#got the head for rangi just need to figure out what to do about the body......... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

somethingwritey · 3 years ago

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How is the Rangshi long fic coming? Id love an update on ittttt!

Hello! I'm so glad you're still thinking about my Rangshi fic! It's currently around 20k at the moment—definitely getting a bit carried away!

Because you asked, here's another little out-of-context snippet ;)

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“Do you think the spirits would mind if I assassinated a world leader?”

Jinpa jerked his head up at the question, risking a glance behind him at her. Kyoshi knew she must be a sight to behold, laying out across the wide saddle and staring up at the darkening clouds. In her hands, she opened and closed a fan in time to her pounding pulse.

“I don’t think that’s listed as an Avatar duty,” Jinpa stammered, thoroughly taken aback by her proposal.

“Bummer.”

Jinpa was quiet for a few moments, no doubt trying to edge around the subject towards her reasoning. “I take it that meeting with the Fire Lord went… poorly?”

Kyoshi propped herself up on her elbows to stare him in the face. She hoped he could read how absolutely stupid that question had been. She’d emerged from the Fire Lord’s palace by stomping, causing tiny earthquakes as she marched over to the stables. That should’ve been indication enough.

“He’s out of control.” Kyoshi shivered—Rangi’s absence making itself very apparent just then; she could always be counted on for a little extra warmth while traveling.

Kyoshi went back to staring at the sky.

Zoryu’s words about the Firebender still echoed in her ears, doing more to chill her than the night air ever could. She wished she could put more distance between Rangi and the Fire Lord, despite being hidden away in Yokoya.

For a terrifying moment, she wondered if Zoryu somehow knew. If he could see the girl in her cotton shift, laid out on the infirmary bed with her hands knotted in the sheets. If he had discovered a way to look at the bruises on her face and the way her breath still rattled slightly whenever she breathed. Maybe this whole meeting had been a distraction, a diversion to take Kyoshi away from the infirmary and Rangi. Maybe, it was too late.

“Jinpa!” Kyoshi felt her heart pounding in her ears. “Fly faster!”

She worked herself up as they flew, imagining horrific scenes of injury and destruction—rivaling the iceberg or North Chung-Ling - only this time, it would absolutely be her fault. If anything happened to Rangi, the Flying Opera Company, even Hei-Ran and Atuat, she would be to blame.

Kyoshi gripped the edge of the saddle, her knuckles turning white from the effort. She watched the ground grow closer and closer as Yingyong spiralled into a descent. Her chest tightened with every drop in altitude, and once, she almost slipped over the edge and plummeted the last several feet to the ground.

“Quiet evening.” Jinpa seemed on the whole unaware of her own personal panic. He landed Yingyong with ease and dismounted, walking around the side of the bison to assist Kyoshi like he always did.

She didn’t wait for the monk to make it over to her. She tumbled from the saddle, falling hard onto the ground and scrambling back up to her feet.

“Kyoshi!” he yelled after her in disbelief.

She didn’t turn around, stumbling towards the infirmary to what she knew would be waiting for her. Blindly, she pushed open the door and tripped over the doorway, panting and gasping for air, to find -

No evidence of violence. No ransom note or bodies or trails of blood. Just Hei-Ran and Atuat sitting in a few chairs with bowls of noodles, with the rest of the Flying Opera Company still bedridden, but looking more vibrant than before. Even Rangi looked, on the whole, unchanged, propped up in bed. Someone had even taken the time to put her hair back up in its usual topknot.

“Well,” Hei-Ran said dryly, taking in Kyoshi’s haggard appearance. “Are you being pursued by wolfbats? Lion vultures? Spider snakes, perhaps?”

Kyoshi’s face flushed red, and she tried hard to catch her breath - smoothing down her skirts to remove the ruffles.

“Did the monk get eaten?” Atuat asked calmly, taking another bite of her noodles. Clearly, the two women were enjoying the joke at Kyoshi’s expense.

Rangi covered her mouth, looking as though she was trying to keep a straight face for Kyoshi’s sake and failing at it. Kyoshi glared at her.

“Not you, too.”

A little snort escaped Rangi’s fingers, and her eyes went wide.

“Some bison ride you must’ve had,” Kirmia ventured, surveying Kyoshi’s windswept state. “What did happen to that Airbender of yours?”

Kyoshi gestured out the door. “Probably unsaddling Yingyong,” she told them all, still somewhat out of breath. “I, uh, just needed to check something.”

“The Fire Lord put you on edge?” Hei-Ran put down her bowl of noodles, staring hard at Kyoshi.

She forced herself to look back calmly. The last thing she wanted was to let everyone know that she’d gotten worked up over some unfulfilled threats. And now that she was here, even Kyoshi could tell how stupid she’d been. The infirmary was the safest place for Rangi right now, surrounded as she was by Hei-Ran and Atuat and unable to make any wrong move the Fire Lord could use to justify an attack.

Kyoshi forced a smile, relaxing her shoulders the best she could. “Nothing of the sort.” She tucked her fans back into her belt. “The meeting was simply to confirm what he already knew. Pretty big waste of time, actually.”

Hei-Ran was still studying her skeptically, probably trying to pinpoint the reason for Kyoshi’s sudden change in demeanor. Kyoshi dared to look over at Rangi again.

Her expression mirrored her mother’s, lips slightly pursed and head tilted to the side. If Kyoshi didn’t want Hei-Ran to discover the true nature of her meeting with Zoryu, she definitely didn’t want Rangi figuring it out.

Rangi’s station meant everything to her, and she took her job very seriously. If she knew that her own Fire Lord was pondering possible ways to strip the girl of her life - or worse, her honor - she would lose it.

Kyoshi had already seen how Fire Nation citizens treated their disgraced ranking officials. Hei-Ran had been pitied, patronized, pet like an animal. If anyone were to take that tone with Rangi, well, Kyoshi couldn’t promise that she would be able to keep her Avatar State in check.

“Care for some noodles?” Atuat gestured to her own bowl, holding it up for Kyoshi to see.

There was no way Kyoshi could turn down food. She hadn’t eaten since… well, Kyoshi couldn’t quite remember the last time she’d eaten, and she could feel Rangi staring daggers at her.

“Yeah,” she smiled at Atuat. “Noodles would be great.”

////

It was three days before Rangi was able to stand.

Atuat worked on her the best she could, trying to heal the internal damage caused by Yun. She told Kyoshi that bits of his earth dagger had broken off inside her wound, causing irritation and leaving a large possibility for infection. It didn’t help that Rangi was a terrible patient.

“I can get up,” she kept insisting. “I’m fine!”

When Atuat finally let her try, Rangi leapt at the opportunity, getting to her feet much too quickly and nearly doubling over from lingering stiffness and pain.

“Careful!” Kyoshi cried, hovering nearby. The outburst earned her stares from both Rangi and Atuat.

When Rangi straightened up again—slower this time—Kyoshi could see the imprint of the bandages under her shift - wrapped generously around her torso like battle armor.

“Are you sure she should be doing this?” Kyoshi asked Atuat, probably only fueling Rangi’s determination. “She’s still got bandages on! What if she starts bleeding again? We can try again tomorrow! Or next week!”

“Kyoshi, what’s your problem?” Rangi narrowed her eyes.

She was being far too overprotective, Kyoshi knew. She should back off. Let Rangi manage her own recovery. But even though it was inviting Rangi’s wrath, Kyoshi didn’t want her Firebender’s stubbornness to impede her healing process.

Rangi needed to take it slow. Make sure she didn’t make things worse with her rush to get better. As much as Kyoshi wanted to see her girl back on her feet, she knew it wouldn’t benefit either of them if it happened too quickly.

That’s what Kyoshi told herself as she watched Atuat support Rangi and instruct her to gently raise and lower her arms - stretching out her muscles. Kyoshi just didn’t want Rangi to overextend herself. To tear open her wound. To hurry an infection along. Her concern was born from love and care, not selfishness.

Or cowardice.

As if to poke holes in her reasoning, Hei-Ran entered the tent, arms crossed. “Jinpa told me your meeting with the Fire Lord ended… abruptly.” She glanced over at Atuat and Rangi for the briefest of moments. “Rangi, straighten your shoulders. Injuries don’t excuse bad posture.”

Rangi huffed, but obediently did as she was told. She respected her mother’s authority, whether she liked it or not.

Kyoshi picked her next words carefully. Lying to Hei-Ran was never a good idea, but neither was letting on just how badly the meeting had actually gone. “I think�� the messages of both parties had ample time for sinking in.”

The words could’ve come straight from Yun’s mouth—vague with just the right amount of high-brow language. Maybe she wasn’t a hopeless cause after all.

Hei-Ran seemed surprised by the response as well. “I see. And what message did the Fire Lord impart on you?”

Shit.

Kyoshi tried to think on her feet. “Politics,” she said at last. “The importance of… political relations.”

“Sounds like the stuff Jianzhu used to preach,” Rangi offered, crinkling up her nose at the mention of the departed sage.

Hei-Ran sniffed dismissively at the mention of the man who’d nearly poisoned her to death. Kyoshi wondered inwardly if the woman ever mourned Jianzhu, despite everything. He had once been her close companion, after all.

Every one of Hei-Ran’s old friends were gone, she suddenly realized - swallowing hard. Kuruk. Kelsang. Jianzhu. The once-inseparable gang hadn’t stayed that way for very long. Hei-Ran was the sole survivor.

Killed after hunting dark spirits.

Murdered by Jianzhu.

Murdered by Yun. And me.

What terrible fates had been waiting for the previous Avatar team, often at the hands of each other. Was that what waited for her? For Rangi? For Wong and Kirimia? Was every Avatar doomed to bring failure and annihilation to the people who loved them most?

“Atuat,” she said sharply, turning to look at Rangi who’d made good progress accompanied by the Waterbender. “That’s enough for today.”

“Yes, Avatar.”

As Atuat moved to help Rangi back to bed, Rangi protested - an angry haze settling over her face as she watched Kyoshi move towards the door.

“What?” Rangi twisted in Atuat’s grip, trying to break free, to run after her. “Who let her call the shots around here? Kyoshi, don’t you dare walk away from me! I’m not through talking about this!”

Kyoshi didn’t turn around. She couldn’t.

“Fine! Go clear your head! See if I care!”

And then Kyoshi made it out of earshot.

She would delay Rangi’s recovery as long as she possibly could, drag it out until the spirits themselves were begging the Firebender to get back on her feet. Because at least here in the infirmary, tucked away in Yokoya, she had people to keep her safe. She couldn’t get herself thrown into another life-threatening situation while she was still recuperating from the last one.

Kyoshi wouldn’t be the reason for Rangi’s obliteration.

And neither would Zoryu.

---

more coming soon! my commissions are open (and so is my ask box!)

#rangshi #atla #rise of kyoshi #kyoshi x rangi #longfic #writing commissions #fanfic #shadow of kyoshi #kyoshi #avatar kyoshi #avatar the last airbender #rangi x kyoshi #fan fic #fic update

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herenortherenearnorfar · 3 years ago

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This Tornado Tolerates And Respects You

A little story about Gothmog and orcs that I’ll probably put on other sites later. But for now, a tumblr exclusive! CW for the terrible reproductive politics of evil (implied reproductive coercion, forced childbearing, light eugenics), orc awfulness, disdain for incarnates, radiation poisoning, chemical weapons, Fingon’s fate, mentions of cannibalism, malnourishment, ear cropping, and all of the above with the implied harm to children.

Orcs, Lord Melkor’s special pet project, a blasphemy first and a strategic asset second, didn’t make the best troops. They could swarm over a target in a useful mass of bodies but they lacked skill and drive. For the Captain of Angband’s own force of fire and shadow, spirits sprung free from the tyranny of the Valar, orcs were a sea of troublesome bodies, cluttering up the field of battle. More flesh to whip through, barbed wire quick, more lungs to choke with lime gas. An annoyance, not an ally.

He didn’t have very high expectations of them as a source of soldiers and there were very few individual orcs who he respected. Gorfaunt was one of those rare exceptions.

They’d fought on the same battlefield under the taunting stars, in those blissful days before the heavens changed, and he’d been impressed by the orc commanders ability to marshal troops. Very few in that division ended up trampled beneath Balrog feet. Even the retreat was prompt, almost orderly, without sacrificing that wild spirit which was one of the orcs’ few redeeming qualities.

When it came time to capture the stripling-king of the elves he’d requested Gorfaunt’s orcs in particular. Once again they’d proven their mettle and the commander had become of of the Captain’s favorites. If orcs had to be stationed next to their betters it was preferable that it be Gorfaunt’s orcs, who knew how to comport themselves and could fight near Balrogs without dying in droves.

Now with the latest glorious battle (and another successful collaboration, the Captain still glowed at the memory of the Noldor’s latest king cracking open to spill his red insides over his silver banner) behind them and Lord Melkor demanding Nargothrond and Gondolin, they met once a month to strategize, share intelligence, and complain about everyone else. To an outsider they might have passed as friends. There was less formality between the two of them than another high general of the iron fortress might have demanded, they sat at the same table and spoke freely.

(The Lieutenant still asked commanders to bow before him; that was why even his own troops called him Sauron behind his back. Gothmog was a superior appellation, less insulting, more fearful, but he still didn’t hasten to encourage its use.)

Despite their surface level amicability and the handful of tried-and-true inside jokes—mostly having to do with how enemies had died— they could bat at each other, they knew very little about each other’s lives. Meat and smoke only mixed when making a brisket, trying to relate two such different ways of being seemed impossible.

But when he saw Gorfaunt waddling into their monthly kvetch with a belly round and swollen like a tick’s, the Captain felt driven to say something. He was the marshal of Angband, he couldn’t let his king’s forces go to seed.

“Are you ill? Cursed?”

Gorfaunt managed to pull out a chair, made for a Balrog three times the size of an orc, and hoist themselves into it with rangy arms. “No? Just five months with a baby kicking around in my insides. The little bugger’s finally starting to show itself.”

That took a second to decipher. “You’re having a baby?”

Of course the Captain knew the basics of how incarnates made more of themselves. It was a topic of great fascination in the old days, when Yavanna was first figuring the system out, and of course the Lieutenant would prattle on about warg breeding to anyone who’d listen. They had sex— another thing that did not come naturally to beings of spirits, though some Maiar had made astounding progress in the field, for pleasure was pleasure and even Nienna’s acolytes sought catharsis and comfort—then there was lots of squishy biology on a level invisible to the incarnates themselves, then a little parasite was somehow blessed with Erú’s fire, to be nurtured until it could nurture itself.

He also knew that orcs, like elves and dwarves, had little distinction between men and womenfolk. Useful when it meant you could channel your entire adult population to battle. Startling when you realized that a key ally had been quietly pregnant for months without you, a greater being able to perceive stalactites growing and the scales on insect wings, noticing.

In truth he’d been doing a lot less noticing of late. His senses were dulling. Perhaps it was the light of the cursed gems, which painted everything in blinding, indistinguishable holiness. Or he was just losing his touch.

If he focused now he could see it. It was easiest to sense on the plane of wraiths. There was Gorfaunt, a guttering candle; wheezing, weak. All orcs had that fire, however dim. No one had managed to fully extinguish it though it had been much suppressed. Tucked against her, nearly imperceptible, was a little spark. Not much yet but given tinder and carefully fanned it could grow. “You’re having a baby,” he marveled.

Gorfaunt’s face was… orcs were hard to read at the best of times, bubbling over with noisy pain and anger that obscured their true emotions, prone to skin diseases and horrendous eye infections that muddled their expressions. She didn’t wear her gas mask around him anymore, though most were quick to cover up around any Maia of Morgoth. It helped little, her face was still opaque as the mountain itself. “Yep, Captain.”

“Good?” You congratulated an ally on a new weapon, a new bond, a promotion. Which one was an infant classified as? What was the correct form?

“Hopefully it’ll be over and the little goblin will be in the caves with the old’uns by the time we find either of the cities.” Gorfaunt provided, only barely contextualizing his felicitations. She was chewing on the inside on her cheek; sometimes she would gnaw until she spat black blood. “Terrible time for it. Terrible time. But the high ups are worried about reinforcements down the line, I suppose.”

Orcs came from orcs. It was a fact so simple it barely bore considering. Another department handled it. The new ones just showed up, springy and long limbed, faces still soft and unmarred. “Goblins” he’d heard older orcs call those fresh pale creatures. Barely even monsters, more like stunted, crepuscular versions of the elves and dwarves they fought.

“How much longer?” They had a few good leads on Nargothrond, a promising word about Túrin Turambar. The Captain could not sack that city himself, the honor had already been promised to the sulfurous worm. Apparently they wanted to test the mettle of these dragons. But Gothmog could assign a few good orc commanders to supervise, make sure the worm was not overstepping his bounds.

Dark blood trickled out of the corner of Gorfaunt’s mouth. “Five months, I’m told. Could be more, could be less. Then I have to wait until the thing is independent enough to leave alone, that’s another few months.” She was probably counting months as the orcs had started to, by the moon. Wretched traitor, Tilion, who’d laughed with them at the idea of running away then turned his face when the time came to flee for freedom. They hated it as much as everyone else but in their hatred they were aware of its cycles. They rejoiced when it went dark.

“You’ll still be able to manage your underlings?” Orcs, and freed Maiar, were fractious. They did not respect a leader who lacked the strength to force them to obey. It could be exhausting. And Gorfaunt was already so round. The Captain did not wish to lose her support over one orcling.

