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quietblueriver · 2 years ago

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There Are Roads Left in Both of Our Shoes (Ch. 1)

Sister Kathleen hands Beatrice the envelope at the end of their meeting, pulling it from the small black messenger bag sitting next to her on the park bench they had used as a meeting point.

“This came to Cat’s Cradle, via your last publicly listed assignment. Camila said to apologize—they had to open it. Standard security.”

Beatrice is too busy staring at the name on the corner of the envelope to pay much attention to what she says next.

A. Garde

“Beatrice?”

Kathleen is looking at her in mild concern.

“I apologize. What did you say?”

“I was just asking if you needed anything else before I go? Sister Camila said she would be checking in at the usual time.”

“No, thank you. And thank you for bringing this.”

She shrugs, pulling at her gray cardigan and straightening her navy skirt as she stands. She’s not in a habit, of course, but she has found the closest civilian approximation of one.

“Of course.” She sighs. “I truly hate having to wear these clothes. I cannot wait to get back to Cat’s Cradle.”

Beatrice hums as if she understands while thinking privately, and far from the first time, that she made the correct decision in leaving. Her navy trousers, brown oxfords, and gray button-down aren’t exactly loud but they are hers, chosen and worn based on how Beatrice feels about them. She brushes a strand of hair back from her forehead, another unexpected joy. It’s shaved down on the sides, the length on top held back, generally only somewhat successfully, with a dollop of mousse which Beatrice keeps buying not for its efficacy but because Ava loves the smell of it so much. The cut requires maintenance beyond what Camila could provide in the kitchen, and Beatrice knows her careful attention to it often crosses the line into vanity. She is grateful for the opportunity to be vain in this way. She’s working on using gratitude to fill the spaces that once would have been filled by shame.

Kathleen pulls her bag across her chest and nods at Beatrice. “I should get going, then. I’m hoping to catch the earlier train, if I can.”

Beatrice stands to see her off, running her fingers over the envelope before placing it in her own messenger, a worn, light-brown leather that Ava had found for her secondhand and which she loves in a way that still feels strange to her, after years of denying herself attachment to worldly things.

“Safe travels. Please tell everyone hello from me, and from Ava. She was sad to miss you.”

“I will. I was sorry to miss her as well. Please give her my best.”

They leave in opposite directions, Beatrice gripping the strap of her bag tightly where it sits across her chest.

******************

Ava finds her later, sitting at their kitchen table, staring at the opened-but-unopened-by-Beatrice letter.

“Bea?” She calls out from the doorway. “Sorry I took so long.” Beatrice hears the familiar sound of her shoes being toed off and kicked in the general direction of the mat by the door. “I got distracted by the fruit Mrs. Brunner had just put out. Bea, the strawberries. Don’t worry, I got some, and then...” Ava stops when she spots her, frowning slightly in concern.

“Beatrice? You okay?”

Beatrice smiles at her, puts the envelope down, and stands.

“Much better now.”

And she is. It’s jarring, still, that she can feel this way about someone. She is working on loving and letting herself be loved without guilt, and she’s getting better by the day, the shame being slowly but steadily pushed away by determined love. Ava closes the distance between them and drops a whale-patterned reusable grocery bag onto the table. Beatrice can see the little basket of strawberries tilting precariously on top of what she thinks must be a sleeve of Hobnobs. She reaches over to put the basket on a more even surface and slides the bag a little further toward the center of the table. She uses her other arm to catch Ava, who has thrown most of her bodyweight into Beatrice, wrapping her arms around Beatrice’s neck and kissing her soundly. Her fingers play in the short hair at the nape of Beatrice’s neck, running back and forth, and she pulls away to nose into Beatrice’s collarbone. Beatrice loves her. Beatrice loves her.

“Hi, darling. I missed you.”

Ava pulls back to kiss her again and shift her arms to Beatrice’s waist.

“Missed you too, Bea.” She pushes the lock of Beatrice’s hair from her forehead, tracing a finger down her cheek and along her jaw. “What’s going on?”

Beatrice smiles at her and breaks away to grab the envelope, taps her fingers against the paper nervously. Ava watches with concern.

“Kathleen brought me this today. She says hello, by the way.” Ava hums an acknowledgement. “It was addressed to me and made its way to Cat’s Cradle. It’s from someone that I used to know.”

“A wedding invitation?”

“I haven’t opened it yet.” Ava eyes the broken edges of the envelope and Beatrice clarifies, “They opened it at Cat’s Cradle. I haven’t looked at it. But yes, if I had to guess, it’s a wedding invitation.”

Beatrice shifts back and forth slightly on her feet, an uncharacteristic move, but she feels unbalanced. Ava notices and tilts her head in the direction of the living room, waiting for Beatrice to nod before tugging her toward the sofa. It’s incredibly comfortable, with worn leather cushions, and it’s deep enough that Ava can wedge herself between Beatrice’s body and the back on movie nights because “sometimes I want to be the big spoon, Bea. Hand me a pillow so I can see the screen.” Now, Ava sits sideways, one leg curled up on the cushion, and waits for Beatrice to join her. She does, mirroring Ava, their knees touching and Ava’s hand immediately grabbing at her foot, squeezing it affectionately before sliding her hand up to grasp Beatrice’s ankle in a light hold, her pinky sliding just under the material of Beatrice’s low-cut sock.

“I…” Beatrice starts but is not at all sure where to go from there.

Ava waits what is an astounding amount of time on the Ava scale of patience before saying, “You know we don’t have to talk about it. You’re allowed to have things that are yours, Bea. But I’m here to listen if you want.”

Beatrice runs her fingers through the hair, currently blue but recently silver, that frames the left side of Ava’s face.

“I like this color.”

Ava grins.

“You’ve mentioned.” She trails her hand up Beatrice’s calf, rests it there. “A few times.”

“It bears repeating. You say you like mine often enough.”

Ava reaches forward with her other hand, runs it through Beatrice’s hair. She pulls her forward into a kiss, breathes out against Beatrice’s mouth, “Because I really fucking do.”

She rocks back a bit, wipes at Beatrice’s bottom lip with her thumb and cradles her jaw. Beatrice contemplates forgetting about the envelope for the night, letting herself fall into Ava and, afterwards, strawberries and an evening of reading quietly with her feet tucked under Ava’s thighs while Ava watches that food competition show where they try to fool people into thinking cakes are shoes. Ava is trying to read her, but she must be having a difficult time. It makes sense, because Beatrice isn’t sure about her own mind at the moment.

“Really, Bea. Wanna talk about it?” At Beatrice’s silence she smiles rakishly and presses her fingers into Beatrice’s calf. Beatrice’s stomach swoops. “Not that I’m not totally down to take this detour, but I can wait. Believe it or not, I had a plan for this evening anyway. Most details are still tentative, but this,” she moves the hand deliberately up her calf to her inner thigh, leans close until her lips touch the skin just below Beatrice’s ear, “is a definite item on the agenda.” She whispers this last phrase with intention, as if she’s asking Beatrice to do something filthy to her, uses the same breathy tone she uses to rile Beatrice up when they’re in public. Beatrice knows she’s teasing her; it’s a favorite bit of Ava’s, to bring Beatrice’s love of order and organization into the bedroom. She feels the heat pool in her stomach anyway, shivers slightly. She’s so easy for Ava. It would be embarrassing if Ava weren’t the best thing to ever happen to her by an incredibly long shot. As it stands, she’s fine being easy for Ava forever. Ava pulls her hand back to Beatrice’s ankle, leans away slightly, and shrugs, “If you’re down, that is.”

She’s smirking. She knows exactly what she’s done to Beatrice. And Beatrice has always been competitive, has always been a strategist, so she’s very good at finding ways to even a playing field. She gives herself that, lets the envelope and all of the weight it carries fade further into the background in favor of this easy and uncomplicated desire. She takes the hand Ava still has resting against her jaw, grips it lightly and pulls until the thin skin at the inside of Ava’s wrist is at her mouth. She meets Ava’s eyes and then presses her lips to skin, lets her tongue dip out just slightly. This would be enough, Beatrice knows, but she recalls Ava’s breathy invocation of agenda items and decides to push just slightly further. She turns Ava’s hand so that her thumb is against Beatrice’s lips again. Eyes steady with Ava’s she opens her mouth and takes it in, bites gently, soothes it with her tongue.

Ava’s pupils blow wide and she sucks in a breath, hard. Beatrice lets her hand go and it hangs in the air, Ava staring blankly for a moment before shaking her head, asking so quietly that Beatrice isn’t entirely sure she means to say it out loud, “Jesus Christ, why the fuck is that so sexy? It’s a thumb.”

Beatrice says, “Language, Ava,” with mock reproval, just for the look she knows she’ll get, the slight eye roll and quirk of Ava’s lips. Beatrice lets her own mouth shift into a smile. “Was that a real question, or...”

Ava meets her eyes, amused. “If you want to give me an answer, sure.” Beatrice leans forward to do just that but Ava holds up her hand, pressing her still-wet thumb against the skin of Beatrice’s neck and her palm against her sternum. “Wait.” Beatrice stops immediately. “Tell me later. Better yet, give a demonstration. First,” she nudges gently at Beatrice’s socked foot with her own, plain gray pushed against neon green with pink squiggles, and moves her eyes to the envelope that had at some point been wedged halfway underneath Beatrice’s knee, “I want to hear if you want to tell me.”

Beatrice breathes out, watches Ava’s toes wiggle unconsciously, loves them. She does want to tell her. If things in their lives were in any way normal, Ava might already know this story. Their lives aren’t normal, and they never will be, but Beatrice is starting to believe they might be able to find something that works better for them both anyway. Something for a former nun and a more-than-human woman who spend their time fighting demons and can’t in good conscience, don’t honestly want, to spend it doing anything else. Something that lets them be who they are and still leaves space for them to get to know each other softly and intentionally.

It’s been just over six months since Ava got back, and they’d spent most of that time with the OCS, training and helping to fight new demons, preparing new recruits for the war. It had been brutal, but Beatrice had Ava again, so she was hardly going to complain. Six weeks ago, a tarask appeared randomly in the courtyard in front of Ava and kneeled, an apparent request for Ava to go speak with Reya. Beatrice had waited dutifully next to her as she slept under the crown of thorns and when she sat up, grinning, just under an hour later (“Who the fuck knows how time works, Bea? I swear it wasn’t more than half a day.”), Beatrice had felt relief so powerful she could hardly breathe. They had a break. Maybe not forever, likely not forever, but for the moment, Reya had her war in hand, and they had only a slightly-higher-than-normal number of wraiths and some other demonic escapees to deal with.

A month ago, at the kind but firm instruction of Superion, Ava and Beatrice had left Cat’s Cradle to spend some time in the world. They were still technically working for the Church. They were in fact currently living in a Church property only a few towns over from their old apartment. (They went to visit, for a weekend. Hans had fallen over himself hugging Ava, no surprise, but Beatrice had been taken aback by the force with which he hugged her, a happy, “Chefin!” spoken too loudly into her ear.) Most of their time, though, is spent…living. Ava has made friends with the children on their street and the purveyors at the farmer’s market. She’s interested in gardening, loves the feeling of dirt in her hands, and spends time on the roof with their elderly neighbor, tending to raised beds and discussing soil and the weather. Beatrice has made friends with the librarian, and the teachers at the school where she volunteers as a tutor.

They’re learning to build a home together, taking what they learned in the first tiny flat they shared and letting it grow into something deeper. Now, when Ava finishes breakfast and washes her mug without prompting because she knows that Beatrice has a compulsion about dishes in the sink, Beatrice can kiss her in appreciation. When Beatrice sees something that makes her think of Ava—a book she might like, a small pot of basil at the market, a ridiculous beaded dog keychain sold by the arts program at the elementary school—she can bring it home to her without feeling the need to pretend it’s anything other than proof that Ava is always on her mind. They learn about each other, gently and without the pressure of the end of the world, as they cook dinner and spend mornings in bed and shop at the market and walk the trails just outside of town. They’re new to this, still, but Beatrice is already in love with their life, feels hope and fear flare bright inside her any time she lets herself think about keeping it.

She looks at Ava, sitting across from her, waiting patiently and running a thumb over the exposed skin of Beatrice’s ankle where her hand has made a home again. She wants Ava to know her, even when it’s hard. She lets herself open, and trusts Ava with a new part of her life.

“You know that my family summered in France, for most of my life...” ******************

Beatrice is 12 years old when she first sees Amelia. She’s in town, which is probably a generous term for the small collection of businesses and residences closest to their summer house. She had come after her ballet lesson, eager to go outside after being forced to spend hours in the small dance studio her parents had set up for her. Amelia is reading underneath a tree outside the only pub, laying back with one leg crossed over the other, foot kicking the air and head propped up on a backpack, blonde hair spread out behind her.

She looks up when Beatrice passes, and smiles.

“Hello!”

Beatrice, unused to strangers speaking to her, much less doing so enthusiastically, is somewhat confused but responds politely, because she has been raised to do so.

“Hello.”

The girl pushes herself up without any grace or self-consciousness, her book pressing into the ground in a way that makes Beatrice want to rescue it from her immediately. She comes toward Beatrice and holds out a hand, dirty from her journey up from her spot under the tree.

“I’m Amelia. Who’re you?”

Beatrice blinks at her. Who taught this person how to introduce herself? (Later, she’ll watch Ava greet Yasmine with a high-five and think back to this moment.) Still, she does the polite thing, internally locating the nearest washroom as she grips the girl’s dirty hand.

“I’m Beatrice. Beatrice Hunt.”

“Well, Beatrice Hunt, I’m a bit bored. The book is good and all but I’ve already read it and I’ve been here for ages. It’s definitely time to find some ice cream. Want to come?”

Beatrice says yes. And suddenly she has a friend. Amelia is different to most of her friends at home, who are either chosen and approved by her parents or martial arts peers, acquaintances, really, who she is not allowed to see outside of classes and competitions. Beatrice learns that she’s two years older, going into ninth grade (“Year ten, I think.”), and also an only child. She likes strawberry ice cream. She is an excellent swimmer, and she competes for her school. She’s likely to make varsity early, whatever that means. She’s irreverent and funny and makes Beatrice uncomfortable without making her feel bad about it. She’s also very smart.

(“It’s Virginia Woolf.” She holds out the battered book as they walk toward the small shop that sells ice cream, hardware, and sewing supplies, “Orlando. I’ve read it like 50 times now. You can borrow it, if you want. Just be sure not to get it dirty.” Beatrice, eyeing the bent cover in Amelia’s unwashed hand, is unsure what to say to that. Amelia leans in and whispers, like it’s a secret, “I’m joking, Beatrice. It’s beat to hell already, obviously.” Beatrice reads it in a night.)

Somehow, Beatrice’s parents love her. Beatrice is worried the first time that she brings her home, about a week later, because Amelia is loud and unapologetic and Beatrice has never seen her without dirty knees or dirty hands or a spot on her shirt or all three. Turns out, there was no need to worry. Amelia has a stash of wipes in the backpack she always carries with her, and she puts them to use just off the road next to the drive to Beatrice’s house. She smiles at Beatrice confidently before they walk in. “Don’t worry, Beatrice. I’m good at this.” And she is. Her posture shifts, and Beatrice notices how tall she really is, how she can take up space in that way that women like her mother do—noticeably there but still obviously feminine. It’s a skill Beatrice, who feels comfortable in her body but always out of place, fears she may never master. Beatrice had known that Amelia was beautiful; it was difficult to miss, but suddenly her green eyes and easy smile are used with a purpose, and Beatrice sees her in a new way. Her diction shifts, which Beatrice notices the further into conversation they get, her r’s softer, less American but her words cut more precisely. It goes so well that Beatrice is nearly speechless during their entire interaction, earning multiple frowns from her mother.

It’s just, Amelia’s suddenly exactly like the girls at Beatrice’s school, which is impressive, yes, but also makes Beatrice nervous. Those girls don’t really like Beatrice, for reasons she can’t ever quite grasp, which means she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do differently. Most of them aren’t mean to her, but Beatrice doesn’t spend time with them outside of school. Her parents aren’t pleased about her lack of social status, which they apparently track through the parents of her classmates, some kind of internal tally they must have at dinner parties about whose child gets mentioned most and in what context, which birthday parties and social events it seems like everyone but Beatrice attends. She gets the occasional invitation, but it’s almost worse when that happens, as no one is under the impression that she’s there for reasons other than pity or politics.

Unfortunately for everyone, or at least for Beatrice, she’s not been able to identify the thing that makes it difficult for her to be the way the other girls seem to want her to be. She sits with them at lunch, because she feels she should continue to make an effort, and experiments with the factors she can control. She’s tried talking less, talking more, talking about things that she finds to be, frankly, dull. She doesn’t like discussing other people, which are a central topic of conversation for her classmates, and she doesn’t like making fun of the teachers who are by far the kindest people in Beatrice’s life. She can’t really engage with the conversations about popular culture, although those are better, because she spends her free time reading and praying and practicing martial arts. When she is expected to speak, which is rarely, she almost always chooses from a very short list of topics: class, homework, sometimes ballet (never martial arts, she learns quickly). She knows she’s not generally successful in saying anything interesting and is both grateful and disappointed when conversation flags and someone moves to a new topic, leaving her to be quiet again. Toward the end of the school year, she hears them talking about her in the washroom, about how she’s weird, awkward. She waits until they leave to emerge, brushing away tears and feeling shame coil in her stomach. That evening, her parents are home for dinner, and as they talk about their coming trip to Germany, Beatrice barely manages to eat, feeling suddenly like she’s merely at yet another table where she doesn’t understand the rules of the game she’s expected to play.

In the end, though, Amelia isn’t at all like her classmates. She keeps smiling at Beatrice the whole time they’re at tea, making a funny face at Beatrice when her parents aren’t looking and talking about Beatrice as if she’s important and interesting, working her into the conversation as much as she can. She doesn’t seem thrown by Beatrice’s silence, just smiles encouragingly at her.

Amelia talks about her life in a way that makes Beatrice’s parents eager to know more. Amelia’s parents are French and work in politics. They send Amelia to school in the United States, where her mother’s sister lives, which explains her almost-American accent. This information makes Beatrice’s parents frown until she Amelia casually mentions the number of students they send to Oxford and Cambridge, in addition to the Ivy League. They’re Catholic. The home they own nearby, which they bought last year, is easily identifiable because it’s massive (as is Beatrice’s) and not a “new addition to the area” which is something her parents say with such disdain that they might as well be spitting. In short, they approve. She’s charming and from a “good family” and Beatrice’s parents not only allow Beatrice to spend time with her, they encourage it. They seem impressed with Beatrice, by association, even if Beatrice feels like they are still confused as to why Amelia wants to spend time with her. Beatrice herself is still confused about that, but she puts it to the side as best she can. Near the end of the afternoon, Amelia catches Beatrice’s eye, quickly rolls her eyes and winks, back to blinking angelically by the time her mother has turned from pouring more tea.

Amelia comes over regularly. Beatrice gets used to spending a few minutes behind a tree at the end of her driveway, watching Amelia dig through her backpack, out of which she sometimes pulls a cardigan or clean shoes to complete her transformation. She can pleat her hair so quickly and neatly that it often looks better than Beatrice’s, carefully put together each morning. Beatrice resents this only a small amount.

They wander the town and walk to the nearby creek to cool off their feet and eat oranges and read in the shade. They swim in the pool behind Amelia’s house and watch movies in the massive tv room her parents let her create.

“I think they feel guilty for sending me to school in the States and because they’re never around even when I am here. It does suck. I wish I saw them more. Anyway, they told me I could do what I wanted with this room so I did. My cousin in the States has one just like it.” Beatrice cannot relate at all but enjoys watching The Hunger Games and the series of movies that Amelia swears are based on classics: Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, Romeo + Juliet. She thinks fleetingly that she might be able to discuss these things with her classmates, but, as Amelia gets deeper into a rant about Emma, waving the copy she had grabbed from their library wildly around her head to emphasize a point, Beatrice knows it wouldn’t be anywhere near as satisfying.

