiftly and gently presses his lips against hers.

"I like you too, Y/n" Steve grins laying his forehead against hers. Y/n can't help the happiness and airy feeling in her stomach bubbling up into a small laugh, pulling her hands around Steve's neck and pulling him in to her for another kiss.

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #captain america #chris evans #captain america fanfic #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #marvel #marvel fanfic #mcu #mcu fanfic #x reader #fanfiction #fanfic

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