“I think so. So far… in old days you’d den up somewhere for a year, avoid everyone prowling for blood, but I don’t want to fight my way up the ranks again. I’ve got an ax and I’m using it.” Despite that she sounded tired.

Long heartbeats stretched between them, that exquisite embarrassment of two coworkers suddenly forced to talk about private affairs.

“This is your first,” the Captain didn’t reach the tone of a question with that one.

“Yes. The recruiters were getting growly so I grabbed a fellow. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

“You don’t want a child.” Again, not quite a question. He was feeling it out as he goes along. This is the longest conversation about orc reproduction he’s ever paid attention to, for the Lieutenants diatribes we’re always dull.

It was no matter to him, except that this was the only orc commander he could tolerate working with and she was chewing through her own cheek in discomfort.

“They take something from you,” Gorfaunt admitted. “Dame and sire both, but worse for the dame since she has to carry the clot. You go… stretchy. Bleached like old bone. I’ve seen soldiers and after twenty children they’re not good for anything but shoving onto a line of pikes. Raw meat for the wargs.”

That didn’t make sense to him, but he was never a scholar of flesh or spirit. He knew how a skull split and how a soul fled, how this matter-sprung life withered, how it died. That was all that counted. He also knew how to value a resource.

“There won’t be any after this,” he said firmly. “Not if you don’t want them.” If need be he’d escalate to Lord Melkor, frame it as sapping strength from their command structure and propose making officers off limits from breeding programmes.

“As you command, Captain,” she said with a bowed head, but she looked gratifyingly relieved, and their conversation could finally move on to the latest stories of occupied territories and the search for the hidden cities.

The next few months Gorfaunt somehow managed to get bigger and bigger, until she was no longer able to swing herself into a chair and had to take their meeting standing. Her leather armor no longer fit and with just a thin layer of rags over her distended stomach it was easy to see the squirming creature inside.

Ferocious little animal. It would go so still and then kick out again, as if it could burst free of its creator by force of will alone. The kernel of its mind was forming too, a hazy bubble of sensation and half formed emotion. He could see what had the Lieutenant fascinated. It wasn’t his field but it was morbidly interesting, seeing the shape of something new and moldable come together right in front of you.

But he had not been made a sculptor or a craftsman. He’d been born a wild thing, a tornado, a volcano, every disaster meant to fell cities, and though he had not known the words yet he’d sensed in his core, seen in glimpses in the song, that he was a creature of war. Like many other wild things—Ossë, the simpering coward tied up in Uinen’s tresses, excluded— he’d found his way to Melkor in the end. Oh, he’d idled for a time with Vána, heard Námo’s dolorous call, but it was Melkor who he came back to and Melkor who he picked in the end.

Melkor taught him so many more ways to be. The smoke, the blood, the screaming not in sorrow but in anger. He taught the others who came to him as well. In the Captain’s little squad alone there was one who learned the slaver’s whip and the threat of fire, one who learned the ooze of pus and malodorous air, one who came to appreciate the ravenings of rabid beasts. From the dragons in the treasure-caves to the cat in the kitchen to the vampires in the highest towers, they were all Melkor’s creations.

Gorfaunt, born and raised here in the shadow of his ancient power, was even more Melkor’s than most. This was how the Captain rationalized his continuing fondness for her as she weakened, his interest in her spawn. Works of the same maker might gravitate together. They could see parts of themselves in each other, the way he could once see himself in other Ëalar born of the same bit of song.

When Gorfaunt came in four months after their revelatory meeting with a sagging belly and a bundle nestled against her chest he was excited to finally see what had been made.

It took a bit of coaxing to get her to show him the baby but no orc would outright refuse an order from anyone stronger than them, they knew better than that. The newborn was dutifully unwrapped and presented, though Gorfaunt’s expression suggested that she considered this all a silly waste of time.

It was a rumpled wet creature; mostly skin and bones, with a cranium as big as its rounded torso. Small too, barely bigger than Gorfaunt’s hand, and Gorfaunt was smaller than all elves and many humans; based on overheard complaints failure to grow was an ongoing issue with their kind. When it was unswaddled sticklike limbs flailed out and began batting at the air ineffectually. Despite this wriggling its face remained in a sleepy scowl. It wasn’t until Gothmog moved one cherry-hot finger closer to it that it opened its hazy grey eyes and tried to focus on him. Even then the dismayed frown stayed put.

An unscarred orc was always an interesting sight; for it revealed the scale of their reworking. How much orcishness was self-replicating, as the Lieutenant liked to claim, and how much had to be beaten in? This one had a droopy brow bone and already peeling corpse-grey skin but it did not look much like an orc besides that. It even had hair, which most orcs lacked (aside from a few lank patches). The fine red down covered its whole body, thickest on the head and face and arms.

“It’s supposed to fall out,” Gorfaunt said, “Everyone says it’ll fall out soon. Even the prisoners lose their hair after a while, especially in the deep mines.”

That was probably because of the miasma of decay that emanated from the ores of Angband. Not macro-decay, of skin and bone (that came later) but the infitesimal decay. Every piece of metal— every piece of existence, when you got down to it— was made of little stars. There was a gaseous center of energy and little orbiting specks around that, spinning in probabilistic loops. Like stars some were bigger and some were smaller and some were ready to collapse. Ilmarë loved to speak of supernovas. The yellow and blue metals below the mountain were full of little stars collapsing, reforming, giving off energy in great sums as they did so.

The Captain had noted the negative effects of this energetic output on incarnates some time ago. Elves sickened and humans just died— Lord Melkor had moved the man he hoped would give him the location of Gondolin far from those mines for a reason. A few of the spirits with natures inclined towards metal, salt, and industry had already incorporated the burning energy into their signatures. The Lieutenant doubtless had some wicked little experiment running with it. It was a part of life here, that background hum of a trillion crumbling particles, and the Captain never thought of the effect on orcs, though they were exposed from birth.

Now that he focused he could see the little crumbs of decay glancing off the baby.

Hmm.

It would probably be fine.

It was already rubbing its eyes and going back to sleep, one hand curled next to a crumpled, not-yet-cropped ear.

“Are you recovered?” he asked Gorfaunt.

“I’m fit enough to fight,” she said shortly, defensively, as if afraid he’d snatch her command from her. “I’ll be better soon when this thing is gone.”

The Captain’s huge palm hovered over her infant. He knew better than to touch; his ability to change forms was not what it once was, he could not stop being a bipedal avalanche, to strong, too close, too dangerous. Even just containing the noxious gases— the pustulent yellow and choking green— simmering inside this war shaped body was difficult. If he kept a few feet distance the chaotic heat of his skin faded into the air and the baby wriggled contentedly in the ambient glow, like a little lizard.

“And how long will that be?”

Gorfaunt’s hand twitched. Another few months, till it can manage worm meal and listen to the grands.”

It seemed impossible that anything could be big enough to leave alone in such a short time; but incarnation was not the Captain’s specialty. “And that’s the accepted practice?”

“A little young, but safe now that the master put a stop to the baby eating problem.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a concern,” the Captain said very seriously, even though his fingers curled slightly around the baby’s limp body. “We can make modifications if the child must stay longer.”

Gorfaunt glanced down at her sprawled offspring. “I don’t— I don’t want this to last any longer. I’d rather have my life go back to normal.”

That, at least, he could understand. It has been a rather troubling experience overall. Revelations are not always useful and though he’s gained some knowledge it’s not very practical stuff.

“One more question, commander, then I’ll drop the matter. What is it named??”

That nascent mind bubble had sharpened with time and experience but was still comprised mostly of sensation. He could not even grasp at a basic sense of self. The child’s mother should know what if calls itself, if anyone did.

(He wanted to remember the name, for forty years from now, when he needed more good orcs. All those rants about the fundamentals of inheritance left him with some ideas about how incarnates develop traits. Another Gorfaunt would be a helpful tool to have on hand.)

The question left Gorfaunt unimpressed. “It doesn’t name itself anything yet, it hasn’t got the common sense. And no one’s given it a name because it hasn’t done anything interesting.”

“It has an interesting look” the Captain pointed out, “Tell them to call it Red Cap,” he slipped into the elf tongue, which had better color words than the one the Lieutenant devised, and in the process accidentally named the child after a former king of the Noldor. “Or something like that.”

Gorfaunt apparently had a better memory for politics than he gave her credit for, or perhaps just a distaste for the elf cant, because she quickly translated it back into Angband’s crackly tongue . “Rotbint.”

“Yes.” A Balrog, even the chief of Balrogs, could not give much to something so soft and incarnadine. A name, incorporeal, existing in the plane the Captain knew best, was the only thing he could offer. “Now, to business?”

Gorfaunt wrapped the little creature away— it woke halfway through the rolling to stare at them once more— then tucked it against her chest.

The Captain was sad to see it go, though he couldn’t say why.

He remembered that he had come to this physical world for a reason once. He had wanted to see all there was to see, to feel and taste everything, chew chunks of Arda up and spit it out new. Disasters hungered as much as anyone. Yet all he’d had lately was war fare; blood-soaked mud and rage-tinged fear.

Deprived of fresh experiences, he clung to the potential, the novelty, of new life.

Perhaps Gondolin would see him out of his funk, he thought. It couldn’t hide forever.

“We’ll find it, Captain,” Gorfaunt assured him stubbornly. “And we’ll tear it down brick by brick, raze their gardens, fill their streets with blood.”

Even with a baby trying to gum her collarbone her firm tone allowed no questions.

Orcs were, as a rule, bothersome, unruly, walking corpses. Fractious, ugly, difficult, bothersome, recklessly stupid. The Maiar serving under the Captain were sometimes stereotyped as simpleminded brutes but at least they were able to perceive the world around them, even if few bothered to use that perception. In comparison orcs were stumbling around in the dark. They were inefficient as well, you needed three of them to take down any decent enemy. But when they were well made they were well made. Those were the ones that made it all worth it.

It had to be worth it. This was freedom, after all.

#the silmarillion #gothmog #orcs #silmarillion fanfiction #angband #fanfic #Sauron gets some mentions

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topknotsstuff · 4 years ago

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Rangshi fluff

This is my first time writing fluff so I hope it isn't bad!

One shot for @andyxdraws

"Kyoshi are you listening?"

Kyoshi was startled from her deep concentration on what she had been working on for hours now.

"Huh? what? I'm sorry I didn't catch what you said."

She turned around in her chair to face the annoyed face of her girlfriend with a sheepish smile.

"I said I got you boba."

The short woman pressed the cold drink to her girlfriend's tanned freckled cheek. She cracked a smile when the other girl flinched away at the cool feeling of the drink against her skin.

Kyoshi grinned and set down her pen and removed her glasses from her face. She took the drink from Rangi's hand and took a long sip from it with a hum.

"mmm, My favorite!"

Rangi chuckled and took a seat beside her at the table. She leaned over to see what Kyoshi was making.

"Mhm, black milk tea, half sugar, no ice but with honey this time."

She recited from memory causing Kyoshi to blush. Rangi was always very observant of her. They had only been together for a month but she already knew more about her than Kyoshi even knew about herself. It was embarrassing sometimes.

"So what are you working on now?"

She was interrupted from her thoughts and set down her boba. She had been working on a commission for about a few hours now and she still wasn't close to finishing.

"It's a full piece of all the starter pokemon and their evolutions through all the gens! I'm finishing up Diamond and pearl right now! I'm having the most fun drawing Piplup. they're cute don't you think?"

Kyoshi pointed to a small half-colored penguin on screen with one of her long fingers. She had a huge crooked grin on her freckled face while showing off her achievement with pride.

Rangi chuckled leaning in a little closer to observe the cute creature on screen. She hadn't gotten into pokemon because of how strict her mother was when she was younger but she attempted to watch it in any of her free time or when she was with Kyoshi.

"Yeah, he looks really cute!"

She looked up with a smile and pecked Kyoshi on the cheek. She loved her girlfriend and that would never change even if she were a little childish at times.

Kyoshi looked down a tint of a blush rising to her cheeks and ears. She looked up with a nervous expression on her face.

"Can I have another?"

Rangi's features softened and she leaned over again a placed a soft kiss on her freckled cheek. She loved moments like these where she could kiss her sheepish girlfriend without a care in the world.

She pulled away and admired Kyoshi's face that was slowly turning a shade of tomato red.

"T-thank you!"

she squeaked out and grabbed her boba taking a few big gulps of it.

"Careful or you're going to choke!"

Rangi warned her oafish girlfriend.

Kyoshi stopped mid-sip and almost choked. She pulled the straw from her mouth and put the cup back onto the table and turned to her worried girlfriend.

"I'm fine."

she coughed lightly into her arm and turned back to her tablet. When she finished Piplup's evolutions she'd make sure to cuddle with Rangi but for now, she would have to wait.

Rangi pressed up against Kyoshi's arm and rested her head against her shoulder. she could stay here all day leaned against her beautiful girl, but if she let herself do that then Kyoshi would surely neglect her own needs for her comfort. She didn't like it but it did warm her heart knowing her girl loved her just as much as she did.

Rangi closed her eyes and sighed sinking deeper into the warmth that was slowly lulling her to sleep. Her eyes grew heavier and her breathing slowed. It wouldn't hurt if she took a small nap.

...

Kyoshi sat down her pen and pulled off her glasses setting them off to the side with a tired sigh. Her arm had gone numb hours ago but she couldn't bring herself to move it and end up waking her glowing girl. She looked so cute when she was asleep. her lip would jut out just slightly and her nose would twitch slightly at certain moments and her lips would pull up into a smile.

Kyoshi rested her hand on the snoring girl's head and stroked her soft hair. She hated having to wake her but the sun was setting and it was getting late.

"Rangi."

She spoke softly moving her hand down to stroke her cheek.

Rangi stirred and opened her eyes staring up sleepily at the tall figure. She at up and rubbed at her eyes with a soft yawn.

"Hmmm?"

She dragged out, her eyes drooping again. Her head tilted to the side with a small annoyed sleepy whine.

Kyoshi giggled and stood up putting away her tablet and pen back into her desk. She picked up her empty boba cup and threw it in the trashcan by her desk.

"come on let's get you to bed."

Kyoshi leaned down and wrapped her arm around her glowing girl effortlessly pulling her into her arms.

Rangi wrapped her legs around her waist and rested her head back against her shoulder. Her eyes drooped as she pushed her face into the crook of her girl's neck snuggling closer. She let out a content sigh and closed her eyes slowly falling back to sleep.

Kyoshi walked to her office door and opened it flicking off the lights and closing the door behind her. She would have to finish the commission tomorrow. Hopefully, she could get it done before Rangi would have to go to her classes in the afternoon.

Kyoshi usually did her classes from home. She found it easier to do art classes and work at home. She got a pretty good amount of pay from selling prints and doing commissions. She had even taken up animation and has been making animation commissions for about a month now. They were all hard work but she made sure to put time into them.

Kyoshi pushed open her bedroom door and closed it behind her as she made her way to her bed and laid Rangi onto it. She leaned down and pulled the covers over her body and placed a kiss against her head.

"Good night Rangi."

She whispered and reached out to turn off her bedside lamp but was stopped by a hand that pulled at her arm and tugged her onto the bed.

"Stay."

It was a plea that Kyoshi couldn't bring herself to ignore. She pulled the smaller girl against her chest and rested her lips against her forehead.

"Of course."

Rangi smiled up at her with tired eyes and snuggled closer, "Promise?"

Kyoshi smiled and kissed the tip of her nose causing her glowing girl to giggle, "Promise."

Rangi closed her eyes. Snuggling up to Kyoshi like this always felt like a dream. She didn't know how she was so lucky to have someone like Kyoshi. Her moon, Her star, Her beautiful girl.

Kyoshi reached over and flicked off the lamp and pulled her closer.

"I love you."

Rangi hummed and pressed a kiss to her lips resting her forehead against her girl's forehead with a sleepy smile.

"I love you too."

With those last words, she sunk back into Kyoshi and closed her eyes falling back into a sleep where she was resting against Kyoshi like every other night she was able to stay with her girl.

Next time she would take Kyoshi out to a cafe but for now, she would enjoy what she had.

#Rangi #Kyoshi #Rangshi #kyoshi x rangi #modern au #boba

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ofsinnersandsaints · 4 years ago

Text

Pebbles and Sparky

rating: G

word count: 3955

one shot

Fjord knows where Sabian is, and after a long and drawn out negotiation with the Plank King, the Mighty Nein is allowed 24 hours to find Sabian, get their business done, then get off the island.

Or, Fjord and Jester corner Sabian and scare the shit out of him in order to get the answers Fjord desperately needs

Special shout-out to @humble-wayside-flower for the nickname Sabian has for Fjord 😘

AO3

Fjord sat next to Jester in the inn’s dining room with the rest of the Mighty Nein around them as they tried to decide the best way to get to Sabian.

They were on Darktow, having been able to barter their way back onto the island after getting exiled months before. The Plank King had given them 24 hours to take of their business and get off, but if they made any noise, or were in any way disruptive, they would have the entirety of the pirate community after them.

Keeping their heads down and not making a wave wasn’t exactly the Mighty Nein’s strong suit.

Jester had scried on Sabian once they were at the inn, and had been able to narrow his location to a particularly raucous bar in the middle of town. Fjord was worried the second his old crewmate spotted him, he’d run, so they needed a way to figure out where he was and what he was planning.

“I’ll go in,” Beau offered, leaning forward with her tankard in hand. “Get a lay of the land, see if I can get eyes on him. I’m a criminal, I’ll fit in.”