Amelia reads outside while Beatrice has ballet lessons with the instructor her parents hire to come to their home three times a week because they refuse to allow her to miss five weeks of class. Beatrice is not small enough or good enough or dedicated enough to warrant this attention. She knows it; her instructor knows it; and her classmates know it. She is looking forward to the day when the head of the dance school finally forces her parents to accept it but until then she tries and tries and tries. When she does conditioning and practices her katas and forms, she does them on her own, with written instruction from her teachers, even though she actually is good enough at this to warrant additional attention. Amelia reads in the room then, sometimes watching Beatrice. The first time, she says afterward, “That’s really fucking cool, Hunt,” and Beatrice blushes for reasons that she doesn’t quite understand.

On Sundays, Amelia attends mass with Beatrice and her parents, running through the motions of the service and words of the prayers so seamlessly and attentively that Beatrice is convinced Amelia must find comfort in it the way that Beatrice does. She asks Amelia about church in the United States and Amelia laughs and says, “Oh, I only go when I absolutely have to. C&E Catholics, my aunt and cousins, which is totally good with me.” When Beatrice looks at her blankly, she supplies, “Christmas and Easter. I don’t even believe in God, I don’t think. My parents definitely don’t but don’t tell anyone that.” Beatrice is shocked silent but Amelia is already moving down the small ledge near the creek and doesn’t seem to notice. It doesn’t bother her, she decides, as she gets ready for bed that evening. She adds Amelia to her prayers.

Even though Amelia might not believe in God, she doesn’t make fun of Beatrice for her faith. She waits around while Beatrice goes to confession each week. When Beatrice tells her that she cannot come over because she is going to a service during the week, she is respectful, if disappointed, telling Beatrice to come over when she’s done. Beatrice chooses to spend some afternoons, on days when she feels particularly ungrateful or angry or inadequate, in the small chapel saying the rosary. She knows it’s not normal for someone her age, but she is comforted by the thought that she can do this thing to correct herself when she otherwise doesn’t know how. She can ask for forgiveness and it will be given. This ease of forgiveness and love is so foreign a concept to Beatrice in her day-to-day life that she has no trouble at all believing that God’s grace is a miracle. How could she be anything other than grateful? How could she do anything other than try her best to live up to that incredible gift? To apologize when she fails? Beatrice offers an explanation for her absence once, on a day when she feels like she has been especially resentful during ballet. Amelia squeezes her shoulder and says, “You don’t owe me an explanation, Hunt,” hesitates before adding, “You are really hard on yourself, though. You shouldn’t feel guilty for just being a person.” Beatrice isn’t sure what that means.

It’s the best summer she’s ever had, and when it’s over, she cries, absolutely embarrassed as they say goodbye in the foyer of her house.

Amelia grins and hugs her tightly and says, “Hey, Hunt, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you next summer and we can write letters or whatever. It’ll be cute.”

Beatrice is surprised to find that Amelia was serious, receives a letter the third week of September postmarked from Washington, D.C. It’s very short, a list of book recommendations and a story about a dog in her neighborhood that keeps escaping and digging up the garden of the elderly woman down the road, all in scrawled handwriting and signed with a heart and Amelia’s name. Beatrice writes back two days later, unable to adopt the same informality without feeling like a fraud, but she lets herself start the letter, which consists mostly of book recommendations of her own, with “Hello” and ends it with a —Beatrice rather than a more formal sign off. She rewrites it three times before she’s satisfied.

On her birthday, she gets a handmade card with a cat in a party hat on the front, drawn badly enough that Beatrice is only certain it’s a cat because of the arrow pointing at it, next to which is the word CAT. The inside reads simply, “Happy Birthday, Hunt! Do something fun. Miss you -A”

On Amelia’s birthday, Beatrice sends a card she finds in her favorite book store, a T. Rex with a party hat on, “Have a Dino-Mite Birthday” written above him. She writes, “Happy birthday, Amelia! I hope you have a wonderful day.” The exclamation point feels aggressive but she keeps it anyway. Amelia writes her to say that she loved it, that it’s now taped up in her locker.

Beatrice keeps trying with her classmates, but she still can’t seem to get it right. Beatrice can throw her aikido instructor, who is significantly larger, over her shoulder. She can speak four languages fluently and is working on two more. Her teachers regularly assign her work separately, because they want to challenge her. And, although she knows her parents are disappointed in her, she is still their child, raised to carry herself with a certain level of pride and decorum. She thinks, sometimes, that these girls would like her if they didn’t have to think about her. She thinks they want her to disappear, keep her hand down, be still, quit trying, stop being noticeable, if all she can ever be is different. Beatrice can’t bring herself to do this. She wonders if her life would be better if she could.

She keeps trying until she can’t anymore. They’re finishing in the changing room after physical eduction and Beatrice is returning from the water fountains. She hears them as she enters, groaning that Beatrice is too competitive, had been overly invested in their game of football. Beatrice hears a snort. “She would be.” There is laughter. “Gross.” “Yeah, but I’m right.” Beatrice coughs loudly and enters, listens as their laughter grows louder. She knows that they are implying that Beatrice might be different in other ways, ways that make Beatrice’s stomach hurt. They know, the small voice in her head says to her. They know. She pushes it away. There’s nothing to know.

Still, Beatrice begins to eat by herself, reading or studying. Better to be alone than to keep doing whatever it is she had done to make them think of her that way. Sometimes she sits in the classroom with her literature teacher, who likes Beatrice and is always happy to talk about books. She knows her parents would be disappointed, but she’s at the top of her class. She keeps winning at martial arts competitions. She focuses more in ballet, even though it does little good. She can’t make up for her social failures, for the capital she knows she loses her parents, but she can try to be good in other ways. She is good in other ways, although she knows it’s never enough.

She and Amelia continue to write, irregular but frequent enough that Beatrice feels like Amelia is writing because she wants to rather than because she feels obligated. The letters get longer, and Beatrice starts to include more about her life, about herself. There’s not that much to tell, really, but every time Amelia responds with a question she feels something in her open up. In May, Amelia signs off with “SEE YOU SOON, HUNT” and Beatrice smiles for so long that during her evening Aikido class her instructor asks her if everything is alright.

School remains the same, but in the last several weeks, it’s somehow it’s easier, knowing that she does have a friend, a real friend, who wants to hear what she thinks about books and who gets excited when Beatrice puts in details about her own life, her martial arts competitions, new foods that she has tried. She even finds the few social events she’s forced to attend to be more bearable. She knows, now, that she can find people who like her, even if they’re not exactly like her. She lets herself stay behind late at martial arts classes, speak to some of the other girls in class with her. She can’t see them outside of this part of her life, but she lets herself try to get to know them more, anyway. She finds it’s not as difficult as she thought it would be.

Beatrice has never been more eager to go to France, is packed and ready hours before they are scheduled to leave. She is afraid sometimes that she made it all up or that it was a once-in-a-lifetime event. As soon as Amelia shows up at her house, with her charming smile and a bottle of wine that makes her parents forget that it’s definitely rude for a guest to be there so quickly after they arrive, Beatrice’s fears are gone. That summer is even better, somehow. They know each other now, have patterns they fall into and inside jokes they tell and Beatrice feels like Amelia knows her better than anyone else in the world and she’s glad about that.

Beatrice lets herself talk more freely, talk about things that she loves. When a ladybird lands on Amelia’s sleeve, Beatrice gently picks it up and says, “Harmonia axyridis.” Amelia stares at her and then laughs, “Is there anything you don’t know? Man, Hunt, you’re an actual encyclopedia.” Beatrice has had people say things like this to her before, but always with an edge, judgment or jealousy driving them. Amelia looks at Beatrice like she’s something special, smile big and eyes bright. Beatrice and the ladybird are suddenly similar shades.

When Amelia wants ice cream twice in one afternoon, Beatrice balks. “It’s a bit indulgent, isn’t it?” Amelia shoves her without any real force and asks, “You know you’re a kid, right? You sound like your mom.” She must see Beatrice flinch because she immediately apologizes, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just mean, you’re allowed to do things that are a little irresponsible sometimes. I do. Lemme be a bad influence, yeah?” Beatrice gets a half-scoop and wonders briefly why it bothers her so much that Amelia called her a kid. She doesn’t let herself linger on the possible answers.

She stays the night with Amelia sometimes. They turn on their sides and talk across the space between the twin beds in her room. Beatrice says things she wouldn’t if she had to look at Amelia in the light, things she’s hinted at in letters but never lets herself say outright. She confesses her hatred of ballet and her discomfort with most of the other students at her school. She tells Amelia, with shame, that she eats alone or with a teacher. Amelia, as always, meets her with kindness, and something more. “I’d eat lunch with you every fucking day. They’re shits, and they’ll be jealous of you, in the end. It’s good to be different, Beatrice. I’ve never met anyone like you. That’s a really cool thing.” Beatrice, blushing at the language, cannot quite believe her but appreciates her effort.

Amelia’s easier with physical affection than she was last summer, grabbing for Beatrice’s hand as they walk through town, bumping their shoulders over ice cream, sitting close, close, close as they watch movies. Beatrice isn’t used to being physically close to anyone this way. The closest she comes is sparring. She finds that she likes it. There’s a clench to her stomach sometimes, when Amelia falls asleep on her in the movie room or brushes hair from Beatrice’s face in the pool, that Beatrice doesn’t want to examine. She hasn’t had a friend like this before. She tells herself it’s normal, pushes away any thought that it could be anything other than normal, and stays attentive in her prayer. She finds herself in the small chapel more often. She can’t quite bring herself to articulate her sin, but she knows, with growing certainty, that it’s there.

Once again, she finds herself crying in the foyer of her house and once again Amelia is grinning at her. This time, she hands Beatrice a sheet of paper with an email address. “We can still do snail mail but this is faster plus I can send you articles and stuff.”

And she does. They write each other at least once a week, and Beatrice now gets links to articles and music and movie recommendations. She also gets the occasional letter in the mail, with doodles in the margins and restaurant reviews for places that Beatrice will probably never go and stories about Amelia’s cousins or teachers.

School is, shockingly, a little bit better. Beatrice doesn’t have close friends, but some older students eat lunch with her new literature teacher, who also likes Beatrice, and she joins them. She finds them much easier to talk to than the students in her year, and they say hello to her easily when they see each other outside of lunch. One, Jenny, likes Beatrice a lot. Beatrice knows because she’s generally quiet when they eat as a group, but she makes a point to talk to Beatrice in the hallways, smiles at her when she can’t stop between classes. She sometimes asks Beatrice to eat lunch with her outside, and they sit together in easy quiet. When they do talk, Beatrice finds herself blushing much more than she should be. She doesn’t ever tell Jenny no, even though she could. She feels guilt build heavy in her stomach. You know what you’re doing, the little voice says. Nothing, she replies with force. I'm doing nothing at all.

At one point, Amelia writes that her aunt is excited to meet Beatrice because “she thinks I have an imaginary best friend. She doesn’t believe that a genius polyglot entomology nerd with a black belt is a real thing. She might come this summer for a week.” Beatrice has privately considered Amelia to be her best friend since about two weeks into their first summer together. That Amelia thinks of her similarly is shocking, and Beatrice feels gratitude and joy expanding in her chest. That first feeling is familiar, the second less so. She thinks of Amelia so very often, and this unexpected affirmation of closeness for some reason makes her feel better about that.

Beatrice, for her part, sticks mostly to books and other media she finds interesting but tries to include at least one thing about her own life in each letter as well. She tells Amelia about lunch with her new teacher, about the class trip to Madrid, about how she’s working to improve her Spanish. She tells her about the new priest at her church, Father Louis, whose homilies are not as good as Father Mark’s but who is just as kind, had given Beatrice a very interesting book on women in the Church. She tells her about learning to make makowiec with the daughter of one of her parents’ colleagues, home for Christmas and happy to steal away with Beatrice to the kitchen while their parents pretended to like each other. She does not tell Amelia about the way her stomach fluttered when they stepped close to each other in the kitchen. She does not tell Amelia about how Jenny makes her blush, or about the new dreams she’s having that feature the exact wrong kind of person. She does not tell Amelia that she prays for her, or that she’s started to pray for herself in a new way, too. That is a burden she knows she will be bearing alone.

In February, she gets an email with a subject line that is just a frowny face. It’s three sentences:

My parents are making me go to a stupid fucking writing camp this summer instead of coming to visit. Write me? I’m going to miss you a lot.

Beatrice finds herself crying. She gathers herself and responds:

Of course. I’m going to miss you, too.

She deliberates for a full 15 minutes and then adds a <3 for the first time ever, hits send before she can change her mind. Her palms sweat. She’ll know. Do you want her to know? She’s too afraid to answer her own question. She says her evening prayers and does the breathing exercises her instructors have taught her, easing herself into sleep. That night, the girl in her dreams is a blur of blonde hair and broad shoulders, but Beatrice knows exactly who she is meant to be, who Beatrice wants it to be. She feels it break through her as fingertips ghost over her arms, her neck, lower. She wakes, chest heaving and sweat along her back, burning with arousal and shame.

#avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #warrior nun

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aimzicr · 11 months ago

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"All that's left on the roster is..."

"Well? Don't leave us in suspense here."

"... Weaver."

"... fuck. ... are we SURE we can't just--"

"We can't drop nukes on a city that big."

"We could if we --"

"Sir."

"Right. It would be abominable."

"And we've also been locked out of the nuclear launches worldwide, so."

"Right." A heavy sigh. "Send them in, then, I guess. A shitty last chance is better than none."

It's a beautiful day, if not for the fires and sirens and the threat of global extinction. There's still glimpses of blue sky between the looming monoliths and plumes of smoke. The super called Weaver pulls yarn between and around their fingers, humming softly to themselves as they make their way through the debris-choked city streets. Some low-ranking masked goon with a gun barks an order and levels a gun at Weaver. Weaver pulls a thread: the goon's uniform starts to choke him at the neck, and the sleeves pull backwards to throw off his aim, and then - for laughs - the goon's beltloops unspool and his pants end up around his ankles and his shoelaces tie around each other.

Weaver keeps humming, keeps moving. There are other goons to take out. There are some injured or dead civilians that Weaver can guide to edge of the combat zone (it's not so hard to convince fibres and clothing to crawl, to carry their wearers out of harm's way) and there are even some other survivors. They all look so disappointed to see Weaver, and go back to hiding, or praying, or watching with dull eyes ready for death.

It's very hard to be excited about a Super dressed in a hand-knitted onesie, after all. No matter how many pretty colours are in the yarn, no matter how detailed the crocheting and embroidery of the mask and gloves and boots.

Weaver reaches the eye of the storm, where many other Supers have had their corpses strung up or impaled or otherwise left on gory display, the 'see what Earth's mightiest heroes have become' kind of mockery. Weaver does not have the opportunity to move their bodies, because the Overlord has seen this last Super, and is busy monologuing.

Weaver lets him. While the Weaver plays with their cat's-cradle, they look at the Overlord's Lieutenants. These people were very powerful, each with a Super body-count. Weaver just nods, and plays with the yarn.

Then they pull a thread. The lieutenant on the left clutches their heart, eyes widening, skin going ashen. Weaver pulls another thread. The lieutenant on the right collapses in a shower of spaghettified meat strands. Weaver pulls a final thread, and one of the lieutenants just simply disappears, ceasing to be, perhaps never even existing in the first place.

The Overlord stops monologuing.

"Hi." Weaver says. "My super power is fabric manipulation."

Knitting is a delicate art. Threads woven in and around and through each other. A strength coming from something soft. In Weaver's hand-knitted onesie, there are many holes, where the natural alignment of criss-crossed yarn forms little gaps. Each of those gaps - all over their suit - now fills, suddenly, with the opening of hundreds, thousands, tens-of-thousands of eyes. Eyes that look like distant stars, and black holes, and of everything on this planet on which they live. They are covered in eyes, and eyes-within-eyes, and between each eye is a thread that connects to every other thread.

"This includes," Weaver spreads their fingers to add tension to the cat's-cradle, the song they had been humming now turning into a choir as their millions of eyes sing along, "The fabric of space and time."

You were shamed for having a weak power called Fabric Manipulation. However it didn’t exactly specify which fabrics you can manipulate.

#writing exercise #writing prompts #project: pen to paper #my writing

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chaosangel767 · 3 years ago

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Pyrrhic - Angst

Fandom: Ikemen Revolution

Prompt: Pyrrhic - A victory won at to great of a cost

Tw: Major Character deaths, Angst

Word Count:1735

The air is bitter and cold matching the mood of the group of people gathered in front of the Civic Center. A large cloth is draped over a monument and the clouds are heavy. No one in the crowd is smiling, and while there are hundreds of people in the crowd, there is no cheerful sound, just hushed whispers. Three men mount the stage next to the cloth. The two Kings of Cradle and the record keeper, all dressed in formal wear. The little noise of the crowd dies away as the Record keeper starts to speak into the crystal mic.

“Citizens of Cradle, today marks the day one year ago that 75 people gave their lives to protect Cradle from the shadows and ended the 500 years of fighting and bloodshed.” Blanc starts to open the ceremony, his voice solemn as he begins to speak, the two Kings on either side of him had lowered heads, grief from the day one year ago still fresh in their minds.

“Today we remember these brave souls who risked everything they had to make sure that Cradle continued on. Today we remember Zero the Ace of Hearts, Fenrir Godspeed the Ace of Spades, Seth Hyde the 10 of Spades, Loki Genetta the Cheshire Cat, Alice the second…” There isn’t another sound in all of Cradle as Blanc rattles off the names of the 75 people that died, everyone’s head is bowed, the first row of the crowd is dedicated to the officers who fought, the deaths still fresh in their minds.

The record Keeper stood in front of Cradle with an even voice and a calm demeanor, but he can still see the bloody aftermath the central quarter was in after the fight. The tower had figured out the plan at the last moment, and ambushed the unexpecting armies, a huge explosion went off injuring many of the citizens of Cradle and destroying a lot of the Central Quarter, Cradle’s famous inventor was still recovering. Blanc looks into the crowd where Oliver Knight was sitting, his face was scarred with the aftermath of the explosion and his arm had finally been released from its cast after months of trying to heal it.

Blanc looks over to where the King of Spades is standing, glancing down at the floor of the stage, pain and grief evident on his face. The image of a second explosion in the Forbidden forest fresh in his mind, Ray watches helplessly as Alice jumps in front of the armies with her kind smile and not an ounce of fear in her face. She managed to cast enough of a barrier over most of Cradle, negating the magic explosion and casting out the innate magic users in Cradle, saving their lives. The grieving King finally looks up, his gaze landing where his best friend and partner in crime would have sat, the vacant seat tears a hole in his heart. He looks down at his clasped hands, still seeing the blood that drenched his uniform. It should have been me. He quietly thought, remembering seeing the pain his best friend was in after taking the hit for his King. “Cradle needs you boss, it's not your time” Fenrir’s choked words and faint smile seared in the back of Ray’s head, his heart heavy as he remembered the fading magenta eyes. It wasn’t your time either buddy. You should be here causing chaos, it's hard to run Cradle without you.

Ray shifts his gaze to his right, eyeing the second King of Cradle, the King of Hearts, who is standing tall, not a hint of emotion on his face, but under the cold mask there swirled a turbulence of regret, grief and anger. He gazes steadily across the crowd, thinking how only a few officers know the full scale of the war. The civilians only know that there was a group of terrorists and criminals who launched an attack on Cradle and that both armies and the sweet, caring Alice helped fight off the criminals, no one knew that the criminals were in fact the Magic tower, that is the secret the Army must bear alone. He should have been more careful and maybe the magic tower wouldn't have found out what was going on. He remembers the cruel smirk on Amon’s face as he made Lancelot watch the explosion from the tower, the way the smoke rose from the central quarter. Lancelot looks down at his hands, burns and scars covering his hands from where he lost control of his rage and collapsed the tower, taking the mad leader and disciples with him.