“Hey,” Jester cut in, clearly offended. “We’re all criminals, Beau. We were pirates.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Beau apologized. “But that’s like, water criminals. I’m also a land criminal, I’ll just go in like I’m a wine smuggler. Give me twenty minutes.”

Two minutes of debate later the group agreed to let Beau in go alone, but Veth would trail her and keep in contact with her via message spell so if anything happened, the group could come to her aid.

“Stay safe,” Fjord encouraged as Beau adjusted her cloak, before they’d landed she’d switched it from the Cobalt blue to the plain brown to better fit in.

With a nod, and a quick squeeze of Yasha’s hand, Beau left. Jester scooted her chair closer to his and reached over to take his hand, her body pressed against his. “How are you doing?”

“It’s weird,” he admitted. “Been running towards this for a year, and suddenly I’m a couple of minutes from seeing him again.”

“It’ll be over soon,” she reminded him. “And then you don’t ever have to look back again.”

Fjord wished he could be that optimistic. “Your mouth to the Wild Mother’s ears.”

“I know,” she dug into her backpack. “I’ll draw tarot cards for you.”

He smiled as she pulled out her deck and shuffled them. Fjord didn’t particularly believe in tarot cards, but she loved doing it so much he wasn’t about to dampen her fun by telling her that. And it was fun to see her get so excited about the cards she drew, about finding meaning in them. The way he figured it, it wasn’t much different than him meditating or Caduceus doing communion.

When she looked for answers, this where she found them, and occasionally she found them for him too.

“Cut,” he told her because they’d done this half a dozen times by now.

“Okay, this is for the past,” Jester turned the card over. “Ooooh, it’s the Bed & the Hearth.”

Despite the fact they’d been together for months now he still blushed when she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at him. “The bed is up which means rest and comfort, but the fact that it’s empty means there’s decisions to be made. Which you’ve done,” she reminded him. “We’re here, we’re looking for Sabian. The next one is the present.”

He told her when to cut the cards. “This is a good card! It’s the Sword & Shield.”

According to Jester, every card was a good one, or an interesting one, but Fjord played along. He threw his arm along the back of her chair. “What does it mean?”

“It means,” she stared as she turned the pages in her little book to find the right section. She read a couple of sentences before hitting him on the leg, proof of her excitement. “The shield is up which means you’re standing up for your beliefs. It’s an indication of protectiveness, but it can also mean you’re under attack.”

Fjord didn’t believe in tarot cards, but shit did they get it right sometimes. “I don’t suppose those cards tell you whether or not I’ll succeed?”

“We’ll do a card for the future, that’ll tell us.”

He looked over her shoulder as she revealed the last card. “Storm & Sun, haven’t we seen that one before?”

Jester nodded, “The storm was up last time, but this time it’s the sun.”

“Sun is good?”

“Unless you’re Yasha, she wants to get this card with the storm up. But for you,” she quickly read the paragraph and he watched the slow smile curve across her face. “Healing, progress, and overcoming hardship. It’s good, Fjord.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. “We’re going to be okay.”

“Well, then.” Oddly enough, the knowledge and her certainty made him feel better. “Here’s to being good.”

Jester spent the remaining time doing Yasha and Caduceus’ tarot cards, and just on time Beau walked into the dining room looking confused and maybe a little angry. Veth came in a step behind her, grinning like an idiot.

“You okay there, first mate?”

Beau sat down and drank almost an entire tankard before she looked at him. “He hit on me.”

Fjord smiled at the confused and slightly offended tone to her voice. “Is he still alive?”

“Yes,” she assured him with a roll of her eyes. “He didn’t even use a good pick up line. Does that shit actually for dudes?”

He shrugged, “Sabian’s always done well with the ladies, but I always thought he was a dick. He was a one and done kind of guy.”

“He’s slick,” Beau judged. “And not in the good way. His accent sounded kind of like your old voice, but less drawl, and more clipped. I don’t like him.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Seven of us,” Caleb corrected. “What did you gather from him?”

“He didn’t give away much, but he’s not here for anything good, I can promise you that.” She reached out and took some food from Caleb’s plate. “He’s got a meeting for later though. When I turned him down he hit on some guy at the bar and they made arrangements to meet up in thirty minutes.”

“They’re going back to Sabian’s place,” Veth added. “That would be a good place to corner him.”

“We can all go,” Caleb offered. “A united front.”

“Yeah, and I’ll hide in the shadows and put a bolt in his ass if he so much as sneezes,” Veth added gleefully.

Fjord smiled, but shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I’d feel better knowing you lot were hovering nearby. But…But if it’s alright with everyone, I’d like to talk to him one-on-one to start.”

“I’m going with you,” Jester announced, her narrowed eyes daring him to argue with her.

“Of course you are.” Her expression immediately softened, grinning as if she’d just won an argument he’d had no intention of starting. “If anything goes down, Jester can send an SOS.”

Caleb and Beau looked at each other and after a moment they both nodded. “Okay, but we’ll stay close by, just in case. Ja?”

Fjord nodded and grabbed Jester’s hand as they both stood up. “We’ll talk soon.”

Together he and Jester walked towards where Beau and last seen Sabian. Apparently he’d been living here for a while, which meant there was a better than good chance he’d been here during their brief visit before. What would he have done if he’d known?

“Do we have a game plan?”

Fjord snorted at the question, “No. Should we?”

“Beau would probably have come up with one,” Jester shrugged, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned.

“Probably shouldn’t start out with punching him.”

“Probably not,” she agreed. “We can try being nice.”

He thought about it for a second before shaking his head. “No, he wouldn’t buy it.”

“Then we play it by ear,” she decided. “We’ll see what his reaction to seeing you is.”

“I’m kind of hoping he shits his pants.”

Jester laughed and swung their intertwined hands back and forth. “Me two. Get it? Two.”

“Excellent pun.”

“I thought so. Do you think he knows about the bounty hunter?”

“Probably not, Kotho seemed pretty damn good at her job.”

“Then we’ll definitely have the element of surprise.”

Fjord nodded and kept an eye out for the people leaving the nondescript building a couple doors down from the bar. It only took a few minutes for the half elf to emerge, instantly recognizable with his dark skin and easy swagger. It was bizarre to see Sabian so unchanged.

The past few months had utterly change Fjord, he was stronger, better, and yet Sabian looked almost exactly as he had the morning of the shipwreck. Lean and rangy, he was stronger than he looked and quicker than anyone else on the Tide’s Breath.

Fjord walked along the sidewalk, Jester at his side, and then crossed the street to put himself in Sabian’s way. The half-elf orphan with a quick simile and shuttered eyes widened when he realized who he was looking at.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my old buddy.” Fjord watched as Sabian took in the entire scene, saw those dark eyes dart around as if to make sure there weren’t more people hiding in the shadows. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Sabian’s charm was almost a match for his own, but Fjord immediately caught deception in the casual greeting. Whatever Sabian felt, whatever he’d planned for the night, he was jut a little scared at the sight of Fjord suddenly in front of him. “Nice to see you survived.”

“You as well,” he smirked and tucked his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Not scars, I hope?”

He had three, but Sabian he said, “Nothing I couldn’t survive.”

“Seems you found some treasure at the bottom of the ocean,” Sabian pointed out as he looked at Jester. “Sabian Flint, at your service.”

Jester’s voice was flat as she met the sailor’s eyes. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Fjord barely held back at a laugh at her response. Instead he took a step towards his old acquaintance. “I have some questions to ask you.”

Sabian shook his head. “It’s in the past, let it go.”

“Let it go?” Fjord demanded, anger rising to the surface at the sheer lack of concern in Sabian’s voice. “Those sailors died, they’re gone, men we served with, worked shoulder to shoulder with for years. They had people who loved them, who miss them, and they deserve answers. I deserve answers.”

“Calm down, Pebbles.”

The nickname wasn’t new, and neither was the patronizing tone, but Fjord was more than willing to let it slide off his back. His girlfriend apparently had other ideas, as he saw a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. He barely had a chance to wrap his arm around Jester’s waist before she socked Sabian in front of a crowd.

“He’s not worth it, Jessie.”

She struggled for a second, and they both knew if she wanted to she could escape, but she eventually settled. “It’s Captain Tusktooth, you asshole.”

Sabian smiled, as if he was looking at a small kitten showing its claws. Fjord was more than a little tempted to release his grip on Jester and let her beat him to a pulp, but it might be a better idea to let him think they were weak. The Mighty Nein would prove Sabian wrong if it came down to it.

“Captain, huh? Got a ship of your own?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, but didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to give Sabian any more information than was strictly necessary. “And a crew. None of whom would stab each other and then blow up the ship.”

“You really don’t understand,” Sabian shook his head as if disappointed in Fjord. “And you never will.”

“I understand more than you think.”

“And yet you still felt the need to track me down to ask me questions? You’re as clueless as you’ve always been, Pebbles. But you know what they say, ignorance is bliss. Enjoy your bliss, and your lady friend, and stay out of my way.”

Fjord watched Sabian turn around to walk away, and he couldn’t think of anything to say to stop him. Aside from physically detaining him, there wasn’t much he could do.

“What did he promise you?” Jester asked to Sabian’s retreating back. “For every soul Uk’otoa gets, he gives you a little more power?”

Sabian stopped walking, his entire body seeming to have frozen in place. Slowly, he turned to face them both. “Excuse me?”

Jester snorted and crossed her arms in front of her. “You think you’re the only person who knows about the snea snake? Because you’re not.”

“He can’t be that high up,” Fjord added. He had no idea how Jester had connected those dots, but now that she’d said it, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized the possibility sooner. “He probably doesn’t even know about the orbs.”

“Oh, definitely not.”

“What do you know about Uk’otoa?” Sabian asked, but Fjord was drawn to the way Sabian’s fingers had begun to move. He recognized those movements, they’d been instinctual to him after surviving the ocean.

Sabian knew magic.

Before his former crewmate could do whatever he planned, Fjord cast a spell of his own. Throwing out the magic towards Sabian before he could do any damage to himself or Jester.

“What did you do?” Sabian demanded. His voice was strained and Fjord could all but see the muscles tighten as Sabian attempted to fight against the paralyzation which had suddenly come over him.

“I cast hold person,” Fjord explained matter-of-factly.

“Impressive,” Jester complimented him. “He can escape from it though, can’t he?”

“That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Jester’s grin was bright and eager as she patted the axe at her side. “I’ve been wanting to hit him for a while now.”

“Let’s get him out of the open though.” They hadn’t made a scene yet, but it was only a matter of time before someone noticed Sabian couldn’t move. “I don’t want anyone helping this piece of shit.”

“No problem,” Jester picked up Sabian by the waist and Fjord laughed so hard he was pretty sure he pulled something in his rib. “Come on, Sparky.”

She carried him down an alleyway as Fjord followed her. “Fuck, I wish the rest of the crew could see this.”

Jester grinned over her shoulder as she set Sabian back down, still paralyzed but anger and embarrassment darkening his cheeks.

“You dumbass half-orc,” Sabian roared. “I’ll get out of this and then you’ll regret ever finding me.”

“Shut up or I’ll make you shut up,” Jester warned and the look in her eye must have been enough of a warning because while Sabian still threw daggers from his eyes, he didn’t say anything else.

“If we try to take him back to the ship like this, he’ll call for help,” Fjord pointed out, fully aware Sabian could hear them.

“We can stick him in the bag of holding and take him back to the ship.”

“He might die in there,” Fjord pointed out casually.

“He’s got at least ten minutes,” Jester reminded him, voice pragmatic. “But we are in the middle of Darktow, so it might take longer than that. We’d have to walk fast.”

“And work up a sweat?” Fjord asked, feigning disgust. “No, thank you.”

“Good point,” Jester chewed on her lip as if she was deep in thought. “I mean, if he dies I can always bring him back. Or we could just cast speak with the dead and get our answers that way. We don’t actually need him alive.”

Fjord nodded, fully aware Jester was playing to the growing fear in Sabian’s eyes. He wanted to kiss her, but he figured now probably wasn’t the time. Instead, he held out his open palm and summoned the Star-Razor. Turning to face Sabian he put the sword to the half-elf’s neck, putting just enough pressure on the skin for Sabian to feel it. “You’re going to come with me, and you’re going to cooperate.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

“We both will,” Jester corrected helpfully. “We like to do couple things together like get revenge on dumb, small dicked cowards like yourself.”

Sabian’s eyes flitted from Jester to Fjord, confusion mixing with a growing sense of fear. “Fine, I’ll go with you.”

“Holy shit, that’s him?” Beau asked as Yasha tied up Sabian in one of the storage rooms on the lower decks.

“Yeah,” Fjord nodded. “Yasha, could you maybe gag him too?”

“Love too,” Yasha answered, and passed over two different pieces of cloth before finding a dirty rag and shoving it in Sabian’s mouth.

Fjord was going to buy her a hundred flowers for that alone.

“Hold on, I don’t want him to hear us talking.” Jester turned and cast a quick spell, “There. I cast silence on him, now he can’t hear us and even better we won’t be able to hear him.”

“Thanks,” Fjord ran a hand down her back. “We should get the rest of the Nein down here. I don’t want to go far in case he manages to get out of those manacles.”

“I’ll get the others,” Beau offered, then turned towards the stairs and shouted at the top of her lungs for rest of the group. With a triumphant grin she looked back to Fjord. “There, they should be here in a second.”

“I think you destroyed one of my ear drums.”

Beau shrugged and didn’t even pretend to hide her grin, but good as her word, the other three members of the Mighty Nein came below decks. “You bellowed, Beau?”

“Fjord and Jester kidnapped Sabian-“

“Sparky,” Jester corrected. “We’re calling him Sparky now because he was rude to Fjord.”

“Cool,” Beau acknowledged. “And now I guess we’re going to interrogate him. Is that the plan?”

“We didn’t really plan much further than bringing him to the ship,” Fjord admitted. “But I think Jester figured out why Sabian did what he did.”

“I think Uk’otoa got to him,” Jester explained. “Or maybe Avantika? Possibly Vandran, but either way I think Sabian found out there was a powerful sea god who could give him powers, and what better way to prove your allegiance than to gift him with a dozen drowned sailors?”

“You think he blew up the boat to get in Uk’otoa’s good graces?”

“What other reason would he have had?” Jester asked Veth.

“She’s right,” Caduceus nodded. “It was just a merchant ship, wasn’t it? There was no strategic reason to bring it down, and you said the ship was practically empty, didn’t you Fjord?”

“Yeah, we were on our way to pick up cargo.”

“And it’s not like Sabian had insurance on the ship. There was no reason to bring down the Tide’s Breath except to kill everyone on board.”

“He’s not very powerful,” Fjord pointed out. “If he’s got magic, he doesn’t have a lot of it.”

“Power comes from experience,” Caleb explained. “If he’s been hiding out on the island since the sinking, then he’s not exactly testing his boundaries.”

“Coward,” Beau muttered.

“That’s what I said!” Jester laughed. “I also said he has a small dick, but I don’t know that personally.”

“He looks like a guy with a small dick,” Yasha nodded sagely. “Probably can’t hold his liquor either.”

Beau leaned over to look at Sabian. “You’re totally right, babe.”

“So what are we going to do with him?” Veth asked, refocusing the conversation. “Cause if we have to share our rations with a prisoner he’s not getting any of mine.”

“The Plank King gave us 24 hours to take care of our business, and while I think Jester’s right about why, I still have a lot of questions. After that, I think we should give him over to the locals and let them deal with him.”

“They can’t have good opinions about men who kill their fellow crew members,” Caleb agreed. “They’ll exact their own justice.”

“Hopefully the same kind of justice they gave Avantika,” Jester muttered. “But hopefully this time he doesn’t creepily climb over our ship as an undead sea witch.”

Veth shivered at the memory. “The less we can have that happen, the better.”

“Someone make a scary ‘let’s kill him’ gesture,” Jester ordered and without missing a beat Yasha drew her thumb across her neck and then looked directly at Sabian.

“That should not have been as sexy as it was,” Beau commented and Fjord rolled his eyes.

“Keep it in your pants, Beau.”

She glared at him and then they both just grinned.

“Okay, I’m going to talk to him, see what info I can get.” He looked down at Jester, “Mind being my muscle for a little bit longer?”

Jester put her hand over her heart and looked incredibly sincere as she looked him in the eye. “It would be my honor, Fjord.”

“Let us know if you need any help,” Caduceus offered. “I don’t think I’d be any good at interrogating a live person, but it might be interesting to find out.”

A chuckle rippled through the group and then they dispersed.

“Ready?” Jester asked.

“One thing first.” Fjord tugged Jester out of Sabian’s eyeline and leaned down to kiss her. Jester rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him back, both of them just taking the moment before Fjord eventually pulled away.

“What was that for?” Jester asked.

“I need a reason?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Not normally, no. But that felt like it had a reason.”

“Just… thanks for having my back.”

“Anytime,” she promised. “Now, let’s get Sparky to pee his pants.”

Fjord waited until he stopped laughing before walking into the room. “Mind getting rid of the spell?”

“Oh, right.” Jester waved her hand and they could suddenly hear the grunting of Sabian fighting against the binds and gag.

“Before we let you have your say, there’s a couple things I want you to hear.” Fjord once again made the Star Razor appear and he rested the tip against the wood of the floor and spun it around idly. “I’d like to have answers, it would make everything quite a bit easier, but the thing is: I’ve lived without answers for a while now, and I think I could live the rest of my life without them.”