Lancelot’s eyes drift from surveying the crowd to landing on his forever injured, but Faithful Queen. Jonah sat straight and proper as ever, not letting an ounce of shame fill him. The brave Queen had managed to find Lancelot and covered him from the explosion, costing him his legs, but saving his King. Jonah still acts like his usual self, only in the darkness of night does he let down his walls and reveal how frustrated he is, it is all his fault. He needed to save his King, he should have been there earlier and the tower wouldn’t have collapsed. Jonah meets the King's eyes and the two exchange a darkened gaze.

The Jack of Hearts has jade eyes cast down to his belt where his fallen protege’s sword now lays. He runs his fingers along the hilt, not sure how to process the memories and pain he is feeling inside. The memory of his student taking the hit for him still makes his blood run cold. Taking one of his pristine white gloves off he runs his bare fingers against Zero’s blade, the cold metal does nothing to quell the aching in his heart. The gentle demon is no longer gentle, the kind smile he once wore no matter the situation now is a grim line on his face. I should have told you how much I cared. I should have protected you more.

Next to the Jack of Hearts is the forever drunk medic, Kyle. His topaz eyes hold more sorrow, and everyday his heart grows a little heavier. He should have tried harder, if he was better at his job so many lives wouldn’t have been lost. He looks down at his hands, they should have been clean of bloodshed, but they hold more bloodshed than anyone in Cradle. He clenches his fists, turning over his hands and hiding them in his sleeves. I wasn’t good enough to save them, I am not worthy of saving anyone anymore. His eyes unfocused, he pulls a bottle from his pocket and takes a drink, the burning taste of alcohol slides down his throat and he hangs his head, still being haunted by the lifeless eyes of his friends.

A man sits between the two armies, pain showing in his one eye. Harr Silver, the new leader of the Magic tower. Harr has barely spoken a word outside of Tower business since the fight. He was the one who gave Alice the crystals telling her it would help enhance her power, how was he going to know she would sacrifice herself? His eyes lower to the ground as he sees her body bathed in light, he should have known, her soul pure and selfless. He should have stopped her from absorbing the explosion. He looks down to the simple crystal around his neck, the crystal he gave her, the one she could have used to save herself, but instead she chose to save Cradle. The second crystal on his necklace belonged to his young apprentice, the one whose mischievous mismatched eyes he would never see again. He runs his fingers along the crystal, should he have helped them? If he helped them with the barrier maybe one of them would still be alive.

Sirius the gentle Queen of Spades sits next to the quiet wizard and looks down still seeing the blood from the fallen Seth on his hands. If he had only been a few minutes faster, then Dalim wouldn’t have stabbed him in the back. Sirius clenches his hands and grits his jaw against the tears at hearing Seth's final strangled words apologizing for betraying the black army running over and over through his head. Sirius clenches his hand tighter, noticing the scars on his arm and seeing the invisible scar on his stomach from the fights, he looks up to the sky. Seth, I am so sorry, I should have been faster.

Next to Sirius sits the quiet Jack of Spades, Luka. The shy and aloof Jack was now even more shy and aloof, he runs his unit and still cooks dinner, but he no longer seems to care about much else. He doesn’t enjoy cooking as much as he did when Alice was here to taste his food, her smile lighting up the kitchen as she helped him think up new recipes to try. Every night he still trains, his time asleep even less than before, his dreams plagued by the one he never said goodbye to, the one who should have been sent home. He can hear her words the night before the battle, when they argued about whether she should fight, the determination in her eyes as she demands to help. Cradle is my home now, I couldn’t possibly leave knowing you guys could get hurt. When you care about people it hurts to see them hurt. Luka fights back the tears escaping his vision, he traces the necklace in his hands, the one he gave her. He wasn’t strong enough when he needed to be and now she was gone. His amber gold eyes find their way up to the sky as he thinks of his friend now flying high. 30 days wasn’t enough time with you, eternity wouldn’t have been.

The 7 officers all look to the brand new memorial, to the names of the fallen. Cradle won, Cradle was safe, but the cost of the victory was high. The lives lost that day gave Cradle the ability to move on and live. The love paid the way for us remaining to love our families, laugh with our friends and spend our days doing what we loved. The war was won, Cradle was safe, but was the cost of victory worth it?

#ikemen revolution fanfiction #ikemen revolution #ikerev #alternate ending

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grimmjowkurosakidrake · 4 years ago

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Losing

Summary: Part four of my Time travel fic: The end is were we begin

Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke

Lenght: 2,118 Words

Warnings: Some angst, mentions of the curse of hatred as well as mentions of Sasuke not feeling good enough for Sakura.

Quick disclaimer: This chapter was commissioned by the always great @birkastan2018 who actually helped me to fix my grammar and turning points on the fics!! on my commissions blog @witcheswritings !

Previous Itachi and Shisui are waiting for them at the gates of Konoha when they come back. Both are genuinely smiling as they prepare to greet Sasuke and his team.

Back in his timeline, Itachi only wore his Anbu uniform or simple training pants coupled with the customary high collared shirt most of their clan wore on a regular basis. Itachi was never carefree about anything and his clothes were no exception.

Sometimes, if he puts his mind to it, Sasuke can remember with vivid clarity how his older brother used to like sweets but didn’t eat them as much as he should; how he liked festivals but rarely attended any; how he enjoyed playing with the cats roaming around the compound but wasn’t able to spend time just wandering around their home.

Now Itachi has his own cat. A fat, old, female cat named Hime that never plays with him but always purrs when he strokes the sides of her face.

Now, Sasuke can always find his brother drinking tea and eating dango at his favorite shop when he’s not at the compound or the police precinct.

Now he wears colorful and comfortable yukatas almost everyday.

Today he’s wearing a silk, bright blue yukata embroidered with beautiful designs of delicately embroidered gold half moons and waves.

By his side, Shisui is wearing his Anbu uniform. But seeing their placid smiles and the way his cousin’s hand rests on Itachi’s shoulders without care, Sasuke can appreciate how happy and free they’ve become ever since they ended the ongoing feud between the Uchiha and the rest of Konoha.

Sasuke smiles at them, but otherwise tries not to overreact at the sight of his beloved brother (he still has his pride after all). The days of following his brother around like a puppy are supposed to be behind him.

Naruto is not quite as prideful.

“Itachi-nii!” screams the blond, eagerly running in the direction of the older Uchiha. He looks small next to the two imposing young adults, though not nearly as malnourished as he looked back in the day. His clothes fit him now and his once bony wrists aren’t as delicate. He’s healthy, not as raggedy looking as before.

A good family can do that to you. And Naruto’s not the only one who is different. Itachi’s eye bags aren’t as prominent even if he still has wrinkles to show for the years of sleep deprivation he suffered in the past. Shisui’s smile is just as cocky as he remembers, even with the black eyepatch he wears now after Danzo stole his eye from him.

Sometimes, even Sasuke can admit that his own smile is different than before. His eyes are softer now; they’re not as sharp and full of hatred. The smiles he can offer now are more genuine than the smiles he could offer to his wife back in his timeline.

Thoughts like this never fail to consume him with guilt when he remembers the brother who put his happiness over his own health, the friend who obsessed over having him near even at the cost of the goals that helped him overcome his neglectful upbringing, and the girl that loved him even when he couldn’t love himself.

Even when he couldn’t return her love like she deserved.

This is why he can’t go back. This is why he can’t ever regret what he did.

This is for the best. This is how they will be happy.

“Naruto!” Shisui excitedly plants both of his hands firmly on the blond’s shoulder. “First mission, huh? Did you grow taller?” Naruto beams proudly at this, straightening his back to try and show off his full height.

Which is ridiculous, because he’s still shorter than even Sakura. His head still doesn’t reach Shisui’s collarbones, but Sasuke can see what his cousin means.

Waves represents a turning point in the life of the boy who will become Hokage one day. The moment he stopped being just a rambunctious orphan child running amok through the village that despised him and started to become an actual shinobi.

One who’s seen death, mourned the loss of a dear friend, and even if it was for just a moment - one who’s been made aware of his own weaknesses.

One who’s witnessed the horrors of the shinobi world firsthand and still decided to come back stronger and as eager as ever to become the leader of an entire shinobi village.

The same could not have been said for Sasuke, back then. Waves for Sasuke was nothing but another point of proof that he was weak. It just gave him another reason to train harder.

The thought of training has him considering their female teammate. Seeing Sakura now, she actually looks smaller. Perhaps she feels shy in the presence of the Uchiha clan heads, maybe uncomfortable at being the only one who doesn’t know Itachi or Shisui. As smart as she always is, he’s sure she’s noticed the familiarity between Naruto, Kakashi and his family.

Or, maybe she’s just ashamed of her lack of growth back in Waves.

After all, she couldn’t do anything other than watch as her teammates risked their lives fighting an S-class missing-nin, standing in the sidelines with the man they were supposed to protect.

Sasuke then decides he can’t hold back when it comes to her growth.

He loves her just as he did back in his timeline and he wants her to be happy. He is planning to become a man worthy of being introduced to her parents as a loving boyfriend, and not the traitor who whisked her away from home one day.

Kizashi didn’t like him, Sakura’s mother didn’t either and Tsunade absolutely loathed him.

According to them, he was cold, cruel and not worth a loving bright girl who would do anything to see him happy. In fact, the only two people who ever supported their blooming relationship were Naruto and Sakura herself.

He’s working on loving her more openly now. But the psychotic, still cursed on love and hatred part of his soul, needs her to become stronger, less vulnerable.

Sasuke is an Uchiha, after all, and a part of his soul still carries the curse of hatred. He knows he couldn’t take it if he lost her somehow.

He wants her to reach her full potential. He needs her to become the woman able to break mountains, to receive a katana to the gut and just regenerate around it.

Her death would destroy him, just like Rin’s death destroyed Obito. He needs to make sure that doesn’t happen.

“Ah, Itachi-sama, Shisui-san�� drawls Kakashi, referring to his former Anbu protégés with the formality their titles deserve.

Even when his voice doesn’t sound as respectful, and his eyes planted on his obvious porn book show everything but interest in the two men.

“Kakashi-senpai,” smiles Itachi pleasantly, “Please, just call me Itachi. I’m not the head of the Uchiha right now, just a brother interested in his younger sibling’s first mission.”

“Yeah!” hollers Shisui with enthusiasm. “But who would have thought that little Sasuke would end up on a genin team with his best friend, our former Anbu senpai and…” He stops, gaze falling right on Sakura.

There’s confusion in his eyes. Sasuke understands, as she doesn’t resemble any clan in their village. She could be a foreigner, but no Hokage would allow an outsider to be on a team with the heir of the Uchiha and the Kyuubi child.

So Sasuke makes the introduction. “This is Sakura Haruno. The one who always beat me at written exams back at the academy.”

Itachi smirks knowingly at his words.

Those were some dark days for him. When he thought his experience as a Shinobi back in his own timeline was enough to get him perfect grades and yet he was being bested time and time again by a little civilian girl.

He brooded quite a lot.

Shisui never paid much attention to his childish mood swings though, so he’s not aware of his little cousin’s Academy rival. “Haruno? I’m not quite sure I recognize that clan…”

“It’s a civilian family,” she answers, her small hands holding onto the edges of her dress. “My parents run a bakery. They opened it when dad couldn’t advance any further up the shinobi ranks.”

Sakura blushes from her neck to her ears when the older man’s eyes don’t leave her even after that shameful disclosure.

“The Haruno bakery? Just a few houses down from the Yamanaka flower shop?”

She silently nods.

“Oh!” Shisui grins widely in recognition. “They have great curry bread there!” He sighs dreamily as if thinking of those savory buns, which eases Sakura’s nerves.

“You must be very skilled,” adds Itachi, “to be put on a team under Kakashi Hatake.”

“Not really,” sighs the pink haired girl dejectedly. “I’m just lucky.”

Naruto scoffs. “Don’t say that, Sakura-chan!” he cries, forcefully cradling Sakura’s face. His lack of respect for any kind of personal boundaries are well known to everyone. “Sasuke and Kakashi-sensei are lucky to have us! I mean, look at us, we fought one of the seven swordsmen and we won! We should be celebrating! Right?” He looks between the Uchiha men and his teacher.

“Of course!” agrees Shisui, easily excited and always hungry. “How about we go out to eat something? Our treat, to celebrate little Sasuke’s first mission.”

“I shouldn’t.” Sakura hesitates with uncertainty in her green eyes. “I should be training,” she says as an afterthought, as she peeks at Sasuke. “I couldn’t do anything to help on our mission.”

“That isn’t tru-” Naruto tries to object, but he’s swiftly interrupted.

“She’s right.”

Naruto fumes at their teammate’s sharp response, but Sasuke holds firm with his own cold stare before turning to Sakura. “You need to train more. We may not be there the next time you face enemies as strong as Zabuza and Haku.”

Sasuke knows he’s not planning to leave her. But what comes after the Uchiha massacre was stopped is uncertain terrain.

The Akatsuki, Madara, Obito, even Orochimaru are more of a threat than they were before because now they’re unknown elements. Sasuke doesn’t know how his actions thus far have changed this timeline going forward, and he can’t leave Sakura’s life at fate’s hands.

“Foolish little brother,” sighs Itachi. “Training after a mission, tired and disheartened won’t do her any good.” He moves near the girl to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Haruno-san. Even if you’ve lost, you’re still alive and that’s all that matters. You should eat; you could use the energy.”

“We didn’t lose, though” corrects Naruto, crossing his arms and closing his eyes in confusion.

“Sakura-chan did,” clarifies Shisui, his usually flirtatious expression now serious, “She couldn’t help her teammates, because she wasn’t strong enough,” he states bluntly. “Isn’t that right, Sakura-chan?”

He’s smiling, but it’s not a particularly nice nor friendly smile.

“I did,” she realizes. “I did lose.” But then, with greater resolve, she steels herself and bows to her team. “I’m sorry Naruto, Kakashi-sensei. Sasuke-kun! I won’t fail you next time!”

Naruto grins widely and Kakashi smiles through his mask, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Probably mourning the misfortune of being assigned such passionate young children as his first genin team.

They always crash and burn after all. Time and time again, both love and passion had only proven to be followed by tragedy.

Sasuke just hides his face behind his bangs, still not sure how to react when it comes to the brilliant, resilient girl he’s only now getting to know.

“But for now we eat,” interrupts Itachi, guiding Sakura and her teammates towards Konoha’s shopping district. “We eat, and afterwards we will assess our weaknesses and our strengths.” He smiles while walking towards a spot they’re all familiar with. “After that, we’ll sleep, make sure to get a good night’s rest, and then tomorrow we train.”

Naruto hoots enthusiastically when they arrive at Ichiraku and enters immediately with Shisui, followed by Itachi and Sakura.

But Kakashi and Sasuke linger outside the curtains of the ramen shop. “That was some wise advice from a former Anbu captain,” he muses, while placing a gentle but firm hand on his student’s shoulder. “We would be equally wise to take it.”

Sasuke considers this as they enter the now crowded shop. He sees Naruto grinning happily as he’s served his first bowl of noodles. At his side, Sakura is smiling at his brother like she used to smile at Ino before their falling out.

Maybe, he thinks, sitting by Naruto’s other side and accepting the pair of chopsticks his best friend offers...

Maybe they’re right.

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I hope you liked the fic and speacilly hope @birkastan2018 liked it <3

#sasusaku #Sasuke Uchiha #Sakura Haruno #Naruto Uzumaki #Kakashi Hatake #itachi uchiha #shisui uchiha #time travel fic #the end is where we begin #commission #taking commisions #commisionwork

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mindthelspace · 4 years ago

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Wine-drunk GerryAgnes Headcanons

Because getting started on fic is HARD.

- Gerry is the social interface of the two, purely because he can talk to a civilian without completely losing the plot. He is as surprised by this as anyone else is. In the Kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

- Agnes has a moral compass, but it’s out of step with that of mainstream society. She looks to Gerry to fill in the moral blanks. He’s not brilliant at this himself, but does his best.

- (Agnes trying to Talk To Civilians: “Oh. hello! OMG you’re so fragile, so weird, I CAN’T. I kind of want to burn you alive and kind of want to build you a protection nest. Oh... you’re looking at me! Oh! HI! Erm. Do you like, er, bread?!)

- Sometimes Agnes wants to burn someone just because they were Rude. She refrains, because she wants Gerry to keep seeing the good in her.

- Gerry feels the cold, and loves Agnes’ (non-lethal-in-this-fix-it) body heat. She loves warming him up, and how loved yet blasphemous it makes her feel.

- Agnes is a hopeless nerd who loves Doctor Who, Star Trek, and vintage sci fi films like Quatermass. She’s spent years ashamed of it, though, because it’s something that grounds her to earth and distracts her from her purpose. Gerry, and his unashamed love of ‘weird’ music, clothes, and media makes her feel comfortable with her eccentricity again. She tells him as much. He’s overwhelmed because being appreciated just for existing isn’t something he’s used to.

- They don’t have a swear jar. They have a ‘treating our dread entity patrons like weird cats’ jar.

- Agnes starts describing herself as ‘blasphemy incarnate’.

- Agnes learns she needs ‘human’ food and drink again. She realises she actually really likes both of those things. Gerry spoils her a bit.

- They’re both disgustingly affection-starved, and are a constant source of PDA as a result.

- They validate each others’ trauma ‘(raised by people who adore the dread powers’) like nobody else can.

- Agnes is a hopeless bi. Gerry is an extremely clueless bi who still thinks he’s straight. Agnes’ hopeless bi-ness is what makes him realise.

- They feed off each other’s fear. They don’t want to, but they can’t stop it happening, and eventually become kind of laissez-faire about it as a result.

- Agnes knows about Diego. Yes, she feels guilty. But she also knows that Gerry makes her happier than they ever did, and that she’s sacrificed enough for them in her time. Doesn’t mean it never feels weird, but it is enough to make her feel secure in her choice.

- Agnes dissociates a lot. She’s used to using her supposed divinity to hide that from the rest of the cult. When she tries it with Gerry however... he sees through it.

- Gerry has self-worth issues. Massive ones. Agnes becomes his safety catch as a result. She’s not great at remembering to eat and sleep herself, but by god will she remind him.

- They’re both new to Really Living. So they’re, naturally, complete idiots who encourage each other’s idiot-ness.

- Gerry gets Agnes’ humour. She’s delighted, because people normally don’t, and take her seriously no matter what.

- Agnes is a cradle-snatcher. But Nobody Knows, because she looks *younger* than the prematurely-aged Gerry. She finds this to be a endless source of amusement.

#Gerry Keay #TMA #Agnes Montague #Gerard Keay #THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES

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notthatiwilleverwriteit · 5 years ago

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Given mafia AU feat. Picrew

Murata Ugetsu

Nicknames/also called: Ugetsu (by Akihiko), Ugetsu-san (by Mafuyu and Uenoyama), the Fourth (by the syndicate) Favorite color(s): Black Choice of weapon: Has at least three disguised weapons on him at all times Listens to: No one Would die for: No one The head of his group, Yatagarasu. Was disowned by his parents when he became old enough to inherit his father’s company. Suddenly homeless and owning nothing but the clothes on his back, he stumbled around the underworld. People spat in his face, betrayed him and he was almost killed twice, but he rose from the gutter and dirt. By the time he was looking down at his father kneeling and sobbing for mercy while Ugetsu held a straight razor against his pulse point, he had made it to the big leagues as one of the leading heads. The only one he’s told about his father and the night he sliced his throat open is Aki. Occasionally allows Aki to warm his bed. Often likes to have Mafuyu physically close, shows him unexpectedly lots of affection. Ugetsu likes to grow his nails long. Once another leader disagreed with him and ripped his earring off. Ugetsu poked his eyes out.