Sabian’s eyes darted behind him, and without looking Fjord knew Jester and created her serrated lollipop, the slightly purple glow reflecting off his sword was easily recognizable. “So the thing is, I could kill you, and move on. Eventually, I’ll forgot about you and the fish will eat you, and there will be no evidence you ever existed. Or…”

Tearing his eyes away from the terrifying spiritual candy, Sabian narrowed his eyes at Fjord. “Or what?”

“Or you could tell us what we want to know and go back to Darktow. As long as you don’t leave, we’ll let you live. Otherwise?” Fjord picked up the sword and swung it around. “I’m going to see how many times I can cut you before you beg for mercy.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Fjord stepped forward, all the confidence and self-assurance he’d faked in the past now real, and smiled slow and wicked. “The lady already told you, I’m Captain Tusktooth. And you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

#critical role #critical role fic #fjorester #fjord #jester lavorre

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writefinch · 4 years ago

Text

Dear Dairy, Pt.1 (cn: noncon, Mm, kidnap, emphasis on *forced* feminization, induced lactation, milking, bondage, drugging, induction of gender dysphoria in a cis guy, things of that nature)

7th July 2018

Cold day today. I dusted off my scarves for the first time this year. Not literally, they'd been vacuum sealed and packed away when the weather turned in October. I threw out the red and yellow knit scarf, something I should have done last year, as it's far too Harry Potter. I was going to pick out the UMIST scarf but that felt a touch dull for the first scarf of the year. In the end I picked out the green silk paisley, which I felt provided a contrast with the pink shirt. I wore them with the second-hand grey Armani that I've yet to have tailored; I haven't yet decided if it's worth the trouble. I'm leaning towards yes, as I received two compliments today, one from Jason's database administrator, a charming and flirtatious--to say nothing of attractive--lady from Perth. We've talked about the possibility of meeting up for drinks at some point, and I'm increasingly inclined to take her up on the offer.

Experiment C2 is adjusting to his newfound freedom since his release last week. It was sad to see him go, and I'll cherish the time we spent together, our first night especially when he violently objected to the idea of servicing me. Oh, how he kicked and fought, clawing at his neck chain, scratching me, biting, swinging wildly. He bloodied my nose rather viciously and left me in no mood for sex that night, to the extent that I almost let him go entirely.

Of course, his demeanor changed altogether after I bagged him. A clear plastic bag over his head, taped around his neck, watching him gasp and writhe for air that isn't there, screaming his silly little head off until he's sure that he's taken his final breath, then tearing a tiny hole over his nostrils. I let him suck in four generous lungfuls of air before I bagged him the second time, and I went through seven bags before allowing him a rest. After that he became such an agreeable and solicitous cocksleeve you'd have thought he was raised in a merchant marine!

Still, he was unsuitable both physiologically and psychologically for the experimental interventions, and I only have so much space in the cellar, so I had to let him go. Some of my social acquaintances are keeping a close eye on him. He's been told that running his mouth will lead to nothing but the cold grave, and I believe he's a bright enough lad to take that to heart.

I'm beginning the search for his replacement tomorrow.

20th July 2018

I've found him! I've found him I've found him, he is everything I've been looking for, he is perfect, it is as if God placed that boy on earth for no other purpose than my need for him. I can barely contain my excitement.

He is an itinerant surf bum, twenty years of age, single, underemployed, estranged from his family. He has flowing blond hair, a few wisps under his chin that can barely be called a beard, deep brown eyes, and a lithe, rangy figure that seems to be slowly growing into the top-heavy carrot-shaped build of a classic surfer. He's been living in town since May, surfing most days, doing temp jobs, lodging in the spare bedroom of a friend of mine.

What a perfect physique! His body is accustomed to being dashed over rocks and whipped by surf, what fun I will have finding and surpassing his tolerances for pain! Oh, to restrict and ration out air to a boy who has trained himself to hold his breath underwater since he was a young teenager, to see those taut muscles stretched over a rack, I cannot wait, I can't wait.

I won't speak or write his name. I now take every action with the foregone conclusion that he is mine, and that he is already Experiment C3. In my mind, he is already in my cellar.

My friend has kindly allowed him to get behind on his rent, and C3 apparently plans to move to Sydney in ten day's time, driving out across the country in his decade-old Ford Ka, surfboard strapped to the roof. When he disappears a few days before that, people will assume he left to avoid paying his rent.

They won't be wrong, in a sense. C3 won't be worrying about rent for a long, long time...

26th July, 2018

It hasn't been an easy choice, and it is in fact a decision I've been struggling with for some time now, but I've decided to let my hair go grey. I'm almost forty for heaven's sake, and I noticed my first grey a year before the financial crisis. Ever since then I've been religious in my application of dye and toner, carefully concealing each and every one of the pale little buggers that pops up, but it's gone from something I'd do after a haircut to something I'm doing twice a week. I won't rush it, I'm going to ease off the dye over the course of the next year or so, but by next July I'll be au naturelle salt and pepper.

Work remains dull but tolerable. I know I'm blessed to be able to do most of my duties from home given my hobbies, but there's a certain sense of removal from everything, as if it's not really a job at all and I'm back at university doing a coursework-intensive compulsory module. On the other hand, I do enjoy going to the office in a way that I did not when I was going there five days a week!

Experiment C3 is screaming his head off again, I think. It's very faint, and I've turned off the air conditioning in the sitting room so I can hear it coming up from below. I suppose I can't blame the boy, given the circumstances. He hasn't seen me since the drugs wore off, and he's in the same configuration I first kept C2 in: his feet are in snowboard boots and locked into clips in the floor, his neck is in a steel collar connected to an eyebolt on the floor by a one-metre chain, his wrists are cuffed and pulled up towards the ceiling by another chain, he has noise-cancelling headphones strapped over his ears blaring white noise, and he's wearing a blindfold snug enough to prevent him from even blinking underneath it.

He's been there for seven hours now, since three in the morning. He can neither stand nor sit nor lie down, he cannot turn around, he cannot see--though it is pitch black in the cellar even if he wasn't blindfolded--he cannot hear his own voice, and I very much doubt he has any idea how he got there.

As I said, I haven't been down to see him properly yet, so I'm monitoring him at a distance via CCTV and also his pulse and blood oxygen readings. I'm keeping him watered through an IV drip and I'm not at all worried about feeding him just yet, though I'm sure he'll be getting hungry given that I emptied out the contents of his guts with an enema while he was still unconscious. I want him properly good and woozy from sleep deprivation before I introduce myself, either forty-eight hours or until his vitals get a tad skiffy, whichever is shorter. By my word, I am not an impatient man!

Of course, given the close monitoring required, I'll only be getting a few more hours sleep than he will. I suspect I'm getting the better half of the deal. Ah, the poor thing just wet himself. He needn't worry, it's all going into the bucket between his feet, and it'll go to good use later.

I've calmed myself down since his capture, for practical reasons as much as anything else, but I am still abuzz with energy. I am already looking forward to writing my next entry!

28th July 2018

I introduced myself to C3 today.

He spent an impressively long time in the stress position before he was unable to push his legs and instead dangled from his wrists, almost twelve hours, at which point I let the wrist rope go slack and allowed him to collapse. To prevent him from sleeping I intermittently blasted him with high pressure cold water whenever his pulse dropped below 100, for about a further four hours until I decided he'd had enough rest and strung his wrists back up.

He lasted five hours that time, so I let his wrists down again and stood sentry with a paintball gun, giving him a good and proper three-round burst whenever he stopped whimpering. Up again, barely an hour, down again, where I pinned him to the floor with wiring from an electric fence, set to deliver low-intensity zaps across his arms and chest whenever it seemed as if sleep was a possibility. He only got a few shocks, I think the first few put him in such a state of alarm that he didn't dare relax enough to be given another.

I strung him up a few more times, sometimes combining the motivators--his quivering thighs made a delightful target for paintballs as he tried to hold them in a crouching squat--until we reached the forty-ninth hour. I then played my recorded introduction tape through his headphones. It was identical to the one I'd played for C1 and C2, which was itself similar to the one recorded for B4 through B9.

Of course, as the deaf and blindfolded boy was crouch-squatting in place hearing my voice tell him that his old life was forfeit, that he was livestock now, that he would be used as a sex slave, that disobedience would only lead to misery, and the details of the hormone treatments he would be on, I was standing in front of him, masturbating.

My timing was impeccable. Just as the last lines of the recording said "if you're wondering when you'll meet me, I'm right in front of you," I came all over his whorish face. I'm afraid I'm no Peter North, I've no more than four spurts and the first one is always rather watery, but I nailed him right between the lips with one burst and smeared the rest over his face with the tip of my cock. He froze up rather delightfully during the whole ordeal, barely flinching as I cleaned off the tip in his hair.

I took the microphone and spoke directly into his headphones. I told him he'd been in his predicament for two days so far, that he was to obey my simple instructions, and that if he did he would be allowed food and allowed to rest. I told him that I would not require him to speak at any point during these instructions, and that if he so much as whispered I'd keep him strung up without food for another two days. He nodded in agreement, which earned him a hard slap, as I'd not asked him to nod or shake his head. I told him then to nod if he understood, which he did.

I freed one of his arms at a time, telling them to keep them in place and move them only as and when I told him to move them. He obeyed--a far quicker learner than C1--and I put him into the straitjacket. I unlatched his boots one at a time, putting him in ankle cuffs with a short length of heavy chain between them. I injected him in the buttocks with his first dose of anti-androgens, a painkiller, and his hormonal cocktail, and I removed the IV from his arm.

At that point I led him to his cage, a 2x3 metre cell, 1.5 metres high. I removed his blindfold, though it did him little good as it was pitch black in the entire room--I'd switched off the lights and was working via a set of light amplification goggles--and pushed him onto the wipe-clean bedroll.

"Lie still like a good little boy until the lights turn on, and then you can help yourself to some food," I said to him. He made a sound as if to respond, then silenced himself, lying still in his bonds.

The lights were on a timer, and they came on harsh and bright when I was upstairs, watching him through the CCTV on my desktop with a fresh pot of coffee. Three of the walls of his cage were walled off with a tarp, allowing him to see about a fifth of the basement through the remaining wall. Inside his cage was his bedroll, a doggie bowl full of oatmeal and bananas, a small plastic trough filled with fresh water, and a litter tray.

I considered staying up and watching him, seeing the fear grow in his eyes, his first attempt at eating cold food without the use of his hands, the humiliation of pissing in a litter tray, but I was exhausted. As soon as I've finished writing this entry, I'm going to take a well-deserved nap.

4th October 2018

The truffle salt from Coles is a waste of time. Don't misunderstand me, it's useable, it's palatable, and it has the necessary truffle aroma. "Has" is the key word there, it's got the half-life of Fermium and after a week in the cupboard it's now just table salt with black specks in it. I think I'm going to invest in some decent truffle oil at Christmas.

C3 is coming along marvelously. The combination of injections and a high-fat, high-calorie, vitamin-rich diet have had a visible impact on his physique. His skin has softened even further from a clear and healthy surfer's complexion to almost peachlike smoothness and he now has visible jiggle on his thighs, stomach and buttocks. Most importantly, he's now the not-at-all-proud owner of a set of A-cup breasts, complete with sensitive, pebble-sized nipples.

His breasts are extremely sensitive. He's told me as much directly, but I've confirmed it through experimental means. A few light stripes under the nipples with the cane used to bring a wince to his face when he first came under my care, now it brings him to his knees, and the mere sight of the thing leads him to cry and whine rather prettily.

He did have some issues with portion control, in that he wasn’t eating the full servings of food I had prepared for him. This was unreasonable and short-sighted on his part: while plain, I have not asked him to eat anything that I wouldn't willingly eat myself, and while I am not a professional cook I am certainly a talented amateur.

The solution was a simple one: if even a smear of food remains in his dish, I do not feed him for the next two to four days. I only had to enforce this rule twice, and he's finished every meal I've put in front of him for the past two months.

He's gone without sleeping for the last forty-eight hours, he's gone without speaking for the last three weeks, and I've added a low dose of LSD to his drinking water. Tonight he should be somewhat tractable for the induction of a hypnotic state. I am not trying to control his behaviour--there's nothing I want him to do that I couldn't compel him to do through more reliable means--but for an in-depth interview. In concert with a lie detector and a regulated dose of barbiturates, I am going to make him bare his soul to me.

There are a few specifics I'm interested in, such as confirming my assessment of his sexuality and gender identity, and it never hurts to shore up my security by inquiring of any planned means of escape or rescue, but in great part I am doing this for morale effect: I want him to have no respite from me, even inside his own mind. He will learn that he has no more control of his thinking than he does of his eating, sleeping or exercising.

Speaking of which, I had to leave him in an armbinder for a few nights when he insisted on doing press-ups in his cell. The additional restraints distressed him greatly, and he's seemed afraid to even move lest I restrain him further. That was back in August, and I have since acquired an elliptical trainer which I allow him to use daily, good behaviour permitting.

I will write again tomorrow with details of tonight's interview, and I only hope it's more productive than C2's interview was.

5th October 2018

Well, that was elucidating.

I left C3 unrestrained for the interview. It was his first time free of shackles and cuffs outside of his cage since he'd arrived, as I wanted him to be relatively comfortable and I was confident that his drug cocktail would prevent any serious escape attempts.

He is not a natural hypnotic subject and I was only successful in inducing a semi-trance state. I don't think he achieved a trance, but I think he believed he was in a trance, and for my purposes that was more than sufficient. He talked for hours and provided an unabridged history of his life so far. His parents, his brothers, his schooling, his love of surfing and camping, his romantic attachments and rejections, his childhood friends and bullies, his fear of dogs, his earliest memories, his deepest shames, enough to fill a short memoir.

The interview lasted for ten hours, with breaks every two hours to allow him to pee (as I'd also allowed him to drink lime cordial from a cup while he spoke) and to adjust his dose of drugs and deepen his trance state. He cried frequently and easily. He bears a great amount of shame and guilt for someone so young and so relatively innocent--raised by Catholics, naturally--and spent half of the fifth hour in uncontrollable hysterics. I let him rest his head in my lap and stroked his hair as he cried, and he clung on to me like a man drowning. Once he ran out of tears he had a bout of cathartic laughter, and after that a calm passed over him, and he remained in a state of detached, cooperative calm until I ended the interview.

Of course, most of this was filler and background information for the parts that truly interested me: his sexuality and gender identity. Both were perfect. His sexuality is less important but still delightful. He is entirely heterosexual and repulsed by men. He still has nightmares about the one time I have molested him so far, when I coated his face with cum shortly after his chapter. You wouldn't believe how hard I got as he told me that!

He sometimes masturbates in his cage, which he tells me is mostly from boredom than any sexual desire, and he fantasizes about sex with women. He has little interest in sadomasochism, no interest whatsoever about taking a submissive role, and aside from a weak interest in pegging he is plain vanilla. He has fantasies about sex in public, fucking multiple women, being woken up by receiving oral sex, and seducing older women.

His gender identity is much the same: male, through and through. He has insecurities about being slight and physically unimposing--related to bullying in school--and about being insufficiently masculine. He takes pride in the callouses in his hands and the scars on his body from surfing, and wishes that the thin, pale stubble on his face was thicker.

It's of little surprise then that he finds the changes from the hormones to be a cruel and unwanted imposition. His breast growth makes him feel powerless and disgusted with himself, he can feel his muscles weakening, the tenderness in his breasts is terrifying and degrading, and even the topic of penile and testicular shrinkage made him choke up and sob. He says that even when I allow him to sleep, his mind feels clouded and he finds it increasingly difficult to identify the particulars of his emotional state, which swings and changes in ways he is not used to.

Again, I must reiterate how promising this is. My experiments concern the induction of sexual neuroses and physical development on non-consenting subjects. C1 was unsuitable because he--well, she, more likely--was a little too keen to embrace the role I had planned for her.

C3 is sleeping now. I haven't actually left our impromptu "therapy room" and he's drifted off with his head in my lap. He needs the rest. I have big plans for him, after all.

24th October, 2018

I took a trip to the cinema today. Specifically the single-screen cinema in the back of the adult bookshop. C2 is turning tricks for the manager. I don't think it's his first career choice but for some reason he's been unable to get a job anywhere else in town. He tried being an independent streetwalker for a while, which didn't work out well for him as he was quickly picked up by the local police and treated rather roughly. Almost as if they were keeping an eye on him!

The manager of the adult bookshop got in touch with him, I believe he was waiting for him outside the local lockup in fact, and informed him of a safe, reliable means of plying his trade. Now he sucks cock in the back room cinema along with a handful of other whores in exchange for a roof over his head and ten percent of the ticket sales.

He was apparently given a second tour of the police cells for not handing his tips over to the manager in a timely and honest manner, so his left eye was still swollen shut when I saw him today. His garb was delightful: pastel pink yoga leggings with the Adidas stripes down the sides, and a duck egg blue midriff-cut t-shirt with "BOY" on the chest, with a female gender symbol in place of the O.

I sat down next to him in the otherwise empty cinema and flashed him my ticket, which had set me back $84--worth every penny--and he flashed me a charming smile. There was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, like all of my experiments and side projects he'd never seen me without a mask. He put his hand on my thigh and told me his name, which I've already forgotten. The feature began, a rather energetic video from the noughties with Kelly Wells, Hillary Scott and Layla Riviera, prompting C2 to get on his knees in front of me. He gagged a little when he unzipped my jeans, not because I was unwashed but because I'd applied a generous quantity of deodorant and aftershave so that he would not recognise me via scent.