Kaji Akihiko

Nicknames/also called: Aki (by Ugetsu), Kaji-san (by Uenoyama and Mafuyu) Favorite colors(s): Black and yellow Choice of weapon: Fists, martial arts, guns Listens to: Ugetsu Would die for: Ugetsu Ugetsu’s bodyguard and driver. Was the first person and confidant by his side when Ugetsu was trying to make his way after being disowned. Originally planned to hustle him but ended up teaching the clueless rich kid the way of the streets. He knew a lot of things about a lot of people. He was drawn to and bewitched by the dark drive Ugetsu seemed to have. One night, Akihiko woke up alone. Ugetsu didn’t come back until dawn covered in someone else’s blood and clutching to a razor. Carefully Akihiko took the blade from his shaking hands and led him to the bathroom so he could wash the blood away. It was the first time he saw Ugetsu cry when he broke down and clung to him. Akihiko fucked him for the first time against the bathroom wall while the sun’s early rays barely breached the horizon. Once Akihiko walked away from Ugetsu, saying that he was done with the cat and mouse play Ugetsu was putting him and his feeling for Ugetsu through. He got his scar when he came back a few days later and Ugetsu smacked him and his nails scraped his face and eye.

Sato Mafuyu

Nicknames/also called: Mafu-chan (by Ugetsu), Mafuyu (by Uenoyama), the Twins (by the syndicate) Favorite color(s): Red and baby blue Choice of weapon: Knives Listens to: Ugetsu Would die for: Ugetsu-san, Uenoyama-kun Cute and adorable. Silent and deadly. It makes people uncomfortable when he tilts his head and smiles at them innocently. He doesn’t like to touch things or people with bare hands and gets easily overwhelmed and distressed if he doesn’t have the protection of his gloves. On a job, he might get a bit out of hand. Was adopted by Ugetsu. He doesn’t remember anything of his parents, and Ugetsu refuses to tell him. He says Mafu-chan is better off remembering them as a figment of his imagination. Gets sometimes nightmares and night terrors. Forms the other half of the Twins.

Uenoyama Ritsuka

Nicknames/also called: Uenoyama-kun (by Mafuyu), Ritsuka (by Ugetsu), Uesama (by Akihiko), the Twins (by the syndicate) Favorite color(s): Pink Choice of weapon: Martial arts Listens to: Kaji-san. Ugetsu Would die for: Mafuyu He was also adopted by Ugetsu when his parents abandoned him as a kid. Kaji-san found him in an alley, beat up, filthy, and starved. The second Twin. He and Mafu-chan aren’t actually twins but when he was introduced to Mafu-chan, Ugetsu told them that they were both getting a new beginning in life together. They will live and one day die together, too. They were never allowed to abandon one another. Besides Ugetsu, Uenoyama-kun is the only one Mafuyu is comfortable touching without his gloves. Uenoayma often cradles him when he’s had a nightmare. Trains often with Kaji-san.

Nakayama Haruki

Nicknames/also called: Haruki (by Akihiko), Haru-chan (by Ugetsu), the Accountant (by the syndicate) Favorite color(s): Green and yellow Choice of weapons: Prefers to set up traps, small guns that can be easily hidden Listens to: the syndicate but is somewhat of an independent Would die for: No one People often let Haruki’s soft and feminine looks fool them. That is their first and most fatal mistake. He’s sharp as a razor and always two steps ahead of people. Much like Ugetsu, he’s dedicated to making his way in the world. But his pride isn’t in the way of him being open to lucrative deals and alliances. His accounting services are the “necessary evil” for the syndicate heads. They need him but looking after their money also allows him to get uncomfortably close to their greatest treasures. Haruki is close to Akihiko since they often meet when Akihiko handles Ugetsu’s everyday needs, errands, and dealings. He pities Akihiko for his unrequited, puppy dog love for Ugetsu and thinks Akihiko would be happier leading a civilian life. His heart is too pure and delicate for this world.

Used Picrew

#given #ugetsu murata #kaji akihiko #akiugetsu #sato mafuyu #uenoyama ritsuka #uemafu #nakayama haruki #my given post #ntiwewi #my edit

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mcurnful · 4 years ago

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HOMECOMING

It had been two weeks since she was home, and she wasn’t sure if it was anxiety, but it felt longer. Nothing could prevent her from feeling uneasy about it.

She hasn’t been home yet, since she had to be in the infirmary for so long. Two weeks wasn’t anything when she was a grunt in Wutai, she didn’t even see much combat since they handed out rations to Wutai’s neighbouring towns.

But.. two weeks, away from Jutta, now that she was a teenager, was hell. How would she describe it? What new excuse would she find?

She wasn’t Dietrich when she was home, she was herself and therefore vulnerable. Hell, the more steps to their flat she climbed, the weaker she felt. Her boots felt heavier, and the whole uniform felt less like a uniform, instead, she felt it fit like old, sloughing skin on her back.

Things were always worse when she was home.

When she was home she had a chance to think about how tired she was, how desperate they were, and how, no matter what, she could seldom be there for Jutta. Especially now that she was a 1st Class, but her sister was in such an important, vulnerable stage of life.

What if someone harmed her? She couldn’t ever forgive herself if that happened.

But, she reaches the top of the stairs and walks down the hallway, feeling older with each step. Maybe, by the time she would be inside the kitchen, she would be old. White hair, milky eyes, and crow’s feet that she probably would have gotten from squinting instead of smiling. Wasted alabaster beauty, transforming into old, greyish-white tree bark.

Would she have her hearing? Would she have her sight?

Swallowing her anxiety, she approaches room 130 and inserts her key into the locks. The key turns in her hand, and time feels slow. She walks into their home, where she can finally put on civilian clothes, where she can put her feet up and have a bath. It feels empty, it seems no one is home, but the first person she sees isn’t Jutta.

No, instead of Jutta, she saw a Turk.

Her stomach drops and lurches forward, and bile does jumping jacks in her throat, her eyes are wild and animal-like, only soothed, barely, when Jutta sees her. Shock is all over her sister’s face, making her silvery slate grey eyes wide and saucer-like. She looks taller, she thinks, and it doesn’t comfort her.

“Amelia!” She yells before she leapt into her sister’s arms, cradling her face, and staring so deep into her eyes as if she was looking for something. Jutta isn’t this touchy, not usually, and it takes her everything to resist ducking away like a cat being overwhelmed by its owner.

“Amelia... Amelia..” She sees tears now, and so suddenly, she feels like shit. “Oh, I… I never thought I’d see you again. They told me, you probably wouldn’t ever wake up. You’re a SOLDIER, so you’re strong, that’s... That’s why you’re still alive right?”

Her arms are almost as tight as metal clamps, and she should feel comforted, but she feels so far away from the situation.

Why was there a Turk here?

“Jutta, I was only gone for two weeks. I’m usually gone for longer than that.”

It’s awkward, and the sentence barely spills from her lips, formerly just a prisoner of her thoughts, held down by teeth.

“Two.. two weeks?” Her tone is incredulous, confused, and for a second, she looks almost angry. “It hasn’t been two weeks, Amelia. If it were only two weeks, I wouldn’t have gone to the building to look for you. I wouldn’t have yelled at everyone to tell me what happened.”

She’s stuck somewhere, like a dead butterfly under a pin, a moment frozen in time.

“You’ve been gone for sixty-three days.”

It hits her like a truck. Now she isn’t just stuck, she’s trapped, and there’s no help coming for her. She realises why the Turk was here. Jutta went to the company building, searching for answers, and blew their cover.

“Why would you ever bring a Turk here, Jutta? Why would you ever go to Shinra? Don’t you know how dangerous it is walking these streets alone?” Betrayal bubbles in her stomach. The company never knew she had any family. It was something she omitted forever, for Jutta’s safety.

But now, they knew.

“I thought you were DEAD, for fuck’s sake! I kept on telling them to let me see the body, let me at least look at you one more time, and they never let me! They would only update me on your condition, and even then, I know that they don’t tell the public any of these things. I’m not stupid.”

Sixty-three days. That was over two months. Why would they tell her that it was only two weeks? Why didn’t she look at any calendars? All she could remember was getting shot, and then, physiotherapy. Nothing else.

“We are going to move your sister closer to the building. She’s Shinra now, even if she doesn’t work for us.” The Turk nears them, and all she can feel is apprehension. “How long has it been, since the two of you girls have been in a real house with separate bedrooms?”

She felt sick. She didn’t want to learn his name.

“You can’t tell Shinra about her. Please. I’ll do anything.” She doesn’t want to look at him, but he’s already locked eyes with her, striding over so slowly, so gracefully toward them.

“You’re right, of course, I can't. It would just be repeating information we already know.” He says, and his tone is deceptively neutral. “Your sister told us, and we appreciate the honesty. Don’t do anything reckless, Miss Dietrich, SOLDER 1sts are in short supply.”

She feels defeated, and it's all over her body. Jutta is a mix of angry, worried, and despaired. Finally home, but she wouldn’t even be here long.

She had no idea what to do, she felt dirty, she felt sick, and goosebumps pierce through her skin, so quickly the chill makes its way to her spine.

“Can I take a bath before we leave?” The only eye contact she’s making now is with the floor. Why did she feel like she had to ask permission all of a sudden?

“It’s your house.”

He waves her off, dismissively, reaching the exit of the small flat they’d shared since she was able to afford it. His hand reaches for the knob, but he delays his leave to say one last thing.

“We’ll send someone later to grab your things and the girl.”

And then, he’s gone. She can hear his footsteps receding the further he gets from the hall, and then soon, she hears nothing from him at all. But she still feels his presence, all over the flat. Everywhere.

“He’s been here, ever since I went to the building.” Jutta breathes, and it almost seems like the worry and anger have left her, but there are still strings of it in her tone, colouring her sentence. “It’s dangerous in Midgar when you’re fifteen and alone. The first thing he did was set up security cameras while I picked up a shift at the diner. He’s very polite. He hasn’t done anything to me.”

Despite her words, she doesn’t feel comforted.

That was nearly two months of a Turk being in her home that Shinra didn’t even know about. Spending time with the sister Shinra didn’t even know about. In her brain, the familiar thought of desperation rises. She was only doing this for money to support them. At least, that’s what she told herself before.

“You don’t hate Shinra, do you?” Jutta prods, and for a second, she doesn’t even consider answering. Not with security cameras.

Did she hate Shinra? No. She didn’t agree with a lot of its politics and the choices they made, but she didn’t hate the company.

How could she, when they still took her when she was an angry little whelp in Wall Market, working security for a smuggler and his family.

“Jutta, I don’t hate anything. The only real thing I hate is that I can’t change what happened.” And, now that they knew about her, she hated knowing that if she fucked up too bad, they would threaten what she cared about. Survival of the fittest, they called it.

“But, I don’t know how to feel knowing they know about you. It wasn’t safe before, and can’t be anywhere near safe now.”

Jutta frowns and begins to withdraw into herself. It hurts to see it, knowing how familiar the reaction was. “Listen, I’m a person just like you are. I’m not a dirty secret you can hide in a trunk forever. There are so many break-ins on this street, and like it or not, Shinra’s security is second to none.”

The words made her feel hollow. How could she now they’d keep her safe? How could she ever be sure she was making a correct decision when raising a child?

“I would’ve needed to provide for myself eventually. You got shot in the head and survived it. That’s amazing, and I’m so glad to have you back, but I’d be dead if that happened to me. Coming to the building and asking about you every day broke my heart into pieces, it made me feel helpless. We don’t have anywhere else to go if they don’t help us now..”

Jutta was taller. It didn’t just feel like it. She’d been growing while she lay somewhere in a hospital bed, while she floated in a Mako tank, ready for dissection.

“But you’re still so young.” Her stomach was tearing itself into knots. Was she going to cry?

“That’s why I need so much help.”

She nods but has a hard time looking at Jutta without feeling despondent in some way. “I’m going to take that bath now. I need some time to think.” And all the bells and whistles and consequences there were to be there.

“...I really missed you. I’m sorry I didn’t say that before.”

She stops in her steps, but still can’t look back at her sister.

“‘Missed you too.”

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chibivesicle · 5 years ago

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Golden Kamuy chapters 239 & 240 - character background arrives for Kikuta

Hello all, this is a much belated meta for the past two chapters. I was very busy with work last weekend and I’m feeling the usual work related exhaustion with the covid-19 situation on top of it. I’m currently living in a part of the States which still has a much stricter social distancing policy and it is still unclear when I can return to work, even if we follow new social distancing policies. Suffice to say, it has been a huge struggle for me. I’m already more prone to suffer from depression and this situation has just been really hard with friends and family very far away from me.

I usually like to give my all into my meta analysis of a chapter but I really didn’t like chapter 239. The sense of humor that underlies the “midnight shoot out” just well - well. I wasn’t keen on it. I have a pretty dirty sense of humor so it isn’t even the fact that it is a part of male body part humor; just how it was implemented.

So I’m just going to go with this. Usami and our “Jack” convict are men cut from the same cloth who link sexual acts with violence. The only difference between them is that Usami was found and groomed by Tsurumi, thus appearing to be a more contributing member of society (as a member of the military), while “Jack” has been left to his own devices and is a free roaming serial killer. Usami is the correct member of the 27th to do the field work for this convict. What is more interesting is teaming him up with Kikuta. After Usami and Jack’s “shoot out” Usami pursues him on foot while he’s on horseback. Usami’s general response is to try to beat someone via brute force. It isn’t surprising that he just jumps for the man only to get knocked down, he acts on instinct.

Kikuta has a much more tempered response as he first had Usami and him split off to try to pinch him off between the alleys/streets. It gives him a clear shot at Jack. Here he’s using one of his revolvers in his right hand.

Jack is lucky as Kikuta hits his top hat. This pause in action allows Kikuta to spring into action. He sprints towards Jack tossing his revolver so that he can grab onto the convict with his right hand. What I really like about this is how is shows how Kikuta thinks very quickly on his feet as we saw at the hot springs.

He’s able to use his left hand to reach into his coat where he likely has at least another revolver in a holster. It should be game over for the man as he tells him that he’s got him with the revolver to the back of his head.

Unfortunately, Kikuta is defeated by “Jack’s” manly abilities and it is just plain gross and unnecessary. Kikuta is one of my fav current members of the 27th, I just didn’t like this entire scene. As a result he escapes and Kikuta is likely feeling - well feeling used, gross and assaulted.

Usami and Kikuta continue to pursue him and hear a woman scream. Sure enough he managed to kill her and Kikuta looks shocked as they find the body. The fact that Usami looks at Kikuta from the corner of his eyes makes me think that Usami is not surprised by anything our killer does.

In contrast, despite his years of experience, Kikuta is uncomfortable with this type of criminal activity & violence. He’s no stranger to violence but he clearly has a strong moral compass.

The next day, they return to the scene of the crime in daylight. The sketchy and questionable police officer is there with our sad and pathetic reporter. Kikuta muses what the killer is thinking. Due to all the things that have transpired so far, it is clear that Kikuta is really trying to rationalize things. In contrast,’knowing’ his mind, Usami just offers an explanation that makes sense to him since it takes one to know one.

This only further highlights the difference between these two men. It is clear that Tsurumi wants them to keep working together, even if Kikuta is really uncomfortable with Usami.

Usami is eager to visit the other crime scene, Kikuta hangs back and lets Usami go ahead. He uses this time to casually approach Ariko. Everything about Kikuta’s body language, behavior and vibe scream - spy/secret agent. He’s able to address Ariko with a calm demeanor and then when Ariko almost panics he instructs him how to behave.

Kikuta cuts the tension by teasing Ariko, stating that he’d recognize his figure anywhere and to think he’d be difficult to recognize is a bit of an insult to Kikuta’s intelligence.

He’s able to approach Ariko about his role as an unwilling double agent. Since he’s there under direct orders from Tsurumi he knows that for the time to being he should be in the loop as far as Hijikata’s movements. If Ariko is in Sapporo, it is a logical extension that Hijikata is there as well.

The chapter then wraps up with Tsurumi leading most of his men to Sapporo leaving only two to remain near Otaru to look for Asirpa. He reports that Kikuta is the one who sent him the telegram about our convict, Jack. If Tsurumi is reporting the truth to his men, it means that Kikuta only reported on the convict and requested backup but Kikuta may be withholding information about Hijikata being there as well. This chapter leaves it up in the air as it shows Tsurumi looking military dictator-ish while Hijikata stares off into the distance.

What is most important in this chapter is setting up how Kikuta is going to be some sort of player in the hunt for this convict in particular.

Chapter 240 begins to bring the manga plot back to the aspects that I like of it, more intellectual, big picture moves of the different groups as well as a side of good old fashioned spy business.

The chapter title page helps us to establish Ariko’s and Kikuta’s personalities even more. Ariko is playing cat’s cradle with Tanigaki in the trenches while Kikuta literally has Ariko’s back and he watches them.

This shows several things. 1.) Kikuta is similar to Ogata as he’s always watching. Since he was one of the “Russian” kidnappers, we know he has a background in intelligence and he’s a clever guy. We also know that he cares about Ariko as a person, hence comfortable enough to lean up against his back as well as cover that back. 2.) It let’s the reader know that Ariko is similar to Tanigaki. He’s a large, soft, dopey man. He is simple, he’s outwardly friendly and like Tanigaki he has natural outdoorsman/hunting skills but that he’s an okay solider and but isn’t the most intelligent. Neither man is a good liar and they are predictable.

Ariko is 100% out of his element and trying to be a double agent is pretty much a situation ripe for failure. He just can’t do it. In direct contrast, Kikuta looks completely natural and at ease. He’s used to doing things like this and he’s confident with the games of espionage and intelligence.

Ariko is barely able to hold himself together, voice unsteady, sweating, looking like he’s got no out. So Kikuta tells him to team up with him in contrast to Hijikata and Tsurumi.

Of course Ariko is shocked by this statement. Kikuta continues his argument. He frames himself as Ariko’s only option. They survived the war together, they saw that same moon together. The flashback shows, Kikuta reaching out to touch Ariko while he goes to hold his hand.

They’ve survived together against the odds. So Kikuta is willing to ask Ariko to ignore everything else. Forget about his father’s involvement in the gold theft and his murder and the fact that Tsurumi will try to get his cooperation by threatening family. He summarizes it doesn’t matter which man he tries to align himself with, the outcome is same - it is terrible. So then he let’s him know that “central” is going to let things play out in Hokkaido.

This is enough information for Ariko to figure out why Kikuta was so keen to regain Tsurumi’s trust. He’s the spy for central that Tsukishima has been always on the look out for.

The angle of this panel is just great, Ariko is in shock while Kikuta adjusts his bowler hat. And with that, a running joke that originated on a discord server when Kikuta first showed up became the truth.

With Kikuta’s appearance several of us tried to figure out what is role would be and we came up with a nickname for him, “Roger”, which was coined by Merdopseudo. This was due to how he looked like Roger Moore, one of the actors that played James Bond. I 100% agreed with the Roger nickname and as a result, I struggle to write any meta post about Kikuta without referring to him as Roger instead. I personally was leaning toward a more Clark Gable inspired look but Roger was just better.

The chapter then has Jack hanging around a church with no informative text.

The action then shifts to Hijikata’s group which is all in disguise.

The wee babe, Kantarou is a newsboy, selling newspapers. Hijikata is a goldfish vendor. Ushiyama and Toni are buddhist monks, and Kadokura is a Koya-san pilgrim. Ogata is a filial piety puppet performer and Nagakura and Ariko are just random looking civilians. Kirawus remained as himself. Perhaps they thought if he tried to blend in as Japanese it would be obvious?

Our morally bankrupt reporter, is able to elaborate on the details of the Sapporo serial killer - calling him a copycat of Jack the Ripper. The Cliff Notes version of things is that if this is a true Jack the Ripper copycat, the fifth and final murder will happen 40 days after the two murders from the night before. It seems proper that Hijikata is the one to summarize the situation that his group is in.