I enjoyed a slow, leisurely blowjob for the next hour, where he displayed all the basic techniques I'd so painstakingly taught him as well as a few new ones he'd picked up more recently. There's something to be said about consuming porn this way, not just the oral service but also watching the film from the beginning, without skipping forward to my favorite parts or switching between videos, letting myself slowly build towards my climax at the same pace as the on-screen action. I came just before the money shot, pulling out to cum all over C2's face as Kelly Wells guzzled piss on the big screen, and let C2 lick and suck my balls until the credits rolled.

Before he or I got up, I took out $20, waved it in front of his eyes, and then used the notes to wipe cum up from his face. He flinched at the roughness, scowled, told me to cut it out, and put his hand on my leg as if to push away from me. I said three words.

"Punishment position three."

It was as if I'd reached inside him and squeezed. He let out a pitiful squeak, straightened up on his knees, pushed out his chest, put his hands behind his back, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and let his tongue hang out. I stuffed the cum-soaked banknotes between his mouth.

"Be good, C2," I told him as I stood up. He didn't move a muscle as I walked out of the cinema, and as the door closed behind me, I heard a single muffled sob. It was an enjoyable experience and I certainly needed it after the last few days because C3 has really been a handful.

It began on the weekend when the first signs of lactation appeared. C3 has been getting increasingly upset with the changes to his body, his widening hips, his weight gain, his shrinking musculature, his shrinking genitalia, and his C-cup breasts. The breasts are especially upsetting, he complains that they ache constantly and are tender to the slightest touch. In any case, when the first droplets of milk dribbled out of his nipples something snapped.

Through tears, he told me that he refuses to eat, that he cannot live with the things I am doing to him, and that I should either let him go or kill him. Obviously this is unacceptable. I told him I was not treating his request with any seriousness, and that if he did not eat his meal, he would go without for the next several days. He nodded forlornly, but still refused the food.

I strapped his hands into leather mitts to prevent him from improvising methods of self-harm, and continued as normal. For the next three days, he refused to respond to commands or obey orders, remaining silent and going limp. He wailed in pain when I caned his soles and slapped his tits, but he continued to wallow in self-pity.

He was ravenously hungry by Wednesday, but when I gave him the opportunity to eat, he would not. I left the bowl of food in his cage overnight, and in the morning it remained untouched. He had not thrown it out or despoiled it, he had simply ignored it in an admirable, if misplaced, display of willpower. I gave him one final warning that there would be serious consequences if he did not eat now. He refused, so I applied the consequences.

I fitted him into a padded restraining board, on his back, his arms, legs, chest, stomach, forehead, chin, wrists and ankles held in place by canvas straps. He could not move an inch, not that he was trying particularly hard. A hollow dildo gag with a breathing hole went into his mouth, principally to prevent him from trying to bite off his own tongue. I catheterized him and inserted a hollow plug into his backside, not overly gently in either case, much to his consternation.

Then, intubation. I fed a heavily-lubricated silicone hose into his left nostril. He thrashed and twitched, as is expected when such a procedure is performed without the aid of benzodiazepines. Undeterred, I asked him to start swallowing, lest the tube end up in his lungs. He did as much gagging as swallowing, but after a few eventful minutes I felt the tell-tale glide of it being pulled down his esophagus and into his stomach.

Once the tube was taped in place under his nose, I attached the free end to a pump until it drew fluid out from within him. A few drops of this fluid onto pH paper revealed it to be stomach acid, which hopefully meant that the hose was not in his lungs. I then attached the hose to the feeding machine, and explained to C3 exactly how it would work.

He would have his meals and water combined into a slurry, kept at a cool four degrees celsius, and injected into his feeding tube. The pressure inside the hose would make breathing difficult or impossible while the food was being pumped, and the volume of his meals--around a litre and a half of slurry--meant that each feeding would be spread out in thirty second bursts, delivered semi-randomly over the course of an hour.

As I told him this, I undid my belt and began to masturbate. Despite the obvious temptations, I had not molested C3 in an overtly sexual manner since that first facial at the beginning of his captivity. By combining molestation with removal of autonomy, I wished to impress upon him the importance of obeying me with whatever autonomy I allow him to have.

I pressed the button on the feeding machine as I approached my climax. C3 squealed and gurgled like a drowning cat from the sensation of ice-cold sludge pumping through a tube in his sinuses and down into his throat, choking as the diameter of the tube expanded enough to cut off his breathing. He thrashed in his restraints with such force that he almost moved the gurney beneath him!

Seeing tears stream from his eyes was too much, and his eyes were precisely where I aimed. I landed a good few ropes on each eye, which he scrunched shut in disgust. When the tube stopped pumping I pried open his eyelids with my fingers and made sure a good quantity of my burning, stinging cum got in each eye, then smeared the rest across his face. He tried to blink it out, with little success, and before he could do much else I applied the padded blindfold. He hates and fears the eye-shutting pressure from the neoprene padding at the best of times, and wasn't overjoyed to wear it with his eyes gunked up with sperm.

He's been like that for the last three days, unable to move, speak or see, fed three meals a day through his nose. The only interaction he's had is when I've unrestrained his individual limbs and allowed them some movement, one at a time, to prevent bedsores and deep vein thrombosis, and when I come down to grope his sensitive tits. He is only able to relieve himself through the catheter and through enemas.

After a few days of stick, he's almost ready for the carrot. Tonight I am making pork carnitas with soft tacos, which he has told me is his favourite meal. I have also purchased one of the Harry Dresden books, which he told me he is an avid reader of. When dinner is ready, I will make him an offer: he will ask me for normal food and apologize for forcing me to use the feeding tube. In return he will be allowed out of his restraints and returned to his comfortable cage, along with his favourite meal and a good book, which he will be allowed to read during his spare time as long as he behaves himself.

I hope he accepts, for his sake and mine.

16 November 2018

C3 had his first true milking today! I've been teasing dribbles of milk from his nipples with my fingers for weeks, but today the volume was so high that I had to deploy a handheld breast pump. He whimpered for the duration but was obviously relieved by the reduction in pressure. It was as if he found the whole ordeal rather humiliating.

The milk is rich, a touch gamey, and less sweet than expected. I don't think the taste will be anything to write home about while his stress levels are so high, and I think that will be the case for some time. I've taken half for myself, and I'm mixing the other half into his food.

He's been docile since the force feeding. The intensity and inevitability of the punishment is part of it, but the rewards are equally important. My deal is that he can ask for anything once. Obviously I laugh at certain requests--he's not getting a phone or a two-way radio--and some things require compromise, but otherwise I have been accommodating. His cell now contains a lamp he can turn on or off, two dozen books and graphic novels, an old mp3 player, and a box of wet wipes. His relief from the constant boredom of being confined in a cage for twenty hours a day is palpable, and he has chosen the comfort that obedience brings over the misery that stems from disobedience.

He has asked if he'll ever be free from this basement and I truthfully said yes. One day he'll be walking around outside free of physical restraints and he will sleep at night in a bed he can truly call his own, though I'm unsure if he'll ever truly be free of me. He takes comfort in the fact that he has not yet seen my face or anything that might identify me, as he reasons that I am therefore not incentivized to bury him in a shallow grave to protect myself. His conclusion is correct but his premise is wrong; he'll know who I am eventually and I still won't fear him.

I'm currently milking him once per day regardless of his feelings on the matter, and I think this has hidden from him the fact that he now needs to be milked. Without his daily milkings the pain in his breasts would become unbearable, and soon he will develop mastitis if he's not milked. This will form another important part of his development: begging for things that are distasteful but necessary. With the exception of the wet wipes, there is nothing inherently humiliating in the things he's asking for. I believe he'll find begging to be milked intensely humiliating, and more humiliating still because of the tolls I'll extract from him when he goes down that road.

A brief note on his physical changes: his breasts are bigger but they remain C-cups for the time being. There are now a striking set of stretch marks on the sides and undersides of his breasts, along with some smaller, subtler ones on his thighs and buttocks which have also thickened up nicely. At some point I'm going to give him a regular schedule of retention enemas until he gets stretch marks on his belly befitting a pregnant little broodslut. His skin is delightfully soft and I'm shaving his face daily until the home electrolysis kit arrives. The combination of hormones, daily exercise bike sessions, and a lack of any upper body resistance training has changed his physique from a surfer's build to a more bottom heavy one.

As soon as I have finished writing this entry I am going to give him two gifts. The first gift is an ear piercing. It will be home to a yellow plastic tag, a miniature version of a cattle tag. The second gift is his name. He's not C3 anymore, and he's certainly not whatever stupid name he called himself before I acquired him. He has lovely tits and he's a milk cow, so his name will be Cowtits.

Cowtits. I think it suits him.

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lobster-tales · 4 years ago

Text

College AU - Rangshi

This is for the first day of the Winter ATLA Femslash Week! This work is available here on AO3.

Prompt: Kiss/First Kiss or College AU

Yun invited Kyoshi to join the university's fencing club. He forgot to mention that the sabre coach's daughter was hot.

When Kyoshi entered the practice gym for the first time, she didn’t expect the noise. Voices of students and referees mingled with sneakers scraping on the floor. The most unique sound, however, was the clash of the fencing weapons. She had thought the swords would clang together harshly, like in the movies. Instead, they met with hollow clunks.

A small group of students sat on the bleachers, taking a water break. Many of them were looking her way, curious but not wanting to approach. Kyoshi inhaled deeply, forcing herself to walk towards them. As she got closer, more of the students looked up. She heard the whispers; “Holy shit she’s tall,” “Do you think she’s a professional?” “I hope she’s not a foilist.”

Kyoshi was used to being gawked at. She had a naturally intimidating presence, and most people used it as an excuse to avoid her. For Kyoshi, loneliness was like a knife in her side: less trouble to leave it be rather than let everything spill out.

“Foilists! Back on strip!” The students evacuated the bleachers, passing by a figure that barely surpassed her in height. The man’s face held lines that betrayed his age and good humor, chin blanketed by a long beard. He shot Kyoshi a grin, and relief flooded her system. “Hello there; you must be Kyoshi.”

“Yes,” she hesitated, unsure how to address him. “...Sir.”

The man let out a boisterous laugh. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ unless you’re in trouble. The rest of the time, you can call me Kelsang. I’m the foil coach.” He stuck out a large hand, and Kyoshi took it. “Yun was adamant that you’d be here, though I should tell you that practice started an hour and a half ago.”

Kyoshi felt warmth in her cheeks, and averted her eyes. “They… needed me to stay an extra hour in the kitchen.”

“Oh, so you’re a chef then?”

“... Dishwasher.”

He nodded respectfully. “Honest work.”

Kyoshi wanted to drop the subject. “Where is Yun?”

“He’s on strip now,” Kelsang said, indicating a duel that was taking place. “You want to watch?”

She followed Kelsang, surveying the gym as they stepped towards the center. She picked out three distinct practice groups. At the center, a team wore all white and held large weapons. The group behind her had smaller weapons, and silver vests over their white gear. The third team was still warming up at the back of the gym.

Kelsang noticed her evaluation. “How much did Yun tell you about fencing?”

“A little. I know he fences epee.” They joined a handful of students watching a duel. Two masked fencers stood directly across from each other. For each fencer, an electric cord plugged in beneath the large bell of the weapon, disappearing into the sleeve of their white jacket. The cord reappeared behind their bodies, pulled taut from a metallic box at the edge of the strip.

One of the fencers was stiff, awkwardly swiping the weapon up and down. His opponent was completely at ease, stance low to the ground as he casually knocked the other fencer’s attacks aside. Yep. There’s Yun.

Kelsang leaned over, explaining the basics. “There’s three weapons: foil, epee, and sabre. To put it simply, epee and foil are the swords that you stab with, while sabre hits from the side of the blade. Of the three, epee is the largest and heaviest.”

Yun’s opponent lunged, nearly losing their balance as Yun gracefully moved out of the way. The tip of his blade landed on the other fencer’s arm.

“Halt!” The voice belonged to a referee. He seemed to be similar in age to Kelsang, though his features were far more serious than the foil coach.

“That’s Jianzhu,” Kelsang said. “He’s our epee coach.”

Jianzhu called, “Counterattack arrives. 4-0.” The fencers readied themselves again. “En garde, prêt, allez!”

Kyoshi frowned. “Wait, what just happened?”

“Yun got the point, so they return to en garde and another round begins.” Kelsang smirked. “Usually, we just say ‘en garde, ready, fence’, but Jianzhu likes being pretentious.”

The statement earned Kelsang a glare from the referee, who quickly turned his attention back to the match.

Kelsang continued. “In epee, you score points from the tip of the weapon. You can hit your opponent anywhere on their body, as long as you hit them first.”

The other fencer went for Yun’s toes. Yun gracefully lifted his foot, stretching his leg and bringing his heel down in a lunge. His blade landed on the opponent’s arm.

“Halt!” Jianzhu called. “Attack no, counterattack arrives. 5-0, bout.”

The opponents removed their masks, reaching out with their left hands to shake. Yun looked towards Kyoshi, his eyes wide as he shot her a breathy smile. “You made it!” He unplugged his blade, passing the cord to another fencer. His messy bun flopped as he trotted towards her, eyes twinkling as he pulled her into an embrace. Despite the sweat, he smelled like warm spice.

“I’m here,” Kyoshi said stiffly, enveloping him in her tall form. She felt the eyes of the other students. No doubt several if not all of them had crushes on Yun, and here she was in his arms. Not that she blamed them; Yun was easy to fall in love with.

“Jianzhu,” Yun said, pulling back. He threw his hands wide, displaying Kyoshi in front of the coach. “This is Kyoshi! She’s the one I told you about.”

Jianzhu considered her, nodding courteously. “Kyoshi, welcome. We’ve been needing another epeeist, especially someone with a lot of…” He tried to put the words delicately. “... Reach.”

“Hey, I saw her first!” Kelsang chuckled. “I already claimed her for foil.”

“She can decide on her own!” Yun said indignantly, but leaned toward her to loudly whisper, “But epee is the best.”

Kyoshi smiled shyly. “If it’s alright, I would like to look at the other weapons.”

“Sure!” Yun pulled her away, calling back to Jianzhu, “I’ll be back!”

Foil was next. Yun showed her the lithe blade, explaining the basic rules. They watched several bouts before she asked, “What about the third one? I didn’t see another set of strips for them.”

Yun rolled his eyes, indicating the far end of the gym. “They’re just setting up now. Hei-ran keeps them doing warmups for most of the drill time.”

“Can we watch?”

“Of course!” Yun practically dragged her to the sabre area. “You’ve gotta watch one of Rangi’s bouts.”

“Rangi?”

“Yeah, she’s insane on strip.” He shrugged. “I mean, she’s the coach’s daughter, so it’s no surprise.”

An older woman with black hair eyed them as they approached. Yun introduced her as the coach, Hei-ran, before asking when Rangi would be fencing.

Hei-ran cocked an eyebrow. “She wasn’t planning on fencing today. She’s doing private lessons.”

Yun smirked. “Not if I can help it.” He briefly took Kyoshi’s hand. “Wait here.” Before she could respond, he was already jogging across the floor to two fencers, both in full gear.

Kyoshi stood beside Hei-ran, aware of the coach’s perfect posture. As a habit, Kyoshi slouched in an unsuccessful attempt to make herself smaller. Now, she mimicked the coach and straightened her back.

The two of them watched the sabrists set up the strip and change into their gear. Hei-ran glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “So, Kyoshi, have you ever fenced before?”

“No.” She hesitated, not wanting to relinquish more information than necessary, but she sensed Hei-ran would not be satisfied with the simple answer. “... Yun actually asked me to come.”

“And how do you two know each other?”

“We went to high school together. After graduation, he came to the university while I did my associate’s degree at community college.”

Hei-ran considered her. “A very responsible decision. Your parents must be proud.”

“Yeah…” Kyoshi pressed her lips together. “I uh… I actually don’t… have those…”

“Oh.” Hei-ran looked like she was uncertain whether to emote sympathy or not, and settled for, “All the more impressive.”

“Thanks.” Kyoshi shifted her weight. She hated feeling like a statistic. “And what about you?”

“My father was a fencer. I learned at a young age, much like my daughter. An injury prevented me from getting my A rating.” She noted Kyoshi’s confusion. “The US Fencing Association rates fencers from the lowest level, U which stands for unrated, to the highest level A.” Hei-ran nodded towards the strip, where a masked opponent stood across from Yun. “For context, Rangi is a C-rated fencer.”

“Ah.” Kyoshi watched as Yun donned a silver jacket over his white gear. Rangi was already sitting in a low stance, the cords plugged in to her gear. Yun finished hooking up his own weapon. He flashed Kyoshi a grin and placed the mask over his head.

Hei-ran cleared her throat. “Excuse me.” She moved to the strip, hands out to either side like a conductor. “Fencers, en garde. Ready. Fence.”

Kyoshi could have blinked and missed the attack. Her jaw dropped as Rangi immediately stood from her long lunge, turning her back to Yun as she returned to her starting position. Yun laughed, taking the point against him in good stride.

“Attack arrives, 1-0. En garde. Ready. Fence.”

This time, Kyoshi’s eyes kept up. Yun and Rangi lunged concurrently, clashing together.

“Halt! Simultaneous. No point. En garde, ready, fence.”