Interestingly, Kadokura, Kantarou and Kirawus are shown sweating in the background while Ogata is deadpan. Clearly, Ogata is not bothered by the 40 day time limit.

This makes a nice transition to Sugimoto, Shiraishi and Asirpa now in Barato. Shiraishi, being the smart dude that he is, points out an interesting article. Sugimoto assumes it is about “Jack” but instead he notices children have gone missing. Boutarou is able to immediately connect these crimes to another tattooed convict.

Asirpa looks nervous as, well she’s a child and she was teased additional information than what Sugimoto got from meeting him. Boutarou is upfront and immediately is able to identify him for the rest of the group. Asirpa is totally freaked out as the identifies him as the candy peddler.

Sugimoto then has murder eyes and angry screentones as he concludes that he is of course one of the convicts.

This chapter is setting up a clear confrontation between all the different groups. I like how it finally begins to ratchet up the the tension and put pieces in place. Usami showing that he’s terrible at spying and discretion both makes them stand out but also tips Kikuta off that something else is likely afoot on Tsurumi’s side.

The missing children are a trail indication the direction of Ueji Keiji. I like how Shiraishi and Sugimoto are looking at the paper while Boutarou towers over them and looks at the paper.

The chapter ends with our two shaded convicts surrounded by swirling newspapers. Both men are making their actions clear to the public. I would guess are both reading the newspapers as Jack let’s his activities know while Ueji is potentially communicating with him as his own actions are showing his direction, moving towards Sapporo.

The chapter then ends with a dark Ogata joke. He’s really into his filial piety act and has to be yelled at firmly by another member of the group.

Overall impressions on 240 and some brief ponderings.

1.) I love Roger, er Kikuta so much. His character has a level of class and sophistication that many characters lack. He is also a ‘self’ made man who rose through the ranks to be a valuable member of military intelligence. It is clear now why Tsurumi would have kept his distance from him and why he was so insistent on getting back into Tsurumi’s inner circle. It is clear that Kikuta is not a “Tsurumisexual”. He is also the type of man who Tsukishima was suspicious of going back to his showdown with Ogata. Tsukishima is livid that Ogata sniped Maeyama and told him that he’s the pet cat of “central” he’s waiting to sell out the 27th to gain position in the military establishment.

Therefore, our three “Russian” kidnappers are all originally enlisted men who likely gained a lot of skills working for a fallen elite like Tsurumi. Tsukishima stresses loyalty to comrades. Ogata has never shown much loyalty to those around him, but it is obvious that Kikuta has loyalty to Ariko. He had to put on an act to look like Ariko had betrayed him and Tsurumi.

I have begun to wonder if Ogata is the red herring deflecting the focus from Kikuta. Ogata doesn’t believe in the words of Tsurumi that are used to stir loyalty and dedication to a cause. Is this because Ogata believe it is complete bullshit or that he’s aware that Tsurumi uses these types of concepts to control most people?

What I want to know now is if Ogata is working with or in parallel to Kikuta. I still don’t see Ogata as a spy for central. It goes against by gut reading on Ogata. I could see Ogata and Kikuta being aware of each other and their objectives where Ogata may have even tried to make it look like he’s the spy to deflect attention from Kikuta. Again, Ogata’s goal from this entire situation is still completely unknown. Was Kikuta linked to the rebel group - RIP bear death trio. I still haven’t forgotten you.

But based on Tsukishima thinks of Ogata as a putative spy, it fits Kikuta’s personality better. Kikuta still has loyalty and connection to others from the 27th, e.g. Ariko. His discomfort working with Usami on Jack’s trail shows that Kikuta has a stronger moral compass and thinks about what actions are justifiable and which are more ‘evil’ or morally questionable.

2.) Ogata needs a therapist. Of all of the “disguises” he could choose, Ogata picks the filial piety puppet show. >_< He put on makeup to look like his own father, and a son puppet that has a striking resemblance to his half brother Yuusaku. Therefore, the bastard child is performing an act where his devoted brother does everything he’s expected to do as a model son for their asshole father. The fact that his line is “What a dutiful son. Please give him the reward that he deserves.” can be read on several levels. Basic text reading - Yuusaku was a good son, and he truly deserved the reward for being a good son. He kept his virginity and purity, was un-corruptable by Ogata and therefore, he had no choice but to snipe him. Subtext reading - due to Ogata’s clear “daddy” issues, he is actually the dutiful son and he wants the reward that he deserves. Ogata entered the military and performed well both in intelligence for Tsurumi, on the battlefield as a sniper and did everything that was asked of him before he liberated himself from Tsurumi. In that regard, Ogata was an excellent solider if not better one that Yuusaku with hands on/real world experience long before Yuusaku was a flag bearer. I think this situation should both be read on the text and subtext level. ‘Cause it is Ogata dammit and he’s not some obvious character.

Ogata is a character who wants and desires nothing more than love and acceptance. Of course being the cynical intellectual that he is, he would pick something like this. . . . it just makes you want to cringe and go “Ogata . . .”

The fact that they almost left Ogata behind indicates to me that he’s acting out his own plan for - something. Our man of mystery - Ogata.

#golden kamuy #golden kamuy meta #warrant officer kikuta #Usami Tokishige #tsurumi tokushirou #hijikata toshizo #nagakura shinpachi #ushiyama tatsuma #kirawus #kantarou #kadokura #ogata hyakunosuke #sugimoto saichi #Shiraishi Yoshitake #ASIRPA #boutarou the pirate #hanazawakoujiro #hanazawayuusaku #ariko rikimatsu

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bluboothalassophile · 5 years ago

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Hey I just reread Something Just Like This and I'm wondering if you have more of the Pillow Talk chapter. The one where Jason and Raven decided to leave everything behind and have a normal life together. I really like that idea and wanted to see more. It's ok if you don't want to though, just letting you know that I love your work and can't get enough.

Hello,

I’m down for an add on for Pillow Talk! I hope you enjoy the story! And I’m so glad to hear you’ve enjoyed all the other stories, they’re a lot of fun to write! =)

Pillow Talk In Action...

They hadn’t made it to New York for the end game. They had both gone to NYU, but then she had followed Jason. Jason was a man who needed to be a part of something more, he always had been, he needed to be a part of something bigger than himself. After she had carefully contacted Vic, Jason Todd was erased from everywhere in every known database for their fresh start. Jason had become a Marine, and in that time, he had become a Team guy, and from there she had followed Jason. She wasn’t a good example of a Navy wife; Raven had her own dreams and ambitions now that they were free. She wanted to help people, really help people; not stop bad guys, but heal people.

She was a nurse, she liked helping people, and it felt more productive this way than it ever had as a ‘Hero’. Jason had his career going, she had hers, and somewhere in the middle of their messy, high stress, slightly easy relationship, they had gotten married, and it worked.

Oh, the pressures women put upon themselves to be perfect for their man when he was home, to make it so everything was perfect, it wasn’t something Raven had done for herself. She and Jason had grown up in high stress, and they would never escape it, but when they were together, they were together, and everything else didn’t need to be perfect. She didn’t entice him into arguments over their calls, or letters, but she didn’t hesitate though to rebut him when he was teetering on the edge. He needed balance, and they balanced each other out. They were partners, they were not merely boyfriend-girlfriend safe havens for each other, they were fucking partners.

It had been fifteen years since they were twenty and stupid, running off because of pillow talk. They were thirty-five, and not wise, but settled.

They were married, with two kids, their eldest was three, and their youngest was four months old; and today was the first day Jason was getting to meet their youngest. She had made a deal with Destiny for her children to be human, to be mortal, there’d be no demons from her, and in turn she had surrendered her demon half. Surprisingly she had retained her magic and empathy, and her reserves in magic were still growing. Her kids had magic too.

Raven smiled as she held her toddler’s hand, and her baby was carefully cradled in her hold, the guys were coming, and the other wives were here. Raven saw Jason, he was laughing with one of his guys, the dog at his heel, and his pack slung over his shoulders.

“There’s daddy!” Raven smiled as she released their toddler, the little toddler ran for Ace instead of Jason.

“What the hell!? My own dog stealing my kid!?” he sputtered with laughter as she made her way through the crowd to him, Ace was gleefully lapping up the stickiness of whatever Sawyer had discovered between the car and here. She chuckled as his arm wrapped around her and his lips pressed to her head.

“Obviously Ace is better company,” Raven mused.

“Apparently,” he laughed as he caught Sawyer and swung the squealing boy up to his shoulders. Sawyer roared with unrepentant laughter, his black curls and mischievous dark eyes bright, and his freckles made him look angelic and devious. Jason was enamored with their second child, as was Ace who trotted around them while they walked for their car. Amory didn’t even wake in all the excitement; he was out like a light.

Once they were loaded up and heading home, Sawyer conked out, gripping Ace’s fur, as the dog sat between the kids in the back seat.

“They seem good,” Jason said softly.

“They are,” she smiled.

“So how about you?” he asked, entwining their fingers together.

“I’m fine, it was… it was a little touch and go for a bit, but I’m all better now,” she admitted. Amory’s birth had taken a toll on her mentally and emotionally, and physically, and it’d been a big scare when she had hemorrhaged, but they had saved her, and she was good now; physically. The post-partum depression had hurt like a bitch, and she wasn’t all better now, but she felt she was getting somewhere every day, and Sawyer and Amory needed her; Jason needed her. Her husband smiled as he brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“You better, or I’d kick your ass,” she snorted.

“You think you could take me!?” he mocked.

“Any time, any place, any way,” she stated with a smile.

“God, I love it when you’re cocky,” he laughed softly.

There was a loud blast ahead, people screaming as chaos erupted, Jason threw himself over her as the front windshield shattered from someone slamming into it, she didn’t get to scream or shout when Amory and Sawyer were awake, wailing in terror, Ace was in full attack mode. She and Jason were already moving, she was pulling herself to the back seat, while Jason and Ace were out of the car, armed, and moving. She tried her best to sooth Amory and Sawyer, while struggling with the buckles of their car seats.

“Jason! Knife!” she shouted, her husband had one in her hand, she sliced Amory out of his seat carefully before passing him to Jason. Sawyer was screaming as she cut him out of his seat. “I got him Rae,” Jason said, his hands grabbing the toddler carefully. She thanked Jason as she clambered through the glass and twisted mangled parts of metal. Cursing her hips as she made it through, rolling on the ground. Jason passed her Sawyer before moving them, Ace was in protect mode, moving around them like a threatening furry shark of teeth and protective fury. They made it to a café where others were, Jason passed her Amory then.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she promised her babies, finally getting to examine them carefully, cuts from glass, and minor bruises.

“Rae,” he finally caught her face, examining her.

“I’m good,” she promised him as she soothed Sawyer and Amory. He said nothing, looking out.

“I’m going,” he said.

“I’m coming with,” she said firmly.

“Rae.”

“Don’t even!” she warned. Already she was casting protection spells on their children, there was another mom there, hugging her children. “Lady, can you watch them, we’ll be back,” Raven asked the terrified mom. The mom nodded her head.

“If the dog stays,” she admitted hugging her own kid.

“Ace will stay, Sawyer, you’re going to be mommy’s big boy and watch Amory,” she said to her sniffling toddler. “Mommy and daddy will be right back,” she promised kissing his head as he hugged Amory then.

“Rae,” Jason called.

“Let’s go,” she said grabbing the offered knife as she shrugged out of her coat and draped it over her boys. Ace was on full alert around the kids, growling lowly.

Jason grabbed her hand and they moved out of the shop, she stayed close to her husband, moving to help people, using magic to move them out of the way. Jason provided cover, as they made their way through the fallen cops and civilians. Raven worked swiftly, she didn’t have much to work with, but she worked her empathy, Jason provided cover, killing three aggressors who fired at her when she made it over to help a cop.

There was a blast, she recognized, and she looked at Jason’s flinch. There were more explosions, she ran for them, her magic tearing through her as she hefted up buildings, kept support, pulled people out of the way, Jason moved to keep them safe, he acted as her guard, until they made it to the center of the fight. She threw a portal beneath Flash’s feet when there was a blast of energy going for him, as Jason picked up a discarded weapon and started firing drawing the attention of the enemy. Raven recognized Klarion.

“Well, well, the Gem, they said you were dead,” the Witch Boy sneered.

“Not quite, Witch Boy,” she snapped.

Klarion threw a flurry of spells at her, she hefted up the shields, Jason ran around, moving for a clean kill shot, she sensed. She pulled her magic, throwing Teekl at him, he fired twice at the unsuspecting cat, there was a howl of pain from the cat and witch boy before they disappeared. Jason stood there in the chaos as the old Titans; now members of the Justice League came to take stock. Jason jogged over to her, grabbing her hand and they ran from there. She threw open a portal as they ran, hearing shouts behind them to wait, she dropped them outside the shop, and jogged in to find the other mom soothing Amory and Sawyer, Ace was growling defensively at the doors; his furs up.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Dick had turned to thank the back up they had had; expecting to see Zatanna or Fate, only to see the back of a large man running into a portal, he was thoroughly confused. Cowl footage showed that the newcomers had moved with a degree of training even military personnel didn’t; they moved like League members. Other League members hadn’t questioned it as they went about helping with cleaning up their mess, taking care of Klarion’s dead cat, and the other thugs of this group. There was a lot of carnage, but it appeared that someone had helped many people already before the aftermath.

Battle footage later revealed him looking at Raven, she had aged, dressed as a civilian, her hair was a thick braid, and her cloths covered in dust, blood and grime, the man with her was unidentifiable with his hat, but movements had Dick believing the man to be a Team man or of a similar skillset.

No one believed him about the girl being Raven, the image was too blurred, and there wasn’t corroborating evidence, all that they had was a single shot of a dark haired woman, performing complex magic shielding and holding it against Klarion, and there was the man. The man moved with the woman.

And after three weeks of digging, Dick found himself in a quiet suburb, driving cautiously for a house where he suspected Raven to live. It was a decent house, white, shudders were painted a vibrant red, well kept, there was an American flag hanging out over the porch, but that seemed to be the only patriotic add. There was a pickup in the driveway. The garage was open, as a man worked in it, there was a giggling toddler in the yard, playing with the dog.

“Careful Sawyer, Ace doesn’t like his ears pulled!” a harsh baritone called out as Dick parked his car outside the house.

“I know daddy!” came the giggle.

“Well if you know, don’t do it,” the man appeared. He had on a ball cap, spun backwards, jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, there was grease on his hands, and a rag in a pocket. There were stray curls peaking out of the cap, and a small beard, black hair, red undertones, and he was big. Big as B had been in his prime, Dick’s breath caught in his throat though seeing Jason’s eyes on the stranger as the man went to the toddler playing with the dog.

“Let’s get some lunch,” them man chuckled as there was a stifling cry then. “Sounds like your brother likes that idea.”

“PBnJ!PBnJ!” the toddler chanted.

“Nah, I’m thinking peanut butter and fluffernutter!” the man bartered.

“Mommy says it too much sugar,” the boy sounded mystified at this change, and Dick smiled a bit.

“Then don’t tell mom,” the man disappeared in the house.

Dick sat there for a bit, thinking over this approach before he settled on looking for an old friend. He got out of the car, wincing at some of his bruises from the last conflict, and made his way up the walkway to the door of the house.

It was one Rachel Roth Peters living here, he knew that much. Most of the information he’d gather from social media and other databases hadn’t offered much. She was married, Jason Peters, who was a Team guy, but most of his information was so thoroughly blacked out or encrypted Dick wasn’t getting it on his own. He didn’t even have a picture of the man. Rachel had two sons, Sawyer Alfred Peters and Amory Victor Peters; Dick had thought the middle names to be odd choices, but then Raven had been close to Alfred and Victor. Perhaps it was her homage to her life as Raven.

Lightly rapping the door Dick nervously waited, hearing the thunderous roar of a dog coming for the door, along with a baby’s cry at the disruption, and a toddler’s shout, there was a curse as a man came to the door. Dick was startled when the door was yanked open, and he found himself staring at Jason. Not Jason Peters, his baby brother Jason.

“Jay?”

“Dick?” Jason sputtered.

“You’re alive!” Dick smiled. Dick was startled when Jason grabbed him and threw him in the house, pulling a weapon and the dog going into protect mode, the toddler cried out in shock, and the baby was now screaming with tears.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason snarled, Ace backing up, barking, acting as a barrier for the kids’ protection, Dick held his hands up, Jason was in full defense mode. He put himself armed between Dick and the kids, and Dick saw it, Jason was in full fury at this, and on edge. He hadn’t seen his brother in more than twenty years, and this was the greeting he got. Dick had never had the best relationship with Jason though, so despite all the overwhelming love he felt for his little brother now, Jason was ready for killing, not talking.

“Talk!? Did the old man send you!?” Jason snarled, a toddler gripping his leg now, it didn’t make Jason less terrifying. If anything, Jason looked like a furious, overprotective father. Jason looked like a tiger right now, his children were in the presence of the unknown, and his dog was his back up, and Dick had no doubts his baby brother would send that dog to tear his throat out if provoked. So, Dick didn’t make sudden movements, moving slowly as he got back up to his feet, Jason kept his weapon trained on him, and his stance ready to grab the kids and flee.

“No,” he whispered, the absolute righteous fear and fury at Jason’s question on his brother’s face shocked him.

“DADDY!” the toddler cried, big fat tears rolling down his red face.

“Talk! Why the fuck are you here, Dick!?” Jason snarled.

“I… Raven!” he admitted, keeping his movements non-threatening as he backed up a few steps. “It’s been a while, and I mean, we were worried, she just disappeared!”

“Isn’t walking away if you don’t fucking disappear,” his baby brother snarled furiously.

“I just… I wanted to see she was alright.

“She’s fine,” Jason snapped.

“I… how are you, Jay?”

“Not in the mood to be social,” Jason snarled lowly, relaxing enough to bend over and pick up his sobbing toddler, keeping his weapon trained on Dick as he backed up into the kitchen, Ace was by Jason’s legs. Dick moved to keep himself in Jason’s line of sight.

“What happened Jay?”

“We left.”

“You mean Raven…?”

“No, I mean we dickhead,” Jason snapped, putting his weapon away as he soothed the toddler and baby. Dick noted how much the toddler looked like Jason then, curly black hair, freckles, and aquamarine eyes. The toddler was sucking his thumb, all excitement for his sandwich gone; and Dick felt terrible for that as the toddler hid against Jason’s throat. The baby was sniffling in a car seat, there was Chicago Fire playing on the kitchen TV, and the dog was no longer loudly growling, but his fur was up and his attention on Dick.

“How…?”

“None of your fucking business,” Jason snapped as he set the toddler down. “So, what the hell are you doing here if the old fart didn’t send you?”

“I… you… your death broke him, Jay!” Dick snapped hearing the venom in his brother’s question now.

Jason gave a dismissive snort. “Didn’t answer the question Dickhead.”

“Rae vanished, and she was a dear friend, and Vic had no idea where she went, and when I saw the footage, I wanted to make sure she was alright,” he said.

“She’s fine, she’s at work, she’ll be pissed you stopped by,” he snapped.

“Little Wing,” he started.

“You and the old man can go stick, my name is Jason, and if you call me ‘little wing’ ever again I’ll break you in so many ways you’ll be eating out a tube, you are not my brother, you lost that,” Jason snapped furiously as he ran a hand over his toddler’s back.

“I…”

“We’re fine, Rae’s fine, if she wants to fucking talk to you, she’ll get in touch, you tell anyone about us, and I’ll kill you Dick,” Jason warned lowly.

“I wouldn’t… B would want to know you’re alright,” Dick said.

“No, B wants to throw me in Arkham, and I have three reasons that’s not happening, come after me or my family again, Dick and I’ll annihilate you,” Jason snapped.

Dick surrendered; he didn’t understand his brother’s combative nature about this but he wouldn’t start in on that. He instead politely showed himself out and paused at a picture display of a young Raven and Jason.