As the bout went on, Kyoshi made mental notes of the style of fencing. Unlike in epee and foil, there was very little back and forth, no hesitation. The three minute timer on the clock usually only ticked down a few seconds before the round was over.

“Halt! 1-4.”

Yun whooped and called, “See that, Kyoshi? I got her!”

Truthfully, she hadn’t seen the point, but gave him a thumbs up anyway.

“En garde, ready, fence.”

Both fencers took one step forward, but to Kyoshi’s surprise, Rangi moved back. Yun advanced cautiously, before he took a quick step and lunged, swiping at her arm. Rangi held out her weapon to block the attack with a parry, and Yun immediately retreated. Rangi advanced towards him slowly, flicking her blade up and down. Yun jolted a few times, anticipating an attack. Rangi kept pushing him towards the end of the strip, toying with him.

When Yun was at the edge of the strip, he lunged. Rangi was faster. She rushed him, her blade clicking against the top of his mask as she drove past him.

“Halt! Attack no, attack arrives. 5-1, bout.”

Kyoshi stared at the lights on the scoreboard. Green and red were both lit up, and she furrowed her eyebrows in thought. If both of them attacked at the same time, then why did Rangi get the point?

She looked up just as Rangi removed her mask, her cluttered mind blanking instantly.

Rangi’s black hair was cropped just above her shoulder, half of it pulled into a messy topknot. Her angular features were clean, and Kyoshi realized she hadn’t even broken a sweat during the entire match. As Rangi exhaled, her lips parted slightly. Kyoshi’s own breath caught in her throat at the sight. Rangi’s dark bronze eyes landed on her, and for a moment, Kyoshi thought she might fall to her knees.

Rangi reached out to shake Yun’s hand. He took her fingers in his, tilted her hand, and kissed her knuckles. Kyoshi stiffened as he did so. Part of her had always been envious of Yun’s good looks, his ease with people, but those feelings were nothing compared to the jealousy that ripped through her now.

As the fencers unhooked from the strip, Hei-ran noticed Kyoshi’s pallor. “Are you alright, Kyoshi? You look ill.”

“I- I’m fine.” Kyoshi regained her composure. “I was just… impressed by the... fencing.”

“I see.” Hei-ran’s voice held a fleeting compassion. “It can be daunting at first, but we’ll provide any training you need.”

Yun and Rangi both approached them. This would be the fourth time Yun had introduced her tonight. Kyoshi usually limited him to three at any given social event, but for some reason, she didn’t mind. “This is her, Rangi.”

The sabre fencer stuck out her hand. “Yun’s told me a lot about you.”

Kyoshi slowly took her hand. She wished she could mimic the way Yun had tilted her knuckles. She wanted to lay her own mark there.

Rangi gave her a strange look and she realized she’d been holding her hand too long. Kyoshi let go quickly. “Hi. Same.” She was telling the truth; Yun had told Kyoshi about a sabre fencer. He’d left out the part where she was drop dead gorgeous.

Yun threw his arms around both of their shoulders, reaching high to grab Kyoshi’s. “Practice is almost over, and Tuesdays are milkshake nights. The diner’s just across campus.”

The hour was getting late, and Kyoshi was exhausted from work. She felt, though, that there was no excuse strong enough to keep her from getting to know Rangi.

Huffing playfully, Rangi grumbled, “Fine, but I need to be in bed by midnight.”

***

At 2:00 AM, the three stumbled out of the diner doors. Yun dangled between Kyoshi and Rangi, clutching at his stomach. “Okay, maybe three milkshakes was too much.”

“You think?” Rangi growled. “Come on, where’s your dorm?”

They supported him for three blocks, finally resting outside the massive hall. Yun managed a weak salute before staggering inside the building. Once he was gone, the two dissolved into giggles.

Rangi shook her head fondly. “He is something else, huh?”

The same jealous feeling pricked Kyoshi, and her laughter was cut short. “Yeah… sure is.”

Stretching, Rangi asked, “You live on campus?”

“Yep. C Hall.”

“Perfect. I live in B. We’ll walk together.”

The streets of campus were well lit. Buildings towered around them, their purposes mysterious in the dark. Save for the occasional studious night owl, Kyoshi and Rangi were alone.

Rangi broke the silence first. “I know you didn’t get any practice time, but how did you feel about fencing?”

“It was cool.”

“... Would you be interested in coming back?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Rangi eyed her. Like her mother, she was never satisfied with the easy answer. “So how do you know Yun?”

Hei-ran had asked her the exact same question only hours before. Part of Kyoshi wanted to repeat her answer, but she fell prey to a stronger urge. She had already given away too much of herself tonight. “From high school.”

Though Kyoshi was nearly a head taller than her, Rangi had set a rapid walking pace. Kyoshi had finally adjusted to her speed, but when she glanced to her left, she saw Rangi was no longer beside her.

Rangi’s voice came from behind. “Do you have a problem with me?”

Kyoshi whipped around. Rangi glared at her intently, arms straight at her side. Kyoshi’s mind raced as she wondered what she had done to deserve such an aggressive response. “What?”

“You haven’t said more than three-word sentences to me all night.”

“Y-yes I have,” Kyoshi said feebly. She knew Rangi was right.

“You had no problem talking to Kelsang or my mom. So what is it about me? Did I do something?”

Dread clutched Kyoshi. The only way Rangi would have known about her conversations was if she had been watching her. Everyone was watching you, she told herself harshly. You’re impossible to miss. “No, you didn’t do anything at all, I just…”

“Just what?”

“I just…” Her mouth tried to sculpt her feelings into words. “I… think you’re cool.”

Rangi’s eyes widened slightly. She must have been prepared for something worse. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” The statement had been painfully simple, but Kyoshi felt more vulnerable now than she had all night.

“Well… I think you’re cool too.” Rangi spoke carefully, almost like she was afraid of spooking her. “Actually, I was really looking forward to meeting you. Yun talks about you all the time.”

“Right…” Kyoshi trusted Yun’s word, but this entire exchange would have been easier if she was a complete stranger.

“All good things,” Rangi said quickly. “Just that you’re… hardworking. And strong.”

Kyoshi wasn’t sure how to respond other than, “Cool.”

After a pause, Rangi cleared her throat. “We should get back to the dorms. It’s late.”

“Yeah.”

The rest of the walk passed in silence. Kyoshi almost preferred the lack of conversation. She wanted nothing more than to be near Rangi, close enough to feel the energy that radiated off of her.

Rangi halted once more, facing a stone building. “Here’s B Hall.” She glanced back at Kyoshi and offered a curt, “Goodnight.”

“Wait.” Rangi’s eyes pierced her, and Kyoshi realized she had said the word out loud. “Um… That last point… during your duel with Yun?”

“Bout. We don’t say duel.”

“Right, bout.” Kyoshi pressed her lips together, thinking. “Why did you get the point? You both hit at the same time, so wouldn’t it have been...” She struggled to recall the word Hei-ran had used. “Simultaneous?”

Rangi considered her wordlessly, and for a moment, Kyoshi was afraid she wouldn’t answer. At last, Rangi said, “In sabre, we have something called priority, or right of way. Essentially, it means offense and defense. It’s like… soccer. You know how in soccer, one team has the ball and the other has to defend?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like that. Right of way is like the invisible ball. So even if both fencers attack at the same time, whoever was on offense gets the point.”

They stood a few feet apart, directly in front of each other. Kyoshi took the last few seconds to memorize the lines of Rangi’s face. She wondered briefly if either of them had the right of way at this moment. The obvious answer was Rangi. Even though she’d only known her a few hours, Kyoshi recognized that Rangi always acted first.

“Well, goodnight, Kyoshi.” Rangi was about to retreat.

A heady mixture of exhaustion and night air spurred Kyoshi. She decided to take the moment, seize the offense back. She reached for Rangi’s hand. Before she could stop herself, Kyoshi lifted Rangi’s knuckles to her lips. “Goodnight… Rangi.”

Kyoshi saw her bronze eyes widen, but turned away before the rest of her face could react. She made for her own dormitory, walking with purpose but not with urgency. There was no sound but the wind in the black trees, the unfaltering steps of her own feet.

#winter atla femslash week #rangshi #college au #fencing au #kyoshi novels #my fic #atla fic #atla

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sternbagel · 3 years ago

Text

Inspired by the wonderful OC lore that @charlotte-balfours-garden wrote and posted, I decided to finish this piece that’s been sitting in my drafts for months about my own RDR OC, visual references here!

Note: This takes place in canon, Chapter 3, and while everyone calls her Alberta Taylor at this point, it’s not her real name, just something she’s been going by for years because of something in her past. Professionally, she’s a bounty hunter, but has dabbled in other things.

Read This First

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, at least the one thing today that hasn’t been surprising is Arthur finding Al has dragged a chair over to his tent to read, one leg propped up on the chest at the end of his cot. Sometimes she’ll set up there to get ample shade from the sun, and according to her, the chest is the perfect foot rest height.

“Afternoon, Arthur,” she greets lazily as she turns the page.

“Miss Taylor. Comfortable?”

“Sure.” She cuts her eyes up at him from under the brim of her hat, seemingly just to give him a greeting glance and smile, but when she spots the shiny new accessory pinned to his vest, her head raises higher. “You steal that off a dead lawman or somethin’?”

And it begins, Arthur thinks with a snort. “No, Dutch—” he waves an arm in the direction he came from, though Dutch has long ago left that area—“got us ingratiated with the local sheriff, so now we’re honorary deputies.”

“Was Sheriff Gray drunk?”

That’s surprising. They only met the sheriff yesterday, and he’s not sure the full story of their encounter has been relayed to the rest of camp, just the orders not to cause any trouble. “How’d you know his name?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes that most likely, it was Hosea. Those two are close.

She answers with a cavalier shrug before he can say anything. “I’ve been here before. Once. Didn’t stay long.”

Arthur takes the bait she leaves out. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s Lemoyne. I don’t spend very long here if I can help it. But first time I got to Rhodes lookin’ for bounty posters, Sheriff Gray was puking in the bushes. Somehow he managed to get out that they do all the bounty hunting themselves. No reason to go back.”

“Well, that’s pretty much how I found him when I went lookin’ for Dutch and Bill.”

“Figures,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Not that I really care, but where is Bill? Didn’t see him come back with y’all. Still with the Sheriff, ingratiating himself?” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression off him, but I wasn—”

Arthur holds up a hand and shakes his own head with a smirk. “No, no, the Grays around here don’t seem… his type. Matter of fact, I should probably warn Bill to just play it cool—“

“What, drunk, dumb, and ignorant ain’t Bill’s type? What about that guy we saw him chattin’ up at that saloon in Armadillo?”

“That ain’t what I mean,” he snorts.

“I know.” Al flashes a playful smirk. “I’m just messin’.”

“Well, anyway, no, he’s off hidin’ some wagon full o’ moonshine we stole off some bootleggers under the Sheriff’s orders. Hosea’ll know what to do with it.”

“Moonshine?” This seems to pique her interest, again to Arthur’s surprise. “You know who you stole it off of?”

“Yes…” Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. He slowly lumbers over to his table, laying down the deputy badge and watching her carefully. Al’s expression is calm, but it’s a thin enough veneer that he sees the curiosity building by the second. “What’s it to you?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah.”

The book in her lap finally closes. “I used to run with some moonshiners not too long ago.”

“Alberta Taylor. Well, I never took you for a bootlegger.”

She throws an arm over the back of her chair and lets her head fall back, exposing more of her neck. It’s then that Arthur notices she’s not wearing her usual green neckerchief. Or her green jacket. She must be really burning up to be in just her workshirt and jeans. “Not every professional bounty hunter is a staunch upholder of the law, Arthur Morgan,” she says matter-of-factly with a lift of her brow.

“I never said that. Didn’t mean it neither. I mean, look who you fell in with, I know better. I just ain’t seen you drink much moonshine.”

“Sure. Always been more of a beer and tequila woman.”

He plops down on his cot and lights a cigarette. “Then what you doin’ runnin’ with moonshiners?”

“Tell me who you stole the liquor off of first, cowboy.”

Arthur concedes. Al is stubborn. “The Braithwaites. And those fellers that run around here with those yellow bandanas. Sadie and I ran into ‘em a few days ago. Uh—”

“Lemoyne Raiders?” She sneers. “I’d hoped someone had snuffed ‘em out by now. Hijo de putas.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette before answering. “Yeah, that’s them. You’ve had some run-ins with ‘em, huh?”

“Like I said, just the once. Three of them stopped me on my way into Rhodes. Brought ‘em into town, dead, which is when I met Sheriff Gray. They didn’t have any bounties on ‘em, so all I got outta one of his deputies was five dollars. I know they weren’t even worth that much, but he coulda paid me more,” she grumbles. Her light Cuban accent comes out more the lower her voice goes.

“Sounds about right. Least ya got paid somethin’.”

“I guess.” She picks at the spine of her book for a moment. “Wasn’t long after that I met a… moonshiner legend, so to say, through a mutual friend. Though friend seems to be pushing it.”

He gets the sense she’s not fully sour on the “friend,” so his shoulders shake in amusement.

“He was a lot like Uncle, actually.”

“Lord.” Arthur snickers, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

“Yeah. Not as lazy. Probably younger, but who knows.”

“I reckon Uncle ain’t as old as he wants folks to think. Besides just bein’ too lazy, it’s probably why he don’t trim his beard.”

Al laughs, rougher than usual until she coughs and clears it up. “Damn humidity.”

“Tell me about it,” Arthur agrees, leaning forward and propping one elbow up on his knee. “So, this… moonshiner legend.”

“Ever heard the name Maggie Fike?”

The name isn’t familiar, but it isn’t unfamiliar either. “Don’t think so,” he settles on.

“Well, she’s been mostly out this way rather than out where y’all been running around. Revenue Agents caught up to her a couple years back, tried burning her alive. Didn’t work, but gave her a nasty scar and bad eye. Almost puts Marston to shame. Almost,” she adds with a grin as he walks between Arthur and Strauss’ tents.

“Take a look in the mirror, Miss Taylor,” he grumbles back. Then he chucks a cigarette butt at a chuckling Arthur. “You too, Morgan.”

John disappears around the side of the tent as Arthur brushes off the butt. “Cranky cause he ain’t had his midday nap.”

“Pick better material.”

Al chuckles and presses the palm of her hand on her hat, affixing it more securely to her head. “Anyway…”

“Anyway…” Arthur sighs lightly. “You said she survived?”

“Yeah, went into hiding for a while. Somehow got a hold of my ‘friend’, who then asked me for help gettin’ her business back on its feet. Easy work at first. Finding a good location for the shack, gettin’ her some supplies, that stuff.” She waves a hand around. “Most folks don’t pay much mind to a bounty hunter buyin’ supplies in bulk like I was or destroying illegal stills. Sometimes I brought in the other moonshiners to the local town to collect on a bounty. Made for a better cover for what I was really doing.”

“Takin’ out the competition.” Arthur chuckles.

“Exactly. Then came—”

“What the hell are you two talkin’ about anyway?”

Al puts her hand back on her hat before tipping her head back, almost touching the back of the chair, and looks at John, upside down. Arthur leans forward more to get his own look and the rangy outlaw, who’s circled back around to the other side of his wagon.

“And what the hell is that?” John asks. He’s looking directly at the badge on Arthur’s table, disgust etched into his features. As if it’s some rotting, maggot infested carcass Arthur’s using for decoration.

Arthur sighs and briefly explains again.

“So this is just another excuse for you to play dress-up, eh? Guess I need to tell Hosea you’re itchin’ to go scammin’ with him again.”

“You do that, it’ll be your pecker in the stew pot next meal.”

Al’s crossed her arms over her chest and is watching them with barely contained amusement. “Playing dress-up? I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you yet, Arthur.”

“And you won’t,” he growls. “Only reason Hosea takes me on those jobs is because he knows I hate it. Just once I’d like him to take Marston instead.”

“You sure about that?” Al studies John as if she’s a talent agent in the big city. “Doesn’t he like to avoid mayhem on those jobs?”

John snorts indignantly. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see you try and follow Hosea’s lead. I swear even he don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”

“But it works.” Her eyebrows raise pointedly.

“But it works,” John concedes.

“Well, next time you go, let me know. I’d love to watch y’all work.”

“Whatever,” John grumbles as he waves her off and saunters away. Apparently he’s given up on butting into their conversation.

“I ain’t pullin’ that type of job with Hosea again. What we had set up in Blackwater, sure, but not...” Arthur wags a finger in the air, then unfurls the rest of his fingers and waves his hand once before letting it fall back in his lap. “Not that. The girls and Trelawny are much better’n me anyway. Safer that way.”

Al shrugs. “I won’t argue that.”

“So, back to what you was sayin’?” Arthur’s not willing to let the moonshiner story drop. It’s not often she lets down her walls and tells stories of her past that don’t directly involve some bounty she’s nabbed. He knows what happened to her family, but that had been a moment he wasn’t meant to see, and neither of them have ever brought it up again.

“So after we get a shack set up, she gets word of where this old buddy of hers is, go rescue him so he can make our moonshine. Not long after that, her nephew’s gettin’ moved from Sisika, so I go rescue him.”

Arthur pulls the cigarette from his lips and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wagon. “Just you against a bunch of lawmen?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Morgan,” she drawls, lolling her head to the side.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be,” he chuckles.

“No, actually, I had a couple friends with me, cashed in on some favors. I’m not stupid or reckless enough to take on an armed prison transport.”