Jason was in a Marine’s uniform, and Raven was in a white wedding dress, they looked very young and very happy as they smiled at the camera. He noted that Victor was there by Rae, and a few men he didn’t know were by Jay, it looked… it looked happy.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Bruce stared at the photo Dick had brought back, it was Jason, and neatly tucked into Jason’s side was a pregnant Raven, with a toddler sitting on Jason’s shoulders, and a dog happily sitting between Jason and Raven.

Special Warfare Operator First Class Jason Peters had an unorthodox career. He had write ups for exemplar valor, and commendations for his bravery, he was a SEAL, he was Tier One status. He had a praises from his higher ups and his own teammates, and he had been married for seven years to one Rachel Roth, they had been in a long term relationship all through college and before from the implications on their files. They were close.

The family had a toddler son, Sawyer Alfred Peters, which had had Alfred and him actually tearing up. The boy was bright, he had black curly black hair, bright aquamarine eyes, and many freckles. The other child was Amory Victor Peters, who was a four month old now, there were no documented photos that Bruce or Dick could find; even Barbara couldn’t find anything. Rachel and Jason were not on social media and kept quiet lives, focusing on work and their relationships. That wasn’t true, recon had shown Jason spending a lot of time with his team and Raven spent a lot of time with her own friends, they focused on the kids heavily too.

Bruce sat there staring at the photo, he had it put up in his office.

He would never be able to reclaim Jason as his, Jason and he had too much blood between them, and Bruce acknowledged that he had never handled Jason the best possible way he could, and his sone had found a family of his own. Bruce ached to reach out, to beg for Jason’s forgiveness, but knew it would never happen. Jason was unforgiving and unyielding, and so was Bruce. It didn’t matter that twenty years had passed, Bruce knew they would forever clash and Jason could never, and rightfully would never, forgive him.

Still, Bruce decided he’d keep an eye out for his second son and his family. Jason deserved everything he had, and more, Jason deserved the world. Bruce would see to it that his second son’s life was left undisturbed, and hid the records from the prying eyes of his family. Keeping the only photos he had of Jason close and hidden amongst the myriad of other photos he had of his children.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Jason rolled off his wife, gasping for air, she was spent, he was spent, and good God it felt amazing to be home. His fingers traced her stomach, which was littered in stretch marks and still soft from the birth of their second child. He smiled as he looked at her, she chuckled.

“You’re insatisible,” she panted.

“Only for you,” he promised. “For you,” he smiled as he pulled himself over her and kissed her lightly.

“I’m glad I never asked you to leave,” she whispered as her eyes flicked from his lips to his eyes, and she bit her lips so slightly.

“I’m glad I couldn’t make you leave either, little bird,” he promised as he traced her jaw.

There was a framed note on his nightstand which he saw, and smiled at before he looked back at his wife, time for another round! Kissing her hard as he could he dragged her to him, his hands tracing over her body.

“Never been so fucking glad we got those airplane tickets!” he promised.

“JASON!” she gasped as his mouth moved over her skin. He was never so happy for pillow talk as he had been fifteen years ago.

If you're serious and not just talking to the pillow I'll be at the airport with the tickets, bring my bag. If not, keep the bag, and I wish you the best Red.

-R

#bluboothalassophile #fanfic #one shot #jason todd #raven #dick grayson #bruce wayne #jayrae #redrae #raex

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renaroo · 5 years ago

Note

17, JLI

A/N: I literally squealed with delight, it would’ve been embarrassing if I was embarrassed by my passionate love for these losers lol

Best Boy

She has a childish instinct to try.

That, more than anything, is what Ice thinks is her ultimate downfall. Ice has allowed many things to happen to her, happen to the League, all in the name of making solid attempts toward something bigger and better. In this childish hope and dream that when all things are equalized, she can push their rather infamous luck toward being something greater than it used to be.

And Ice really wants this to work. She wants it to work more than she wants the recent photoshoot. She wants it to work more than she wanted her date with Guy to work out. She wants it to work more than she wants to see what Booster and Beetle have planned when the reruns of Next Generation hit too many same-old notes.

Most of all, Ice wants to be able to keep him in her room, too. If Martian Manhunter allows it.

***

It starts as a team-up with Green Lantern ironically.

No, not that Green Lantern. And not him either. And she’s never met that one.

She doesn’t say anything about it when she initially leaves the embassy with him because Guy is always strange about any of them hanging out with other Green Lanterns. It’s rather cute in Ice’s opinion — he likes being their one and only Green Lantern.

But this Green Lantern, the first first one, reminds Ice of her grandfather in some ways, he mentions that he likes her advertisement pictures and that he has a daughter of his own in the industry. So how can Ice not help him out with a mystery involving the fashion industry?

When Fire gets back from her European shoot, she’s going to be so jealous that Ice got to be both a superhero and supermodel in one single adventure.

It doesn’t take that much detective work — nothing to call Elongated Man or Batman about — but at least part of that is because of their help.

Ice, being from another country, has never heard of having a super pet before this adventure.

His codename is Wonder Dog and his civilian name is Streak.

He is the best boy in the world and Ice, in fact, loves him.

Which makes it easy for her to answer Alan Scott’s last-minute request to provide supervision for his furry partner while he goes on a business trip.

***

She goes to Blue Beetle first because, if anything, she figures Blue Beetle has the most experience trying to cover up things from the rest of the League.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, arms folded to his chest, starring intently at the short, furry corgi like it owes him money.

Streak licks Blue Beetle.

“Yeah, I’m a cat person,” Blue Beetle says.

Ice decides immediately that Blue Beetle is no longer someone that should ever be trusted.

Aghast, she pulls Streak into her arms and twists away from Blue Beetle.

“Do you know how many artificial potted plants that thing is going to pee on in this building?” Blue Beetle asks. “At least ten! That’s ten spots of urine stinking up the embassy alongside whatever smells are coming out of Guy’s room.”

“Wonder Dog would never!” Ice gasps. “He’s a… he’s a good boy!”

Blue Beetle holds up his hands and pulls a face. “Hey, it’s your funeral when J’onn finds out.”

“If you tell him, I’m going to tell him about the diet Chacos!” she hisses at him.

Immediately, Beetle puts a hand to his heart. “You wouldn’t!”

“I will!” She promises. “Anything for Streak.”

She receives a lick on her cheek and she knows, at that moment, she will die for this dog if she must.

***

When Guy scoops up Streak and cradles him like a baby, Ice feels her heart melt. He even rubs the good boy’s stomach and nuzzles nose to nose with the Wonder Dog.

Beyond pleased, Ice practically hugs herself and looks at Guy.

“I always knew you were good, Guy,” she informs him happily. “And look at his little face, Streak agrees! And is happy!”

“Sure he is!” Guy says back, full of bluster. “I grew up with dogs. My sister and I always took care of them, couldn’t count on the ol’ man to. Just as well, huh, li’l guy?”

No matter what others say about Guy, no matter what Ice even knows about Guy, she has always seen the goodness there beneath the surface. She feels so validated and warmed to see the evidence of it so clearly on display before her now.

“Will you help me keep him in the embassy until Alan gets back?” she asks sweetly.

Guy, immediately, stiffens and looks at her. “Alan? Who’s Alan? Are you seeing him? How tall is he? I bet I can fight him.”

Ice huffs, rolling her wrist at Guy’s antics. “You know Alan! Alan Scott. He went on a business trip and needed someone to watch after Streak.”

A strangely judgmental look grows over Guy’s face as he looks down at Streak. It hardens. “This is Alan Scott’s dog? The first — unsanctioned, mind you — Green Lantern who uses the Starheart instead of an Oa issued ring?”

Frowning, Ice tries to make sense of Guy’s serious tone and expression. Is this the more serious side of Guy she’s always known was there? The one that trains in the Green Lantern Corps and acts as an officer of the peace in space? To be frank, she’s never been acquainted with him.

“I don’t know about much of any of that, but Alan seems very nice and noble and Streak helped us solve a mystery last week,” she explains.

For a moment, Guy nods and that seems to be the end of whatever interrogation is happening until Guy lets go of Streak. The dog yelps but is caught by a bright green construct that looks and is emerald green cuffs and chains around the dog’s paws and tail.

“Yeah, I’m taking this guy in for questioning,” Guy says.

Working on instinct, Ice lets out a shriek and blows Guy back with a gust of wind, freezing his ring hand until he drops the construct.

“You will do no such thing!” Ice declares, scooping up Streak and stomping out of the room.

“OW! Ice! TORA! It was a joke, are you kidding me!?”

Ice, though, is not kidding. And she doesn’t look back as she marches through the embassy to her next stop.

***

Fire is her best friend and, when she’s not blowing her top, she’s the closest thing Ice can find in the embassy to a voice of reason.

She’s back from a trip that went well, so Fire isn’t really near blowing her top. But she is skeptical and standoffish toward Streak.

Ice finds this rather insulting to her newfound canine loyalties.

“Is it going to be tearing up the furniture and,” Fire lets out an exasperated noise as she waves her hands, “my clothes or something?”

“He’s a Wonder Dog, Bea,” Ice admonishes. She lowers to her knees on the floor and pampers the corgi. “Of course he wouldn’t.”

Immediately, Streak hones in on the scrunchie around Ice’s wrist and begins timidly grazing his front teeth on it. Then, after a few misses, he grabs the scrunchie in his canines and pulls it off of Ice’s arm entirely. It’s one swift motion, very well-rehearsed.

There’s not enough willpower within Ice to resist the giggle that bubbles to the surface as a result.

Once again, Fire looks unimpressed. “You’re just going to let him tear that up?” she asks.

“It’s his scrunchie,” Ice answers.

“Oh, really? For how long?” Fire presses, bending over enough to get a full view of Streak viciously shaking his head, scrunchie in tow.

Using a babying tone, Ice wiggles her shoulder at Streak playfully. “For as long as his little heart has wanted it!”

Groaning, Fire pinches at the bridge between her eyes. “This isn’t going to end well, and considering I’m still paying off the fire damage I did to my room, I do not want to be roped into this,” she informs Ice. Like a traitor.

“Then you will not be his Auntie Bea,” Ice says, pulling Streak into her arms to the dog’s playful dismay.

“Somehow I feel like we’ll both live with that,” Fire rolls her eyes.

***

“Should it be in the kitchen?” Booster Gold asks over the loud blender.

“He,” Ice corrects.

“What?” Booster yells a little louder over the blender, though he doesn’t stop mixing his shake.

“He not it!” Ice repeats.

Post-workout Booster is sweaty and not wearing his signature goggles, so Ice gets to see his squinting confusion at her. At long last, he turns off the blender and then points at Streak who is patiently sitting right on top of Booster’s feet. “Dog. Should he be in the kitchen?”

“Where else would he eat?” Ice asks pointedly.

“Probably your room under the bed in hiding,” Booster jokes, pouring the contents of the blender into his awaiting glass. “Protein shake! You want some?”

“I am now vegetarian,” Ice says, staring seriously at Booster and completely ignoring the angry rumblings from her stomach.

Licking the sides of the blender for the drips of shake, Booster smirks at her. “Since when? You had bacon yesterday.”

“This morning,” she says, crossing her arms. “I will never harm an animal again! Wonder Dog has shown me the light!”

“Okay,” Booster snorts. “The carnivore inspired this?”

“I thought you were complaining the other day about twenty-first-century diets,” Ice argues. “You said it was weird that we ate so much meat.”

“It’s weird because of what it did — is doing,” Booster quickly corrects himself, “to the environment at the level you — we — make it. That was my point. And grease. You guys ruin things with overcooking. But we need protein. And it’s weird that you guys made fun of me saying meat-farming is going to go away, but you meet one admittedly adorable dog and you’re completely changing your lifestyle.”

“It’s just meat,” Ice says, hugging herself to muffle the growls.

“I meant your lifestyle of not being homeless since J’onn is definitely going to throw both your adorable butts out on the street when he finds out,” Booster jokes. He pats Streak on the head and Streak humors him by acting appreciative.

That’s okay because Ice knows that Streak knows to pee on Booster’s bed later.

***

Really, it’s only a matter of time before she opens her door and sees the Martian Manhunter on the other side.

Ice still dares to think it should have been longer, but then again J’onn is a telepath.

And also not a fool.

“May I come in?” he asks, red eyes already honed in on the corner of Ice’s bed where Streak is curled up napping.

Puffing out her bottom lip, Ice steps aside and watches as the martian crosses her room and rather quickly begins patting on the dog. She folds her arms self-consciously and watches.

“He’s a good boy,” she defends unsaid accusations.

“Perhaps,” Martian Manhunter agrees and looks back to Ice almost softly. “I know of this dog, he belongs to the original Green Lantern.”

Perking up, Ice steps forward. “Yes! He is Wonder Dog! Mister Scott needed someone to watch him while he had business out of town! And we had just teamed up together and got along so well…”

He stands tall, towering over Ice as he looks down at her. There isn’t the darkness and fear that Batman inspires but Ice does feel a large dose of anxiety wash over her.

“Ice, we cannot keep animals on the property permanently,” he informs her.

Deflating, Ice bites nervously on her nail. “I know.”

“However, taking into account the considerable merit of our current houseguest, and the temporary status of his stay, it is only fair to amend the rules,” J’onn says kindly.

Ice squeals as she throws her arms around him. “Thank you!”

“It seems only right, considering the rules are basically meaningless in this embassy by now,” he says more grimly with a sigh. “I believe we will have more luck house training Wonder Dog than Beetle, Booster, or Guy Gardner.”

***

When Alan Scott comes, Ice isn’t ready. In fact, she’s the furthest thing from ready. She considers freezing her bedroom door shut and staying inside with Streak forever.

Fire assures her that, if that happens, Fire will be forced to burn the ice away and it could hurt their friendship. Even Streak isn’t worth that, Ice decides.

The boys are all lined up in the foyer with Alan Scott, Beetle has popcorn, like they’re anxious to see some big production.

The moment Ice walks down the stairs with Streak, she can feel the little guy struggling in her arms.

Lowering herself on the bottom step, Ice feels her lip quivering and she holds Streak even tighter. “You are such a good boy, and I know you’re gonna miss me just as much as I miss you,” she begins to say.

Wonder Dog earns his name with a well-placed kick to Ice’s chest, twisting himself like a noodle out of her grips, and barking as he races down the foyer to his owner who is happily awaiting him. Ice isn’t sure if she’s ever seen a tail wag so much before.

“Thank you, Miss Olafsdotter,” Alan says, chuckling as he bends over and latches an old fashion clip leash onto Streak’s leather collar. “I know Streak was on his best behavior — it’s the only mode he has — but it was good to feel assured he was with good people.” He gives skeptical glances to the snickering trio beside him and grips the leash a little tighter. “Mostly good people. I’ll send you a check for your troubles.”

“Whoa, check? She gets paid for this?” Booster pipes up.

“We have dog sitting services, too, y’know,” Beetle begins selling as he follows Alan out the door.

Beside Ice, Fire puts a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, he’s gone now, you don’t have to keep up the brave face.”

Before Fire is even done, Ice bursts into tears and flings her arms around Fire’s waist.

“Oh, boy,” Fire says, patting Ice’s head.

“Aw, Tora, don’t worry, I can get you a better dog,” Guy says, attempting to stroll up while avoiding Fire’s direct line of attack.

Martian Manhunter’s head snaps in Guy’s direction. “No more pets in the embassy.”

“Okay, but what if we’re cutting you in on the dog sitting business?” Beetle asks while Booster is already looking through craigslist.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ice sobs, “there is no better dog than Wonder Dog.”

“Okay, that dog slept for eighteen hours a day and wouldn’t even eat scraps on the floor, only in his little silver dish,” Fire reminds her. “It was the most bourgeois dog ever.”

“And I loved him,” Ice continues, rubbing at her eyes.

Martian Manhunter actually looks pained by Ice’s crying. “I will take another look at our leasing agreement,” he mutters.

#JLI #Justice League International #Tora Olafsdotter #Streak the Wonder Dog #Beatriz da Costa #Ted Kord #Michael Jon Carter #Guy Gardner #J'onn J'onzz #Alan Scott #dc fic #writing #secretlystephaniebrown #ask and you shall receive

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keladryhawklight · 4 years ago

Text

The Scourge

Sometime during the Night, Kel & Sandor’s Apartment

The low whistle of a blight-barrel sounded as it soared through the air, impacting with a low boom against the barrier of the Hollow. In the dark of night, battle cries rang from the shadows as the hundreds of Forsaken soldiers emerged from the once-quiet forests of the Hinterlands; the men on duty sounded the alarm, ringing throughout the Hollow. A pair of fearful violet-eyes snapped open in the silence of the militants quarters, startled from sleep by the low rumbles and panicked screams.

“All civilians to the tunnel!” A mans voice thundered outside.

The bells rang, loudly and urgently in the darkest part of the night. Kel came awake in an instant, sending cat, dog and crab tumbling every which way in her moment of fear. A scream strangled in her throat as she looked left and right around the room to discover the source of the noise. Her heart beat like a drum in her chest as she fought to catch her breath in the face of such a fright. Sweat beaded on her neck and in the tendrils of hair around her face. In an instant, she had forgotten where she was, and whom she shared her bed with. Instead, she had been cast back to another moment in time when such horrors had come in the night. The Light within her returned in an instant, wrapping itself around her hands, as they clutched at the blankets pooling in her lap. For weeks it had been strangely dimmed, something she could only attribute to the mysteries of her pregnancy; it had pained her somewhat, but the true touch of it's warmth had never left. It had simply been as if she had expended it all. It weaved, flickering on the air, sparking off her hands as she fought for control of it, and herself.

On and on the bells pealed incessantly. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Shouts rang outside, shouts of the guards she knew who patrolled this hour. Of people in the streets. Screams of those innocents who happened to be about at such a late hour. Launching herself out of bed she almost collapsed as the blood rushed back to her. White-knuckling their footboard, she stood for a moment and simply breathed while her vision whited in and out. Come little child, her thoughts whispered to the tiny being she carried. Now is not the time for this. Standing there dressed in naught but one of Sandor's shirts, she fought against the pressure put upon her in that moment by their child. Their child. She had to move. But her feet refused to. Refused to face what horror had come to their door. For once, she was terrified beyond belief. It was not just her and Sandor anymore. It was her, Sandor, and their child.

What in the name of the Light do I do? her thoughts whispered to her silently. What do I do?

Beside her, Sandor slept. His brow furrowed as he dreamed. He too, shared the uncertain world of dreams, and was often visited by memories past.

He was back in the Cathedral. The massive church with its vaunted ceilings was lit with innumerable torches and candles. Around him were Crusaders; Clerics, Priests, and Knights. At the alter stood a tall, slim woman. Her face was obscured in reddish shadow.

"BRAVE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE SCARLET CRUSADE!" She called, her voice echoing in the marbled halls. "WHAT IS OUR PURPOSE?" "TO CLEANSE THE LAND OF SCOURGE AND RECLAIM IT FOR THE LIGHT!" "THAT'S RIGHT!" She responded, extending her hand. "NOW GO FORTH! PURGE THIS LAND OF UNDEATH, UNHOLY, AND ALL HERETICS THAT STAND IN OUR WAY!" The assembled host turned, revealing Sandor - not the young man as he had been when the Crusade fell, but as he was now - amongst the Crusaders. There calls of battle soared as they approached the massive doors of the Cathedral.

Sandor sat upright, and startled, seeing Keladry gripping the side of the bed. His breath quick, he rose and moved quickly to her side. He pushed the bells and rising screams from his attention as he knelt by her, placing his hands on her stomach.

"My Lady-... What-..." He looked towards the window, a faint orange hue growing. Was that fire? "We must get you to safety. I fear the Scourge has finally made it's way to Stormwind."

It didn't take a Gnomish engineer to realize what was going on. He didn't have time to wonder how the Scourge had made it south so quickly. What he needed to do was act.