Arthur just shrugs. “Woulda believed you either way.”

“You’re too trusting,” she remarks. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but her eyes sparkle with something else.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Well, we bring them back to the shack, get the business up and running. Enact some revenge on a rival of hers in the meantime, I get to kill the agent who tried to burn her. Spent about a year with them. I didn’t do a lot of the actual running of moonshine, one of those friends who helped me break out Maggie’s nephew, Lem, did most of that. I focused on taking out the competition, clearing out Revenue Agent roadblocks when we were sure we couldn’t sneak past them. The real dirty work. But I didn’t mind, kept me moving, out of the government’s crosshairs enough that I could keep killin’ those damn agents.”

Arthur cocks his head curiously. But she isn’t done talking, so he lets her continue, holding onto his question for now.

“Couple months before I ran into y’all, I told them I’d have to leave. I’d spent so much time in this area, couldn’t… Needed to get out and go back out west. See some old friends, see some open country. They reckoned they’d be fine without me, but threw them the name of another friend I knew’d be able to help them, pick up my slack.”

“So… you think they’re still runnin’ that shine?”

“No reason not to. Never heard anything about her being captured. Got a letter from them while I was in Blackwater, actually. They’re doin’ well.” She gives a fond, reminiscent smile. “That friend is working with Maggie now, too. Dunno how she stands him, but…”

“Good. Since we’re over this way, you plannin’ on seein’ ‘em?”

“They’re north, Roanoke Ridge territory. Might, if I feel safe leavin’ you fools by yourself for more than a week.”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. “I reckon we can survive without ya for that long.”

“With all the trouble you been causing lately? I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan.” Al fans herself with her book, smirking at Arthur pointedly.

“I actually got another question for ya,” he diverts.

“Shoot.”

“I been thinkin’ about this since you got here, but now, knowin’ how much you seem to hate the Revenue Agents, how come you’re a bounty hunter, takin’ payouts from the government, but runnin’ with a bunch’a outlaws? After a year of runnin’ shine, that is.”

A simple shrug is her reply, and the pause is so long Arthur isn’t sure she’ll actually give him an explanation, until, “You have your code, I have mine.”

“Huh,” he grunts. They watch each other casually for a long moment, then he asks, “You gonna explain?”

He can see her weigh her options, and eventually she relents. “You know…” Her expression immediately tells him what she means: her past, what happened to her.

“Yeah,” he offers quietly.

“Well, nobody’s born a seasoned gunslinger. When I first started bounty hunting, I had to take the easier targets. Most big pay days, or the jobs that are good start for those of us that’re green, they’re people who rob banks with a pen, rich people doing rich people crimes. They’re soft, easy, and all it really takes to catch them is knowing the land better and being tougher than city folk. Which ain’t hard at all. So, until I could stand on my own, those were the only kinds I took. Then I started goin’ after the bastards I really wanted to. People like the Johnson Brothers.”

She nearly spits the name. Arthur feels the sting in her soul.

“I never take those soft bounties anymore,” she continues after a deep breath, seeming more like herself again with every word. “Unless I need a break. But it’s been a while since I have.”

“Been a while since you took a bounty at all.”

She must notice the question in his voice. Not judgement, but question. “No. You’ve been kicking up too much fuss. Wouldn’t be smart for me to be seen around town here more than once or twice.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. While it is mostly true, it’s about all he’s going to get out of her, but he knows the real reason why. Even if she won’t admit it to herself. “Got me there, Al.”

“Not hard to do, Arthur.”

#also we're going with the bill is gay theory. but like. half the gang is gay so she's not making fun of that.#she hates bill. so she's making fun of HIM directly.#hope that comes across lol.#also i hope it's okay to tag you in this!!! I can fix it if not #rdr #alma tejada #my fics #i guess that's gonna be a tag. i mostly just share this shit with friends and post my much bigger projects elsewhere

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patrickstargang · 4 years ago

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Forgotten Past, Hidden Future (Legend of Korra fic)

Chapter 1: Looking In The Wrong Places

Chapter 2: Lucky To Have You

Chapter 3: A Lot To Learn

Chapter 4: Kya’s Story

Chapter 5: A Tale of Miazu

Chapter 6: The Avatar’s Love

Final Chapter: The Mural

Ever since Kya told her about Kyoshi, Korra has been trying to learn more about the prolific Earth Kingdom Avatar. Little things about the conversation that one day stood out in her mind, mainly that Kyoshi’s efforts were “unable to affect any kind of real progress.” With the Earth Kingdom in a much different situation than it was since the death of Hou-Ting, this little fact became a nagging voice in the back of her head.

I’m sure things have gotten better since then. Korra’s thoughts began to go deeper, with each passing moment leaving more room for uncertainty. I mean it was hundreds of years ago! So much has changed since then.

This thought came to her while reading what looked like a massive textbook titled “A Comprehensive History of The Earth Kingdom”. She was off into a corner, deep within one of Republic City’s oldest libraries. With the lighting and arrangement of the pillars it looked like a two floor version of Wan Shi Tong’s library (probably a form of imitation as flattery). This library in particular was notable for containing documents related to Earth Kingdom rule dating back thousands of years, which was what brought Korra here in the first place.

Korra skimmed through page after page, finding a great deal about Kyoshi as an Avatar, a diplomatic figure, but not much for her work as an “activist”. After a while, she noticed there wasn’t even a mention of same sex relationships in the Earth Kingdom. She continued scanning, her eyes straining from frustration but also exhaustion. This was around hour three of her search. She hadn’t done this much intensive studying in one day since Tenzin had her read Air Nomad philosophy. As time passed, the behemoth of a text book began to shrink, only a few more untouched pages left. With each page turned, she seemed to grip the paper tighter, almost ripping it. And then…...nothing. After all that time there was not a single piece of information to show for it. Korra was more confused than upset. Something felt off about it. She closes her eyes, letting a breath go out.

Questions began firing in her mind. How is that possible, I looked everywhere! Maybe I missed it a few chapters ago? Wait, what if I checked a different book, maybe this is just an old versi-

“Mam?” an anonymous voice rang from behind Korra. She darted her head up from the book to see a young librarian who looked as if he was carrying fifty pounds worth of books. “It’s almost closing time.” Korra glanced out the windows to see it was night time already. Just a minute ago it seemed like she just got here. “Sorry, guess I lost track of time.” The librarian let out a lighthearted chuckle before he began to organize the shelf of Earth Kingdom text in front of him.

Korra slowly brought her attention back to the text and began to quickly flip pages back to the beginning. She stopped at a chapter with the title “The Life of Avatar Kyoshi”. It was a simplified synopsis of Kyoshi’s time as the Avatar, detailing important events and milestones within her era. She began looking at names, trying to piece together any possible threads to look more into. She noted a few: her bending teachers, the Yellow Neck leaders, the Air Nomads that Kyoshi stayed with. But one label caught her eye: bodyguard. That title belonged to someone named Rangi, who was only referenced a few times in the chapter. Everyone else had some background, except for her. There was only her label as the Avatar’s “bodyguard”, a position left mostly unknown besides a name and nothing else. What's being left out? And why?

It struck Korra that there was only ten minutes left before closing. She closed the book with a slam, followed by a strained wince as she realized how loud it was. She quietly got out of her chair and headed for the doorway. But she stopped and glanced back at the librarian still attempting to alphabetize numerous books at once. “Are the archives still open by any chance?”

“There isn’t much time left but...yeah they're open.” The thought comes to Korra that this might just be another dead end. Maybe it might just be a rabbit hole and Kya had some wrong information. But she was willing to go further, if it meant that she could better understand the Earth Kingdom’s troubled past. Korra looks back up at the librarian with a new face of determination. “Sorry to bother you again, but do you think they’d allow me to take something back home with me?” Her face transformed from determination to an awkward grimace after asking what really was an unusual question. “I mean, if it's no trouble.”

Korra’s grimace continues as she expects a confused reaction but instead finds the librarian deep in thought. “Well….” the librarian draws out the pause, stroking his chin. “I’m pretty sure we can make an exception for the Avatar.” Korra is taken aback by how nonchalant the response was, not even indicating the slightest bit of sarcasm. But she didn’t care, as her determined aura decided to come back in style. “Perfect!” she proclaimed, once again louder than intended.

She turns toward the archive doors. “Because I’m going to need a couple of scrolls.”

(so if you got to the end, thank you for reading all of this. this is my first attempt at writing a fanfic and its an idea that i really like, it might take a few chapters to get there but i think it will be worth it. also feel free to lend me your thoughts on it, im happy to hear whatever you guys think would improve my style or if you just really liked it.)

#atla #avatar the last airbender #legend of korra #rise of kyoshi #atla fanfic #legend of korra fanfic #rise of kyoshi fanfic #korra #kya #kyoshi #rangi #earth kingdom #fanfic #first fanfic #forgotten past hidden future part 1 #forgotten past hidden future chapter 1

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queen-scribbles · 4 years ago

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The Thing About Darktown

Just gonna post my Secret Santa fic for @jarinodragonage over here, too, now that she’s seen it. ;D

---

“Stop rubbing, you’ll make it worse!”

“It itches!”

“Better that than festering and falling off- Hawke!” Aveline growled in exasperation as the younger woman flinched away, half-done bandages fluttering. “You know, this wouldn’t even be an issue if you’d brought Anders.”

Leigh snorted wryly, rubbing the injury in question with a fervor that hastened the unraveling of the bandages. “There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear you say.”

“Why not?” Aveline narrowed her eyes and moved after her, cornering Leigh against a boulder and getting a better grip on her arm to redo the patching up that was all but undone now. “Most people would consider it wise to bring a healer if you have one at your disposal. Especially given you usually include him on your... adventures.”

Leigh grinned, hearing the ‘mis’ Aveline clearly wanted to slap in front of the last word. “You’re not enjoying girls’ night out?” she said drolly, waving to where Isabela and Merrill were examining what remained of their foes. “I’m just happy the bad guys are dead and we aren’t.” She grimaced as Aveline pulled the bandages just a little tighter. “Aveline! Are you trying to fix my arm or amputate it?!”

“The former,” Aveline said sternly. “But if the bandages slide, you may wind up needing the latter. There.” She tied off the bandages, tucked the trailing ends under so it wouldn’t snag, and let go of Leigh’s arm. “That should hold you until you can get it seen to, at least.”

“My hero,” Leigh said with a cheeky wink and darted over to help Isabela rifle the corpses for anything good.

“Not leaking any more?” Isabela asked playfully, shifting so Leigh could crouch next to her.

Leigh snorted. “Not for now, at least.” She tested her range of motion and wiggled her fingers. “Kinda stiff, throbs a little, but I can make it back to Kirkwall without drawing down wolves on us in addition to... whatever these gentlemen were supposed to be.” She rolled the body at her feet on its stomach with her good hand and started checking the pouches around the back of the belt. Nothing more valuable than a small collection of pretty pebbles.

“Good to hear,” Isabela laughed. “I’d rather not have anything to do with wolves if we can help it.”

“Oh, but they’re so pretty t’ watch when they hunt,” Merrill piped up, then wrinkled her nose as she processed the context of the remark. “Though they’d be huntin’ us, I suppose, wouldn’t they? Best to avoid that.”

“My thoughts exactly, kitten,” Isabela said with a wink. It only took a few more minutes of searching for her and Leigh to be satisfied they’d found everything of any value. There wasn’t much; this lot were clearly poor and desperate. (Of course, they’d have to be, to attack such a clearly dangerous group as the four of them.) Pretty baubles, a few coppers, and some rusty weapons were the extent of “treasure” they carried. If the poor bastards hadn’t attacked them first, Leigh would have felt bad about killing them. Under the circumstances, however, sympathy was a little hard to come by. She rubbed at the bandages again and pretended she didn’t hear Aveline sigh.

---

To Leigh’s vast relief, they were not hassled by wolves or anything else on their way back to Kirkwall, despite the setting sun and lengthening shadows. Her arm was starting to really ache, and she wasn’t sure how much help she’d be in a fight. Still, she waved off the others’ concern when they reached the city, insisted they go their own ways. “I think I can make it to Anders’ clinic by myself,” she said glibly when Aveline offered to come with her. She turned a grin toward Isabela and Merrill. “Save me a seat when you get to the Hanged Man? I’ll be over when I’m done.”

“You got it, sweet thing,” Isabela laughed, then looped her arm through Merrill’s as they headed for the tavern.

Aveline hesitated a moment longer; until Leigh made a shooing motion toward the Viscount’s Keep. “Go on, Avs, I know walking Darktown is more exciting than all the paperwork sitting on your desk, but I’ll be okay. Promise.”

Aveline shook her head and huffed (yet) another sigh. “Just... be careful, Hawke.”

“The very model of,” Leigh promised with a glib wave. “See you around, guard captain.”

Sh waited until she was well out of sight from all of them before rubbing hard at the bandages again, directly over the stinging gash across her bicep. It itched, worse than well, pretty much anything she could remember.

“Good thing it’s not too far to the clinic,” she muttered, balling her hand into a fist as the wound started to throb more pointedly, keeping time with her heartbeat. “Sooner I take care of this, the better.”

Leigh knew the safest route through Darktown to Anders’ clinic. She also knew the fastest route through Darktown to Anders’ clinic. This injury was enough of an annoyance that today she went for speed over safety. She could handle herself, after all, and was very clearly armed. She doubted anyone would fuck with her in the first place, and she’d deal with them if they did.

Still, she kept her eyes open and on her surroundings as she walked, tried not to let her thoughts wander.

It’s a good thing those were just common bandits, still wormed its way through her brain. Skilled as they all were, she was less accustomed to fighting alongside Aveline, Isabela, and Merrill. They’d lacked the synergy she had gotten used to. There were times it was as if she and Fenris read each others’ minds in a fight, they knew Varric’s rhythm and could avoid being skewered by the bolts meant for their enemies, and Aveline had been correct--it was very useful having a healer along.

She missed a step and almost tumbled. Right. No wandering thoughts, Leigh reprimanded herself as she caught her balance. She’d drawn some attention from a knot of hard-faced individuals with her near-fall, but fortunately her cloak hung over the evidence she was wounded. Still, no reason to linger.

Leigh curled her hand around the hilt of a dagger when one of the loungers kept staring her direction a little too long, but the sense of eyes on her faded when she rounded the next corner, so she relaxed her grip. She kept her pace brisk, and the wariness had faded somewhat by the time she passed the [waste] chute that marked halfway. While she didn’t rub the still-itching wound again, she did press her hand over it and bite her lip. The pressure felt good. She’d have to mention that to Anders, see if it meant anything bad he should know about before healing her up.

It was after the next corner everything went to shit. She rounded it too tightly, and her injured arm rammed against the edge precisely where the two walls met. Leigh let out an instinctual yelp at the burst of pain that flared through her arm and set stars dancing behind her eyes. She gritted her teeth to clamp down on it, but the damage was done.

“Need a hand, lovely?” The speaker, a rangy elf with a shaved head and facial tattoos, leaned against the wall and flashed an indolent grin.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Leigh shot back with a decent tinge of snark. “Just tad clumsy.”

“Sure? Darktown’s no place to be wanderin’ alone.” The contrast of the deep red tattoos curving up his cheekbones made the glint in his eyes seem all the more dangerous. And as he spoke, two other figures--another elven man and a human woman--sidled up with a faux-casual air that had goosebumps prickling Leigh’s arms.

“That’s why I’m trying to get it over with, Red-- Can I call you Red?” she said with a cheeriness she didn’t really feel, sizing them up as she spoke. Red had picked his spot well; even leaning against the wall he was close enough to grab her unless she was very fast. The other elf would be in the way if she went for her original path, and the woman now stood just enough to the side she could back up either of her friends handily.

“Oh, a funny one,” Red chuckled, not deigning to comment on her assigning him a nickname. “Y’know, it might go faster--definitely safer--if you hand Cob there” --a nod toward his fellow elf--”all your coin.”

“It might, huh?” Her arm twinged, and Leigh shifted the odds a few points in their favor. Good thing I tend to beat the odds... “If I had any on me, I’d be sure to share it with such a beleaguered innocent as... Cob.” She arched her brows toward the elf. His scraggly blond hair and jaundiced complexion actually did bear passing resemblance to a corncob. “Sadly, I think I left my coinpurse in my other cloak.”

“Bullshit,” the woman snarled, hand drifting to the short-bladed sword. “Who the fuck travels without any money?”

“Me, the fuck,” Leigh returned brightly, shifting just a little. If she got very lucky and timed it just right, she could probably slip away. “But if you don’t believe me, you can look for yourself.”

Her good hand yanked the clasp of her cloak and pulled it free to toss toward Red and the woman as Leigh lunged low and outside past Cob.

He snagged her elbow and tried to hold her back, but she tore free, stumbled a few steps before catching her balance.

Just in time to trip over the booted foot that appeared in front of her ankles. Leigh cursed under her breath and lurched semi-sideways as she was forced to balance again. Her instincts proved good; a pitted blade swung uncomfortably close to her shoulder. She freed one of her daggers with her good hand and spun to parry the next blow. She was just barely fast enough to redirect it into the moldering wall. Her other fist was already swinging after it, and she connected with the female thug’s cheekbone and sent her reeling into Cob. Pain flared in Leigh’s knuckles and up her arm, but at least she’d gained some breathing room--

The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled. She jerked sideways and there was a frustrated growl as Red’s swing went wide.

“Amber, Cob, get it together and help me gut this bitch!” he barked as he lunged forward in another swipe at Leigh’s midriff. Apparently he’d meant it literally.