Her eyes found his, hers wide and wild with fear. Her hands clutched at his desperately as she struggled to pull herself and her racing heartbeat under control. In his hands, she trembled like a leaf, her body shaking as the memories of a night past washed over her and the uncertainties of the future grasped at her tightly. Light came off of her in wisps, sparking in the air of their bedroom erratically. For all the control she normally had, in this moment it was gone. Her breath came in quiet pants, as she struggled to separate the world of dream and memory, from the disaster of their reality. Her gaze landed on Sandor as he suddenly appeared before her, his hands gentle as they cradled her stomach. Her thoughts raced as she regarded him, spilling over one another in no planned manner. He had been sleeping. They had been sleeping. The Hollow? Their home. They were home. Stromwind, they were in Stormwind. "What is going on," she beseeched him softly after a long moment. Her voice was thready, higher pitched from the emotions racing through her. "Sandor, what is going on?!" His words echoed in her mind. The Scourge. She knew the Scourge. They had come for them once again. First it had been the Hollow, and now it had found them again, nestled in their Stormwind apartment. Their safety, their nest that they had so carefully, so meticulously carved out in the safest of areas within the heartlands of the Alliance, had been in an instant shattered once more. "How can they be here?!" she questioned him. "How? How? We were supposed to be safe here. I-" Her words ceased abruptly as the realization sunk in, and reality hit her like a stone. Once again, when their world was about to turn upside down, they were going to be separated. The colour leeched from her face at the realization. "I.. We.. You.. you must see to the Enlisted, and the defence of the city. And I.. must see to the hospital. To the soldiers coming in for immediate assistance."

Sandor shushed her as her questions raced; reaching a hand up to stroke her face. His voice was calm, steady, despite his racing heart. He wouldn't fail her. No here. Not tonight. For almost a decade, he had run from the teachings of the Crusade. The brutal, singular-minded drive that had been instilled in him to seek out and purge Undeath. The training was harsh, and by the end, the Crusade had been manipulated and twisted into a shadow of its formal self. He had long ago rejected those teachings; but if the Scourge had made it to the home of the Alliance, to their home, he couldn't afford the luxury of being discerning in his methods. He nodded at her words. He took her hands into his, uttering a prayer to the Light. Keladry would feel herself enshrouded in a barrier of the Light. It would provide her with some protection against the Undead. "I will do as you command, my Love. Prepare yourself for the battle to come, and trust in the Light."

Stealing the briefest moment in time they could ill afford, she nuzzled into the hand that stroked her face, bringing the smallest modicum of comfort to her racing heart. His voice was quiet as he shushed her, his demeanor calm. *How can he be so steadfast?* her thoughts questioned silently. *Our home..* Her eyes searched his frantically, searching for the answer to his calmness. Her heart continued to race erratically as she sought to pull herself under control.

The scourge had come to the city. First their king had vanished, plucked out of the skies by the banshee's valkyr. Their songs haunted her dreams-- ever since that fateful day in the Plaguelands where she had fallen from the arms of one to the earth below, she had never forgotten that haunting, keening wail that heralded the arrival of the creatures. They too had come, plummeting into the very heart of their lands to take from them their leader. The act had, in instants, plunged them all back into darkness, back into uncertainty, and back into fear.

Her stomach rolled, their child making itself known. Her hand shot to her stomach instinctively, cradling the spot that had just been kicked. She knew they could not dally. Not this time. She reached for her hospital clothes, loose linens that would allow her to work without restrictions. It was going to be a long night indeed, so she knew. In moments, she was pulling on her boots, buckling her medical bags to her waist. "Duke, come," she crooned to the little pug who darted left and right. He didn't understand the excitement. Didn't know what was going on. To him, his owners were simply up and about, and that was his concern. She grabbed a spare medical bag, bigger than the rest. Scooping him up, she tucked him deep within the confines of her medical bag. It was a heavier bag, and could easily contain the both of them for a little while. Bacon could ride in his spot between her shirt and shoulder, his little claws hooked into her underclothing quite well. But Duke and Yenafur.. "My love, corral your cat. She will have to share a place with Duke until we can reach the hospital. I will let them run free in my office-- they will be safer there, surrounded by the hospital guards, and the city watch who will no doubt be on site."

Sandor nodded; taking stock of the situation. His heart was pounding; but he kept his breathing even; slowly through the nose, and slowly out through the mouth. He glanced around, searching for the shaggy grey cat. Yenafur had pressed herself into the corner, meowling in protest to all the activity in the bedroom. Sandor scooped the cat up, scratching her chin and neck. The cat immediately began to calm down as he passed her over to Keladry. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Take your communicator; let me know when you make it to the hospital, and if there are any issues." He peered into her mismatched eyes, trying to impart as much calm and resolve as he could. "I'll be in touch when I reach the enlisted quarters. With luck, the Corporals have begun to mount a defense." He pulled her close, kissing her. He didn't want to separate himself from her, but they had jobs to do. He pulled back, giving her shoulders a squeeze. "Go with the Light, my Lady."

A grimace crossed her face as she tucked the pair into the medical bag. One of her bigger ones, it would allow them to wiggle about just *barely* before settling down. If she clipped it, but didn't zip it shut, then they would have more than enough air and light to prevent instant panic before she reached the Cathedral. Hopefully, they both settled as they often did, and curled up for a quiet trip. She lifted the bag carefully, settling it across her shoulders, clipping it into place. She could feel them through the bag, pressed close against her bag. Their family. As for Bacon, he soon settled in his normal travelling spot; tucked into her shirt between the curve of her neck and her collarbone, his tiny claws holding him securely.

As Sandor's hands came down on her shoulders, she stilled. His words were solemn. She knew he had the same pressing concerns as she at the front of her mind. His green eyes searched hers, and she found calmness, strength, resolve, *love*, all hidden within those depths. He kissed her once, imparting all the words they hadn't said between them in that one single gesture. There was so much they had not said to each other, so many adventures they had not yet lived. Her hands crept up around his neck, and she pressed herself close, clinging to him in that moment, hugging him for all she was worth.

"This is not goodbye," she whispered to him. "This is not. I refuse to acknowledge it as a goodbye. It is a see you soon, do you understand me?"

Sandor let himself melt a little into her embrace. He could feel his heart beat faster as she held him close. After a moment, he nodded at her words. “I will see you soon, my love.”

At his words, she nodded, and stepped away. Affording one last look, she took in every detail of his face before she left. Her hand came up to clasp his for a brief moment. Memorizing the lines in his face, the colour in his eyes. Feeling the warmth in his touch, and in his gaze. Light flashed between their touch in an instant, her own returned blessings of safety and protection to carry him through the night. Pausing at the door, she picked up one last item; her longsword, well honed, and etched with the runes of the Light. It would serve her well, if worst came to worst. She did not want to consider such a thought. The Cathedral and the hospital were not far, but she could ill afford to take a risk. Not when she guarded their family with her life. As she departed their apartment, she paused, staring up at the suddenly bleak looking façade. Her eyes welled as she considered what was and what might be. It was too difficult a thing to comprehend, the magnitude of loss this would be to either of them. If she were to lose him, she couldn't imagine the pain in simply breathing with him gone. And if he were to lose her, it wouldn't be simply one loss. It would be the loss of two. Leaving him was the hardest thing she had done thus far, and it wrenched her heart to not know what the coming days would bring to them. They both had duties, and they both understood and knew what was expected of them. But the dull ache of 'what if' burned deep down.

No, Kel. You must stop, her thoughts chided softly. Do not fall to such thoughts. Do not give into such thoughts. Be strong now. You may cry later. Giving her head a shake, she blinked away the tears, and drew her sword from it's scabbard. Light flashed along the blade as the runes lit up the dark night.

"And 'lo, I walk through the valley of darkest shadows, I have the Light as my shepherd," she whispered softly. "It is my strength, my rock, my shelter from the storm. In it, I place my most sacred of trusts."

As the words faded, she moved. Darting down the dark streets, towards the orange glow. Towards the Hospital.

After she left, Sandor hastily tucked his tunic into his trousers. Finding his leather boots in the corner, he pulled them on. From a drawer he produced two studded leather bracers. In a pinch, the hardened hide could hold back the bite of a ghoul, inadvisable as the tactic was. He grabbed his 7th Legion sword, ornately decorated with eagles and lions, and slung the scabbard over his back. From the closet, he fetched his shield and warhammer, before finally letting out a sharp exhale. “Time to go to work,” He grimly uttered before making his way downstairs. Checking his grip on his hammer, taking a few steady breaths to prepare himself. He pulled the door open, being greeted by the sickly-sweet smell of undeath, the tolling of bells, the distant screams and accompanying moans. His eyes quickly scanned the street, several blocks from the Cathedral square. A family down the street was standing on their stoop, huddled together. His first instinct was to approach them, have them come with him to the enlisted quarters. He strode in their direction, his pace quickening. From the alley a pack of ghouls, perhaps three or four, shambled, spotting the family. The mother shrieked, dragging her two small children inside. The father brandished a steak knife, shakily shouting at the ghouls to get back. He quickened into a full spring, swinging his hammer into the skull of one of the straggling ghouls in the pack. It immediately crumpled to the ground, it’s body broken and mangled. The man, spotting the action, smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, just before the first ghoul made it to the stoop, grabbing the man's arm and biting into it. Rivulets of blood flowed outwards, towards the man who screamed, attempting to push the ghoul away. The skulls of two more ghouls crumpled under the weight of his blows, before he swung, bringing his hammer to bear against the remaining ghoul's knees. The ghoul dropped, releasing his grip on the man. Setting his hammer back down, Sandor grasped the man by the shoulders, giving him a brief shake. The man's eye's frantically searched Sandor's. "T-Thank you, ser-.."

Sandor shook his head answering quietly, "There is no time for that. You've been bitten, which means you are likely infected. Tell your wife to board up your home, and make your way to the hospital. They will do what they can for you there." The man's eyes widened. "W-What?? Can't you take me?!" Sandor shook his head. "I am needed elsewhere. Now hurry. You don't have long." The man frantically nodded, before knocking on the door. Turning, Sandor began his journey once again, heading in the direction of the Dwarven District.

#WoW #Wow Rp #WoW RP character blogs #OC #oc story #shadowlands #undead #scourge #stormwind #world of warcraft roleplay #worldofwarcraft #wrymrest accord #WrA Alliance #WRA RP #wra #the 47th #The Fortyseventh #fortyseventhrp

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banashee · 4 years ago

Link

Love comes on two and four legs

Bucky curses up a blue storm as he realizes he’s forgotten his umbrella at the therapist’s office - again. He knows he’s had the last appointment of the day though, so they’re likely closed by now, and besides, he is already halfway home. There is no use in going back now when he’ll be back again on Friday.

In a vain attempt to stay somewhat dry, he pulls the collar of his leather jacket as high as he possibly can, hurrying through the streets of New York in pouring rain. No one looks at him twice, which is a relief. He’s still kinda new to this civilian kind of lifestyle and when he’d first started therapy, he’d been an anxious wreck. Always feeling watched, uncomfortable in his own skin to the point where he’d refused to leave the flat on his own.

It’s been two years since then, and while there still is a lifetime of trauma to work through and he’s having his fair share of bad days, there is no denying that Bucky is generally happy these days.

Deep thunder rumbles in the sky, and the raindrops only get thicker - Bucky is almost running, but he is long since soaking wet.

“Seriously Thor, now? You couldn’t have waited for like 30 minutes or so?” he complains under his breath as another thunder rumbles. Then he takes a sharp corner and hurries past an alleyway.

Or at least, he wants to hurry, but then he picks up a small noise and stops in his tracks.

There it is again. A small, high pitched whine, coming from a dumpster.

Bucky frowns, stepping closer. When he opens the lid and the stench of New York garbage creeps up into his nostrils, but the meowing gets louder.

A second later, Bucky is ripping open the plastic bag where the noise is coming from and then, a tiny, dirty ball of fur looks up at him with large blue eyes. It just about breaks his heart. Carefully, Bucky reaches out and picks the kitten up into his arms.

“Oh, sweetheart. Who did this to you?”

Another, pitiful meow is the answer. When Bucky runs one finger of his flesh hand softly over the kittens head, it starts purring immediately.

“You’re coming home with me.” he decides, and wraps his new little friend into his leather jacket - suddenly, getting soaked through doesn’t look as bad anymore.

The rest of the way is wet and cold, but there is a purring ball of fur snuggled up against his chest and Bucky knows the kitten already stole his heart. Huh. So this is what it must be like to be Clint - he’ll give him so much shit for this, after years of Bucky accepting his tendency to pick up any animal that is abandoned or lost that crosses his way. Which is a lot.

But Clint is unable to leave anything to suffer without at least trying to help, and as much as Bucky teases him for turning their apartment into a foster home for strays on a regular basis, he loves him for it. He loves him for it because it shows how much he cares.

And now he’s picked up a stray of his own.

When Bucky opens the door to their apartment he does so with one hand and calls,

“Darling, I’m home!”

A blond head peaks up from behind a huge coffee pot.

“Hey Baby!”

Clint gets up from his spot on the breakfast bar and crosses the room to greet his boyfriend. He stops right before he goes for a hug and just pecks him on the lips before asking,

“What’cha got there?” while gesturing to the bundled up leather jacket in his arms.

As if on cue, the white kitten wiggles it’s head out and meows again.

“Found her - him? - I’ll go with ‘her’ for now - in a dumpster. Poor thing was screaming her head off in a plastic bag.” Bucky explains, and Clint carefully reaches out, letting the kitten sniff his hand before gently petting it.

“Poor baby. Who’s the bastard who did this to you, huh? I just want to talk.” he asks the kitten and once again, it’s purring under the touch. Clint smiles fondly. He’s always had a knack for picking up strays, and it sure looks like he’s finally rubbed off on Bucky.

It’s not like Bucky would be anything but wonderful and supportive. He helps to take care of the little and not-so-little critters, stays up all night if needed and he will make runs to the vet and to get supplies without getting told or a single word of complaint. He’ll happily do all that and much more, but until now, it’s always been Clint who turned up home with a creature in need. Dogs, cats, birds. One one occasion, even a ferret, which was quickly picked up by his very grateful owner.

Besides seething anger towards the people who are cruel enough to abuse and abandon animals and rapidly building up love for the kitten, this whole situation leaves Clint quietly gleeful. Oh, how the tables have turned.

“We still have kitten formula in the kitchen, do we?” Bucky asks, scratching the fluffy chin and smiles when kitty leans into his touch.

“Always.”

They’re well stocked up on animal supplies, prepared for unexpected fluffy or feathery visitors any time of the day.

“Wanna go change while the water heats up?”

Bucky has no idea how long the cat was left in that alleyway, but he’s sure she must be starving. So he shakes his head.

“I’m good for now.”

The milk is prepared in no time, and Bucky feeds it to her with a small syringe and special nips just for this purpose.

He’s always been fond of animals, and living with Clint and Lucky certainly has gotten him used to being surrounded by them. But right at this moment, something fierce and protective is burning in his chest. As the white, fluffy ball of fur is hungrily drinking the offered milk, mewling a little every now and then, and Bucky just knows he’s done for.

He’s had this cat for not even an hour, and he already knows he’d willingly kill and die for her - Clint looks at him, with a small smile and so much love, he clearly knows what Bucky is thinking right at this moment.

After all, Clint himself had beat up a bunch of assholes and then paid a fortune at the vet when he rescued Lucky from the very same asses he’d kicked that day.

No words are needed, but when the kitten is no longer hungry and Bucky is stroking her fur with so much care and a happy little smile, he takes a good look at him and another one at the cat.

Bucky looks soaked and cold, and he should have gotten out of his clothes much sooner. The cat, although dry, has dark spots caked in her fur. It’s a very sorry sight, the two of them.

Clint runs one gentle hand through his boyfriends long dark hair and his fingertips over the kittens head. He decides to break up this cozy round before all of them fall asleep right on the spot.

“Okay, I think Kitty here needs a bath and so do you.”

Bathing is not exactly the kittens favourite activity. She voices her disapproval with constant tiny meows while Bucky keeps apologizing over and over, reassuring the cat that it’s all for the best.

They seem to have come to a mutual understanding once she’s clean and wrapped into a fluffy towel. It’s been warmed up on the heater, and the sound of content purring keeps Bucky company while he steps into the shower himself.

When washing his hair with a conditioner, he can make out the sound of the doorbell going off, quickly followed by excited barking, a female voice and laughter. All of this can only mean one thing - Kate is here and she brought Lucky back.

Both of these things are great news, and by the time both Bucky and the cat leave the bathroom, she’s already sprawled on the armchair with her legs hanging over one side. She’s gesturing with her hand holding a mug of coffee while Clint nods along to her story, attention half on her and half on Lucky who demands belly scratches from him.

“Katie!” With a wide grin, Bucky reaches down to ruffle her hair. She hates this particular move. Most people would lose a finger for attempting this, but Kate loves Bucky and always lets him get away with it. So naturally, he does it whenever he gets the chance.

“Robocop!” Kate exclaims happily, catches his arm and pulls him down for a hug. Bucky needs to angle his body so the bundled up cat cradled in his other arm doesn’t get crowded.

“Good to see you. And careful there, we’ve got a visitor.”

The cat chirps at that, like she’s trying to say, “Hi, yes, I’m here!” and Kate scoots closer to take a look.

“Hello tiny one. Who are you?” Kate coos at the kitten, gently reaching out. Cautiously at yet another new human, the cat sniffs at her hand, then accepting Kate petting her.

About a minute later, three grown adults and one large dog are sprawled across the living room floor as they watch the kitten slowly emerge from the towels and start exploring her new environment.

Lucky seems to be interested, but remains calm. He is long used to meeting other animals, and so far, he has been gentle and well behaved with all of them. As time goes on, the kitten gets a little braver and walks straight up to the dog.

Lucky is crouched down to the floor with his front paws, back legs propped up and tail wagging. As the cat walks up to him, the message “come on, let’s play!” is written all over his face and he boops her with his nose.

The size difference is enormous. Lucky is a large dog, and although he is of gentle nature, there is a lot of strength packed into him. He might get overexcited and waltz into people, clear the living room table with his tail or tackle Clint to the floor whenever he comes home dead on his feet, but he knows to be careful when interacting with kids or smaller animals.

This kitten is literally the size of his snout. Despite this, she lumbers over and cautiously raises one tiny paw and quickly taps Lucky’s nose. He sniffs her, then gives her another boop with his nose. After a while of back and forth, he simply flops down onto the floor without a care in the world and the kitten curls up on Bucky’s lap again to take a long nap.

It’s been a long, long day.

When Bucky is curled around Clint that night, with Lucky by their feet and a little nest of blankets and a heating pad for kitty to cocoon into right next to the bed, he’s happy and content. Part of him is wondering, wishing… With a sigh, he falls asleep and the last thing he notices is the feeling of fur under his fingertips from where his hand is dangling off of the bed. Then a soft kiss to the sensitive skin on his neck, and he is out like a light.

The next day, first thing after breakfast, they make a field trip to their usual vet. While the kitten didn’t seem to be particularly unwell, they want to make sure she is all well as she can be - especially to think of the way Bucky has found her in the first place.

He’s done this countless times before, and yet this is different. Bucky finds himself even more concerned, even more protective than usual, but as it turns out, the kitten is as well as she can be. A little girl, mostly healthy although undernourished. With love, care, time and regular check ups, she will have a happy start in life, the vet says with a smile and sends them back on their way.

Both Bucky and Clint are relieved to hear this - as adorable as the first evening has been, both of them have been concerned.

“So…” Clint starts, pulling Bucky out of his kitty-watching-trance as they sit in the subway with the carrier in between them, “Do you know what you wanna call her?”

It only takes him one long look into the blue eyes and the fluffy white fur to decide.

“Alpine. I think she looks like Alpine.”

As if to agree, Alpine chirps and Bucky all but melts into a puddle. This cat has totally wrapped him around her paw and she knows it.

“I just-” he stops himself, but Clint looks at him questioningly. “I just hope whoever ends up adopting her likes that name, too.”

Bucky is pathetically proud that he sounds as calm as he does. He has fallen heads over heels in love with this little creature, and as much as he’d love to keep her, he knows they can’t keep every stray they find. Letting go means more space for more little lives they can save.

“Oh I’m sure he does.” Clint answers instantly.

“Wait, you already know…?”

“Of course. He’s kinda tall, dark hair, a bit grumpy looking. Metal arm,” Clint continues, and Bucky is left sitting there dumbfounded as he alternates between staring into his boyfriend’s eyes and into the cat carrier.

“...Real handsome fella, great abs by the way, and don’t get me started on-” Okay, so he’s definitely blushing now. Goddamnit.

“Oh my God, Clint, stop flirting, you’ve already got me. Can we maybe go back to the part where Alpine is somehow… Mine?”

The little old lady sitting across from them chuckles, shoots them a fond look and then pretends to look out the window instead of eavesdropping on their conversation. She is not nearly as sneaky as she might think - or maybe she just doesn’t care.

Clint blinks, then smiles. “Of course. You’ve found her, and I don’t think anyone would be able to separate the two of you even if they tried. Not that I’d want to. I love watching you interact with her.”

“Aww, how sweet.” the old lady coos, and Bucky can feel his cheeks heat up even more, but there are butterflies in his stomach. He didn’t think he could fall any more in love with this wonderful man next to him. He is well aware that he is probably grinning like a fool, but he’s too happy to care.

He is in love, life is good, and he’s a Cat Dad now. Taking the hand Clint is offering in his own, fingers intertwined, he remains mostly in silence for the rest of the ride home.

Really, what else could he possibly wish for?

If anyone would have told him a few years ago that this would be his life one day, he’d have thought it to be a cruel joke. But it’s very much real, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

“Lucky, we’re home!”

The announcement is entirely unnecessary, since the dog in question is already waiting behind the door, ready to greet his humans in the proper fashion he approves of - running face first into their legs and getting up on his hind legs to be able to reach their faces to lick.

“Hey, boy. Yes, I know, we’ve been gone forever.” Clint is rubbing Lucky’s ears just the way he knows he loves, and is rewarded with a sweet, absolutely content, open mouthed doggy smile and a wagging tail.

Bucky snorts - it’s not even lunch time, but try explaining that logic to the dog. It doesn’t stop him from petting Lucky just as much as always, because coming home here still feels like the best thing ever.

“Look, your little sister is back home again.” Bucky tells the dog while gently ruffling his fur.

With perfect timing as always, Alpine is strolling out of the now open carrier like she owns the world, then she patiently allows Lucky to lick her head a few times. She leans into the touch and flops down to the floor, completely happy where she is as long as Lucky remains close to provide a heat source.

Later in the day, Bucky naps on the couch with Alpine curled up on his chest. Her purring vibrates through him like a little motor, and while dozing off, he can feel something settle deep in his chest.

Bucky is on the way out of his therapists office once again when his phone vibrates with a new text message from Clint. He steps to the side in the hallway, because of course it’s pouring from the skies outside once again.

When he opens up their ongoing conversation, there are two new messages - a video, and a row of purple hearts and crying emojis. Nothing else.

He uses the wifi of the building to download the video, and when he lets it play, Bucky is about to melt into a puddle right there and then.

The video shows the cozy corner by the heater in their bedroom, and Lucky is in his usual spot in his fluffy dog bed. From the side of the frame, Alpine climbs into it and snuggles up right into the dog's face.

Alpine is as tiny and fuzzy as always, which never fails to steal anyone's heart.

But especially next to Lucky’s giant head and the way he grooms her until she’s got enough and simply wants to snuggle more has Bucky clutching his phone in a deathgrip, smiling all over and getting impatient to be home.

Before he heads off, he replies with just about the same emojis that Clint sent with his message, then Bucky forwards the video to Steve, Nat and Sam.

Another night, not long after, Clint walks into the apartment to find music playing loudly.

He doesn’t need to go far in to check what’s going on, because he can already see Bucky waltzing through the room with Alpine in his arms, looking like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

Clint falls in love with him all over again, and he spends quite a bit of time just standing in the doorway, watching the scene in front of him with a besotted smile. He loves coming home to this - so much.

When Bucky sees him, he waltzes over, still holding Alpine in one arm, he pulls Clint close to dance with him - and who is he to deny a beautiful man his wish when he looks at him with so much sparkling happiness in his eyes?

It doesn’t matter that Bucky is in sweatpants and fluffy socks while Clint still wears his combat boots, carefully avoiding stepping on any toes. They’re simply living in the moment, as best as they can.

Lucky, sprawled all over the couch, just blinks his one remaining eye open to watch what the funny humans are up to now - then he dozes back off, content just where he is.

*+~

Prompt No. 27 - Little Sister

Notes:

This is the most adorable video. And it was my inspiration for writing this ♥

https://banashee.tumblr.com/post/626543621873795072/everythingfox-illegally-small-via

#banashee writes #marvel fanfiction #winterhawk #tw animal abuse

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statistically-unlikely-monster · 5 years ago

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Secrets No More

Chapter 4: Long Awaited Arrival

We’re winding down to the end guys! This chapter is a bit shorter than the others since this is mostly for leading up to the final chapter. Edd only left Matt and Tom for five seconds, and everything goes wrong.

Edd sat at his desk, head cradled in his hands and staring down at the mess of papers. As soon as the monster appeared, it disappeared again without a trace. It had been days since the police chief assigned him to the job, and he had nothing to show for it. All he had was old evidence and the word of a few witnesses. No matter what he did, all the information led him to a dead end.

“There’s got to be something missing.” He grumbled, chewing on the end of his pen. Ringo hopped up onto the desk with a purr. Her little tail swished from side to side, knocking papers down to the floor, “Dang it Ringo, these are important.”

Ringo just mewled. As Edd reached down to clean the papers up, the cat used his back as a springboard and ran over to the door. She scratched at the door with her little paws.

“What?” Edd asked her, forgetting the papers to see what she wanted, “You want out?” He opened the door for her and jumped back in shock, “Gah! Tom what the heck?!” Tom was standing just in the doorway, leaning against the wall. The bags under his eyes were so dark he looked like a panda. His disheveled pajamas hung baggily over his body, and for some reason they carried a strong scent of lavender.

“Morning,” Tom groaned with a yawn, “...Sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Judging from the heart attack you gave me, yeah, you did,” Edd grumbled, straightening himself, “Better question, are you okay?”

Tom absentmindedly nodded, staring off at the corner rather than looking at Edd, “Yeah...yeah I’m good...just a bit tired.”

Edd folded his arms, “When was the last time you slept?”

Tom just made the “I don’t know” sound before rubbing his eyes, “Can’t sleep if I wanted to...Personal stuff.”

“Riiiight. And what’s with the lavender?” Edd inquired, starting to consider forcing Tom into bed.

“Matt said it keeps you calm. I need to be calm and awake. That’s how I stopped myself from transf-” Before Tom could finish his sentence, he passed out for a split second, about falling over, “AH!” He jolted himself awake.

Edd took Tom firmly by the shoulder, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to sleep. You look awful.”

Tom shook his head before stumbling down the stairs. Soon after Edd heard loud banging all the way down the stairs, followed by a pained groan.

“All the grace of a vacuum cleaner,” Edd sighed, heading after Tom to make sure he was okay. Tom laid at the bottom of the stairs. The way he landed made him look like a marionette that just had its strings cut, “Tom, are you okay?”

Tom slowly pulled himself up, giving Edd a thumbs up before flopping onto the couch. Matt, who was sitting on the other side, flew up like he was on a trampoline.

“Okay, well, I’m going to work,” Edd said, slipping his book bag on over his shoulders, “Matt’s in charge. Matt, make sure Tom takes a nap or something.” He stepped out the door, but then poked his head back in, “Oh, and you two better not break anything else while I’m gone.”

Matt and Tom nodded as Edd left, leaving them to their own devices.

“Welp, you heard Edd, it’s nap t-” Matt started to say, looking over at Tom to see he fell asleep again leaning against the arm of the couch, “Huh, looks like you beat me to the punch.” Hopping up, he lifted up Tom like a little kid, and carried him back to his room.

Tom’s room was as messy as ever. Sheet music, empty bottles, and dirty clothes carpeted the floor. Blue walls were filled with boards and posters that poorly hid holes that Tom swore he didn’t cause. Most of his furniture had a checker print pattern, including his bed. Matt laid Tom down, slipping Tomee Bear into his sleeping friend’s arms before covering him up and quietly creeping out of the room.

Left to his own devices, Matt went back downstairs and watched some Professor Why with Ringo. It was rare for him to be left on his own. Mostly because anything he touched would magically break or just get lost, only to be found again in the most bizarre of places. The last time Matt was on his own, the couch somehow got on the roof.

“I’m in charge,” he repeated to himself with a big grin on his face. He kicked his legs up onto the coffee table and folded his arms above his head, “King of the house. Master of the home. Lord of the abode.” he listed off, gently stroking his own ego.

Meanwhile, Poweredd was soaring above the city, looking for anything remotely suspicious. With it being so early in the day, most people were just starting to come out. The daily crowds milled about the shops and sidewalks.

“Must be nice,” Poweredd grumbled, “They get to relax, and here I am on a wild goose chase.” He perched up on top of a building, looking down at the people below, “For all I know it skipped town.”

He sat there mulling it over. There had to be a clue he was missing. Something he skipped; a footprint, a hair, anything. Without that last little puzzle piece he was left with nothing.

He pulled out his phone and tapped on the video the police chief sent him from the last time it appeared. In the very corner the date was marked in white letters. The video was all in bright greens like night vision since the chief ripped it from a traffic camera. He watched it over and over again for clues and never found anything.

Slowing it down, he picked through frame by frame, trying to pick out any tiny detail he missed. At first, everything was the same, but then he noticed something. The monster was only attacking things when it had the strange light in its eye. Anytime the light stopped, it stopped. These moments only lasted a few seconds, so it was no wonder why he didn’t pick that up.

“It’s being controlled?” he wondered to himself. Suddenly his train of thought was derailed by someone calling to him. Looking down, there was a little kid staring up at him.

“Are you a real superhero?!” She called up, cupping her hands so her tiny voice could be heard.

Poweredd sat up, “Yeah! Watch this!” He stood up on the ledge, and dived. The little girl shrieked in fright. She covered her eyes in fright.

Just before hitting the ground, Poweredd stopped himself by hovering just over her head, “Look,” he chuckled with a giant smile on his face.

The girl peeked out from her hands, looking up at the hero flying over her. Her face lit up with pure joy, “COOL!” She bounced up and down, pigtails bobbing along with her body, “What else can you do?!”

Poweredd landed on the ground, “Well…” He scanned around, and found some cardboard boxes in the alley. Stacking them up, he looked back at the girl, “I got a little something I call the Power Punch. Here, watch this.” Radiant green light collected around his fists and eyes. Reeling back his arm, he punched the cardboard boxes, blasting the one he hit into pieces and sending the other boxes flying.

The little girl cheered, “THAT WAS AWESOME!” She was bouncing so much he was sure she was going to start flying herself, “You’re the coolest! Who are you?!”

Poweredd chuckled, “Name’s Poweredd. The best superhero around...in this city at least.”

The girl got his autograph from him before running off to meet with her friends, “Thank you mister Poweredd!”

Poweredd waved her goodbye, resting his hands on his hips and feeling much better about the situation. His brief moment of pride was cut off by the phone ringing, “Hello?”

The police chief was on the other end, “Poweredd, that you kid? Listen up, I just got a whole bunch of reports on that monster of yours. It’s finally showing itself.”

“Really?! Where?!” Poweredd questioned.

“Some little neighborhood on the outer part of the city. This first one said it was on Dubrary Lane.” The police chief replied. Something was shuffling around on his end.

Poweredd’s heart skipped a beat. That was the same street he lived on, “Dubrary Lane? Are you sure?”

The chief just grunted in reply, “You better get over there. I got reports saying it’s attacking a civilian. I think it said the guy was a uh...redhead.” The chief hung up on him.

“Oh god, Matt!” Poweredd shouted, barreling off toward home. A sinking feeling in his gut came out of nowhere, made by not only stress, but his powers reaching their limit. He used up so much just trying to find the monster that he didn’t let himself recharge, and showing off to that kid helped by no means.

#eddsworld #ew edd #ew tom #ew matt #ew poweredd #ew monster tom #ew fanfic #secrets no more chapter 4 #this is going to be the second fanfic i actually finished #usually i stop and say i'll come back to it later by now

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grimmseye · 5 years ago

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The Color Red

Fandom: Critical Role, Campaign 2

Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Yasha

Tags: Pre-stream, Protective Mollymauk, Protective Yasha, Flowers, Circus People being Pals.

A prompt request from @midnighter13 for Molly and Yasha back during their circus days, and what they might get up to on a day off.

Read on Ao3 here

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The florist’s shop is beautiful.

It’s a spilling of colors, delicate petals and curling leaves, stems in all shades of green. She sees some that are smaller than the nail on her pinky finger, some blooms would nestle snugly in both hands. Yasha couldn’t name a single one.

She gives a sigh, gazing through the window. The shop guard is giving her a wary look — she knows she cannot linger too long. Eventually the guard will approach her, question her. She’ll tell them she’s with the circus that rolled into town, but they will look at her face and her hair and her arms and her sword and still turn her away. Why she isn’t allowed to just admire the flowers, she couldn’t possibly know.

Yasha reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of silver pieces. A bouquet would run her gold. Still, maybe she could afford just a single stem, one of those bright red flowers that aren’t quite bloomed yet, the petals hugging each other like an upturned bell.

The guard eyes her visibly as she approaches, and follows her into the shop. This is fine, and common. The sensation of a gaze on the back of her neck still is not comfortable. Mollymauk — he thrives under a spotlight, catches attention with his tongue and teases it between his teeth. She tries to mimic his posture, straightening upright and putting a swagger into her hips. She does not have a tail to wag as she taps heel-to-toe through the shop.

The customers are quick to move out of her way, letting her examine a basket of these flowers. One Rose: 1S it advertises. A silver piece could be the difference between having a meal or not one night, but this bloom is just so gorgeous.

The shop bell rings. She does not look up, until a far smaller hand is in hers and Mollymauk is smiling into her face. “We need to go,” he breathes.

Yasha’s face darkens. She encloses his hand within his own, the two of them breaking for the door. The guard moves for just a moment, a hand moving to his sword.

“Pardon me, sir,” Molly croons, voice sugary-sweet even in his winded state. “We don’t mean any harm.”

His eyes glaze over. A flush rises on his cheeks as he stands aside and motions them through with a stammered, “Of — of course.”

Something about the charm he can conjure always makes Yasha’s skin prickle, though it’s not quite the bristling from the first time she’d witnessed it. Backing away from him, a hand on her sword, knowing better than to be convinced by the shock and the hurt on his face and the furious tears beading in his eyes as he balled his hands into such tight fists that his palms dripped blood. Now she knows what it really is. A moment of confusion, no different than flaunting a pretty smile on an exceptionally pretty face. Mollymauk has never hurt someone without cause, and that is enough to secure Yasha’s faith.

They shoulder out the door, and at once she sees the issue. There is a team of guards patrolling the streets, and they turn at the sudden motion. They point, shouting, and Mollymauk yanks on Yasha’s hand to send them both bolting down the street.

They let go of each other, paces matched between Molly’s agility and Yasha’s long stride. He pulls ahead, skidding like a cat around a corner and into some back alley. There’s a yelp, Yasha catching the sight of Molly breaking away from some civilian he’d just crashed into without apology. Yasha clips her with her shoulder as she barrels through, knocking the woman back to the ground.

At the other end of the alley, a team of guards rush past, and then abruptly double back. “Yash, need a boost!” Mollymauk calls, feet skittering to halt himself and dart back her way. She drops down, fingers knitted, catching his foot and heaving upwards. Molly lands with a clatter of roof tiles.

There’s a telltale series of clicks and then the thwack of crossbows firing. Pain flares in her back, her arms. Molly snarls in infernal, a phrase she recognizes as approximately meaning I’ll eat your heart out! One guard cries in pain and a bolt whizzes past her ear.

The pain pulses, a sneer pulling at her lips. She can feel the heat of blood and adrenalin and the muscles tensing. As Mollymauk skitters, nervous and dripping blood from his nose — they have an agreement: you run, get me out later. If they’re both caught, they’ll be useless for each other.

But she’s not getting caught. Yasha gives a shout as she surges upwards, catching the roof’s edge and clawing her way up. Molly puts a hand on her arm, his tail flagging excitedly as he beams, says, “You’re amazing, let’s go.”

They leap across three rooftops before hitting a main thoroughfare, leading to the city limits. Molly tucks and rolls as he lands, Yasha takes the impact. He hisses, scolds, “You’re going to fuck something up like that!”

“I can still run,” she says, and shoves him forward.

There’s a sudden row of snap, snap, snap. One, two, three bolts strike into Molly’s side. As he’s pitching forward, his foot slides out and back, he hits the ground face first and then immediately seizes with a gasp of pain. Blood soaks through his clothes, bright red bleeding over white. It fills Yasha’s vision.

There’s a trio of guards, each of them loading a fresh bolt into their crossbows. One stands back, a horn blowing loud and clear into the sky, summoning more ants to swarm them.

Yasha’s breath huffs out of her. A vein bulges in her forehead, hefting her sword to let it glint in the evening sun. She bares her teeth as she stalks towards them, feels the heat of her own bloog suddenly go cold, feels her hair stand on end, feels something dark and dreadful work its way out of her chest as she screams out at these guards in pain and fury and a promise to inflict Mollymauk’s pain back on them tenfold.

They drop their crossbows and bolt. A feral, raging part of her wants to give chase and crack their skulls into the ground. But Mollymauk is gurgling on a laugh behind her, and that is far more important. Yasha sheathes her sword, rushing back to him and falling to her knees, cradling Mollymauk in her arms. He’s so little like this.

“I’m fine,” he smiles at her, eyes squinted. “Actually this hurts like a son of a bitch and I need medical attention, but I’m breathing!”

Yasha stands, cradling him close against her chest. He nuzzles shamelessly against the curve there and mumbles something about the best pillow, and Yasha’s lips twitch in a faint smile as she carries Mollymauk out beyond the city’s gates. No one moves to stop her.

The circus has an encampment just a little ways out, far enough that they can pack up and run if the guard comes after them. Their resident healer chews Molly out as they pull the bolts out of his flesh and jab at the wounds until he’s cursing in the devil’s tongue. Yasha growls at them, then, and they get back to healing.

“Sorry for the fright,” he laughs. “Turns out it’s pretty offensive to call yourself an angel there. They shoulda sent you, then they’d’a bought it.”

Yasha snorts and taps his forehead. “Me? You don’t believe that.”

“‘Course I do! I’d never lie to you.” He winks at her, and Yasha scoffs.

The thing is, it’s true.

“I’m just glad you were at that florist. Did you get anything?”

“Mmm.” Yasha pulls out her handful of silver, playing with the coins. “No. That’s probably best, though. I would have wasted money on just a flower.”

Molly frowns. “Well, a waste. I guess you don’t want this, then?”

He pulls up the sleeve of his coat. Blooming in his palm, lines scratched into his arm from the thorns, is a single red rose. He plucks it out, losing his grin for a moment to cuss and rub his arm. “Those things sting, you know?” He smiles again, softer this time, as he offers it to her, a flower as vibrant as the red of his eyes.

Yasha is covering her mouth, she realizes. She lowers her hand to take it, cradling the bloom. “Molly,” she breathes. “You just took this?”

“Well, I was sure to drop a silver piece on the way out,” he smiles, and bumped his horns against her arm. Yasha wraps her arm around him to pull him close — and immediately lets go as he cusses and clutches his injured side.

#Mollymauk Tealeaf #mollymauk #yasha #yasha nyoordin #critical role #cr2 #cr #my writing #cr fic

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