The two of them grumbled as they recovered, glaring at her and circling to pen her in.

Leigh fought back a grimace and ran through her options. What few she had.

She feinted left, then went straight, ramming a shoulder into Cob’s chest and her dagger cutting a shallow scarlet line across Amber’s arm. They pivoted after her quickly, but at least she wasn’t pinned against a wall any more.

Red lunged forward, and even as she parried his dagger, he punched the bandaged portion of her arm. Hard.

Leigh spat a curse and slammed her elbow into his jaw. Her dagger slashed across his cheek as she followed through, and she kicked the inside of his knee for good measure.

Three on one meant no respite, however, and even as she spun away from Red, Amber closed in. Leigh ducked under the blow aimed at her head, but wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid the other woman’s buckler. The edge of the small shield caught her in the jaw with a crack.

Leigh ran her tongue over the new cut, tasted copper, and lunged. For Red, not Amber.

None of them were expecting that, and Red’s reflexes were just a little too slow as a result. He didn’t get his blades up in time to parry and Leigh’s dagger sank in the hollow of his collarbone.

He gave an airless gasp, then a wet cough, and dropped.

Crimson flew in an arc from Leigh’s dagger as it came free and she spun to face the other two. Amber and Cob charged her from opposite directions and she backpedaled, angling to the right and pivoting she she could gouge the back of Cob’s thigh as he passed her.

She didn’t cut deep enough to hit anything vital, but he still toppled with a curse. He lashed out and the pommel of his dagger slammed into the side of her knee.

Combined with Leigh’s momentum, it took her down and sent her rolling into the wall. She banged her head hard enough to see stars, and when they cleared, Amber was standing over her, grip tight on her sword and a sneer curling her lips

She raised the blade even as Leigh scrambled mentally for an out. “You could’ve avoided this if you’d just done as you were tol-”

The gloating words cut off, her shoulders jerking forward as the front six inches of a greatsword emerged from her chest.

“She’s never been good at that,” Fenris said dryly as he pulled his sword free, gaze shifting from the slain thug to Leigh, concern and amusement mingled in his eyes. “despite ample evidence it is not always a bad thing.”

“What can I say, I’m a rebel,” Leigh returned glibly, pushing herself up to a sitting position and leaning her head back against the wall. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you, Fenris, but where the fuck did you come from?”

He chuckled and let his sword hang loosely in one hand as he offered her the other. “The Hanged Man. I was meeting Donnic for drinks, but Isabela mentioned you’d been injured-”

“And you wanted to check on me?” Leigh teased, grinning playfully as she took his hand. “I’m touched.”

Fenris snorted and hauled her up, so fast it almost felt like flying. “I figured you would head for the clinic,” he corrected. He maintained a steadying grip on her forearm when she wobbled. “I wanted to ensure your safe arrival, knowing what Darktown is like.” He punctuated the words with a glare at Cob.

“My hero,” Leigh said, with a little more sincerity than when she’d tossed the same words at Aveline. “Normally I’d protest I’m a big girl and can handle myself, but today I think I’ll go with ‘thanks for the rescue’.”

Fenris nodded, then tipped his head toward Cob, who now sat glaring up at them with a hand pressed to the back of his thigh. “And what of him?”

Leigh shrugged, not liking the soreness already settling in her muscles. I really need to see Anders. “Eh, just leave him be.”

“What?!” Cob barked. “You kill my friends, cripple me, and you’re just going to leave?!”

“Hey, you lot attacked me, asshole,” Leigh fired back, grasping Fenris’ arm to hold him back when his markings flickered and he tensed. “After I tried to avoid a fight. You’re lucky I’m not askin’ him to finish you off. My cloak’s somewhere around here; you can have that to patch yourself up. But I need to be on my way. After all, it’s not safe to linger in Darktown.”

She went to make a dramatic exit, and her knee almost gave out. Fenris caught her, pulled her back upright, and only paused to sheath his sword before draping her arm around his shoulders for support.

“Thanks,” Leigh whispered, limping heavily as they walked away.

“You are most welcome,” Fenris replied, in that soft, low murmur that sent warmth curling all the way to her toes. “Let’s get you to Anders.”

---

The rest of the walk was uneventful, which Leigh credited to the protective air radiating from Fenris. Anders was, thankfully, not busy when they arrived and immediately turned his attention to fussing over her. He and Fenris exchanged the occasional sniping remark, as the latter insisted on ‘hovering’ nearby, no doubt concerned about the fresh blood seeping through Leigh’s bandages.

The battering from her alley scuffle was easily healed--and she did mention Cob to Anders, just in case he’d feel inclined to help the man. But Anders frowned when he unwrapped the bandages around her arm. “Hawke, this is from today?”

“Just a couple hours ago,” Leigh nodded. “We were already on our way back to the city, and I headed here soon as we made it. Why-” She turned to look and grimaced at the angry red edges to the wound. “Oh.”

“It’s good you came straight here,” Anders said, then glanced at Fenris. “Well, nearly. There must’ve been something on the blade, deliberately or not.” He murmured a quiet spell, fingers tracing through the air before he laid his hand over the wound.

The spell rolled through her with a cleansing prickle that gave her goosebumps for a minute before fading. But the near-insufferable itching was gone. Anders’ hand flexed again, and healing magic chased the cleansing spell to knit flesh back together.

Leigh’s slumped with relief. “Thanks, handsome,” she winked as she gave that shoulder an experimental roll. “Much better.” All better, there wasn’t even a scar.

“Always happy to help,” Anders said with a tired smile. “Your knee might still be sore,” he cautioned as she started to stand. “You might want to take it easy for a day or two.”

“I will accompany you,” Fenris offered, soon as she’d made it to her feet. “To be safe, of course.”

“Of course,” Leigh chuckled. Her knee seemed alright, but she’d never pass up his company. She thanked Anders again, then she and Fenris headed out.

“Hawke, it’s this way,” Fenris commented when she walked past the turn that would lead back to Hightown.

“I’m going to the Hanged Man, not home,” Leigh said with a smile and a shrug. “Promised I’d join ‘Bela and Merrill. And I can take it easy there just as well as at home.” Better; at the Hanged Man she’d be around people. Friends.

His shoulders tensed, and she could almost see his overprotective instincts winding up, before he relaxed and nodded. “I shall accompany you there, then, instead.”

Leigh snickered. “That worried about me tumbling in a ditch somewhere, are you?”

“There are plenty to choose from in this city,” Fenris deadpanned. “Or perhaps I wish to offer back up in case anyone is fool enough to attack you.”

“Oh, thank you. Whatever the reason, I’ll happily take your company.”

She hadn’t really meant to say it, no matter how glib her tone,and he clearly didn’t know how to reply, so they walked in almost-awkward silence for a minute.

“So, how many poor sods did you inadvertently terrorize on your way down through Darktown?” Leigh finally asked, playfully nudging his shoulder, before the silence became too much.

“I... do not know,” Fenris admitted. He glanced at her. “I was too preoccupied to notice.”

Oh. She bit her lip and cleared her throat. “Bet you get turned into a phantom in children’s stories now,” she teased, struggling to make the words light-hearted. “You know, the ghost who’ll snatch them away if they get out of bed in the middle of the night.”

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” he said dryly, and Leigh couldn’t help but snort a laugh.

“It would fit, though,” she said, flashing a mischievous grin. “You glow, you... pass through things--or people, at least.. Practically writes itself. I should tell Varric.”

Fenris groaned, but there was something half-hearted about it, and she caught the smile he tried to hide. “I’m certain he has better things to do.”

“Better, maybe. But not more fun.”

Their easy pace during the conversation had carried them to within a stone’s throw of the tavern, and Leigh paused, turning to rest a hand on Fenris’ arm. “All joking aside, I am truly grateful you came swooping to my rescue.”

Fenris caught her gaze and held it as he took a breath, then slowly exhaled. “Anytime, Leigh.”

He leaned ever so slightly into her touch, then stepped away and headed inside the Hanged Man. Leigh’s hand curled into a loose fist, and she closed her eyes to take a deep breath before trailing after him.

Isabela and Merrill greeted her cheerfully, and Leigh was all too happy to let their company and the general tavern cacophony distract her from... anything else.

(She caught a glimpse of silver-white hair across the bustling space and hastily focused back on Isabela’s challenge to a hand of Wicked Grace.)

Anyone else.

#queens fic #fenhawke #leigh hawke/fenris #da2 #jarino dragonage

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ask-de-writer · 4 years ago

Text

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 4 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 4 of 83

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story? Read from the beginning. PART 1 is here

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“Aye, she’s t’e very ane. ‘Ow’d ye know ‘er line an’ folk?”

“My mother, Evanstar Morn Dannav, was her mother’s identical twin. She raised me on stories of their escapades. Twenty-one Gatherings ago, she married onto the Grandalor. I am Tanlin’s cousin, though I’ve never met her before.”

While they were talking, the Princamorn rolled off the coral head and settled down into the crystal waters of the lagoon. She lay on her side about thirty five or forty feet down.

Soon, the divers began to sound and surface, making notes on waterproofed paperfish parchment. In a few hours they had conducted and documented a survey of the wreck for salvage assessment.

While he waited for the divers to finish their work, Barad retired to his cabin. Chena, his cabin-girl was seated on his lap, a two-leaved tallow-slate open before her on the chart table. Her brows were knit as she studied the problem before her. I wish that I could follow this Arrakan arithomatics the way Barad does. He makes it seem so easy. Their crazy writing is easier by far, and it’s a pain. She looked once again at the rows of interrelated figures that Barad was trying to get her to understand. I wish that he’d get his hand off my breast. I can’t concentrate! These Arrakan function things! I’ll never get them to work! A knock at the locked door caused Barad to flip her slate shut and toss it to his bed. He pushed her behind the bed hangings as well. Sliding open the door, he admitted his Purser, Mister Morgu, who was carrying a set of account books, and Master Selked who was bearing the diver’s still wet reports on the condition of the wreck.

Studying the dripping reports, Master Selked, the Grandalor’s chief boat-wright, famous for the quality of the tools that he made, told Barad, “The Princamorn is not that severely damaged, other than the hull breach. She can be easily salvaged. If we are prompt, most of the capital goods in her shops and much of her cargo and stores should be savable as well.

Mister Morgu, the Grandalor’s Purser rubbed his hands together in glee at the thought. “We hold the rights to the wreck, Captain. It is easily worth seventy five thousand Strong Skins. Even after the costs of salvage, we stand to make better than fifty thousand Skins in profit.”

Barad’s pale blue eyes speared Morgu like harpoons. He shook his unruly mop of blond hair, now going gray, and said mildly, “I did say that these folk are not to be looted. We have made easily thrice that amount by trading with them. We shall indeed assert our claim to the salvageable wreck. If the Arrakans recognize our claim, we will return the Princamorn to her survivors at the cost of salvage plus a reasonable sum for our lost ship-time.”

“But Sir,” Morgu started to protest, seeing a large amount of money vanishing from his grasp.

Quelling the protest with a raised hand, Barad looked past his blade of a nose and said coolly, “I expect to gain far more than I lose in this deal, Morgu. Fear not.

“Would you be so good as to go and get Captain P’osettin and Purser Rostow and bring them here to discuss the matter of their ship?”

Am I an errand boy? thought Morgu irritatedly as he said, “Yes, Sir. I’ll attend to it at once.” He slid the cabin door shut behind him and spoke to the ever-present cabin boy waiting in the passageway. “Benj, go get what’s her name, Poset — something and, Rostu is it? You know, the Princamorn’s ex-captain and Purser.”

Benj, irritated at Morgu’s deliberate mangling of the names of people that he had met and liked, said, “Captain P’osettin and Purser Rostow; yes, Sir. I’ll get them,” and ran in the direction of the mess hall, where the survivors were being put up for now. Shortly he returned, leading both Captain and Purser.

Morgu made a show of sliding open the door and escorting them into Brad’s cabin. Captain P’osettin was a tall, rangy woman with black hair, tied back in a complex knot and braid. Purser Rostow was small man, a little over five feet tall, gray of hair and elderly. That he had been crying was obvious.

Barad turned to them and gestured them to comfortable chairs. “Captain P’osettin, Purser Rostow, I regret intruding on your grief. Losing ship and home must be hard. I need help. I know your trade laws well enough but I need information about your salvage laws.”

“Ca’tain Barad,” said P’osettin in a voice roughened by Gatherings of shouting commands, “Rostow ‘as lost more t’an merely ‘ome an’ ship.”

Barad, remembering the death of his own wife, said quietly, “Dragons, please, not Norrin?”

Mutely Rostow nodded. Captain P’osettin, said, “She was foremast lookoot. Tried t’ warn us o’ t’e ‘ead but we couldnae turn in time. Went t’ Iren’s ‘alls when t’e mast went down. ‘er body wa’ nae recovered.”

“My condolences, said Barad sincerely. This was a feeling that he was all too familiar with. “Can you help us or do you need more time to yourself?”

Pulling himself together with a deeply drawn breath, Rostow replied, “‘Aving a task t’ do ‘ll ‘elp. W’at’s yer need?”

Barad turned to Captain P’osettin first. “Ma’am, I ask your permission to open your ship’s Logs and accounts.”

“As salver, ye need nae permission Ca’tain Barad,” she answered. “T’ey’re yers t’ do wit’ as ye see fit. T’e Logs’ll ‘ave t’ be given t’ t’e Arrakan Council for t’e archive,”

“Still, a friend asks,” Barad returned with a serious smile.

That brought a return smile from P’osettin and a ghost of one from Rostow. “We were fortunate t’ ‘ave ye close, Barad. Ye saved many o’ m’ crew from Dark Iren’s ‘alls beneat’ t’e sea.

“W’at ye need now’s a survey o’ t’e wreck, wit’ position. T’at must be filed wit’ t’e nearest Council ship t’ secure yer claim. T’at’ll be t’e Wavenruner. T’en, an’ only t’en, can work begin.

“M’ crew’ll be Scattered over t’e fleet at t’e next Gat’ering. Once t’e Princamorn’s afloat an’ independent ye can put a prize crew on ‘er. She’ll be sold an’ newcrewed at t’e next Gat’ering.”

“Is it legal,” Barad asked with an intense stare, “for me to sell her and recrew her before the next Gathering? And with that, can I appoint her Captain?”

It was Rostow who answered this one. “‘T would be legal t’ do all t’at ye say, t’ough ‘t ‘as never been dune before. T’e Ca’taincy wad be subject t’ Council approval, o’ course. All Ca’taincies are.

“W’ere wad ye find purchasers or crew on such short notice? T’e ‘ole project wad cost on t’e close order o’ twenty or t’irty t’ousand Skins.”

Instead of answering directly, Barad leaned back in his chair and looked up at the web-work of beams and stringers fabricated of glued Strong Skin that made up the support of the afterdeck overhead. He steepled his fingers and said thoughtfully, “Sometimes people do generous things with no thought of return. Last Fall, we were trading in these waters when we were hit by a Coriolis storm. Our damaged mainspar was replaced by folk who said it was but the cost of friendship.

“Consider that spar a down payment. We will do the salvage work in return for a note to cover the cost of salvage and repair. In addition, we will have two full ownership shares in your ship.”

It was P’osettin who with tears in her eyes asked, “After t’is disaster ye wad give us bock our ship? Wye?”

Barad looked at her with a calculating smile, and laid a hand on the Princamorn’s account books. “I have a confession to make. I already did look at your books. They show quality management. I expect to make a handsome, if slower, profit.”

Both P’osettin and Rostow nodded. This they could accept. P’osettin wrung Barad’s hand as they left the cabin and said in a voice thick with emotion as well as accent, “We must bear t’is news t’ t’e rest o’ t’e crew. T’e Articles ‘ave t’ be observed but i’ t’ey dinnae take yer offer, t’ey’re nae wort’y t’ be sailors on a ship o’ mine.”

After the visitors had gone, Chena emerged from the bed hangings, tallow-slate in one hand and a stylus in the other. Timidly, she said, “I got the function thing to work, I think. It must be wrong, though. The answer that I get is a nearly circular ellipse, with the primary focus stationary, the minor focus going about it in a circle, causing a moving point on the ellipse to describe a cycloidal path.”

Barad cocked an eye at her and smiled sardonically. “It sounds basically right. What’s the difficulty?”

Chena quailed, as if in fear of getting hit. “It’s huge! Many times larger than Sea itself! How could something be bigger than the world?”

Barad actually laughed in delight. He dragged Chena by the arm to the open porthole and pointed out at the sky. The largest of the three moons was visible about a hand-span above the horizon. “There is your answer! You have just computed the orbit of Wohan, for about a Wohan ahead. You will become a Calculator yet. Never doubt it.

“Your indenture will net me thrice the value of even a boat-shop apprentice. Your own share of that indenture will be over six times what I get. Look forward to the money and freedom in just a few Gatherings. You will have a safe start in a new fleet. If you do not repeat the mistakes that ruined your life in the Naral fleet you will be secure and respected for the rest of your life.”

Chena looked at Barad in fear, I wish that I could believe that. I’ve heard that your Cabin-girls disappear and are never seen again. A death sentence to be chosen. Well, if you’d not taken me, I’d be dead already. Cast off. No ship, unless one were to chose me. I guess that being taken by the Grandalor is better than drowning.

With the help of the survivors, the Grandalor found the Arrakan fleet Council ship, Wavenruner, easily. It was one of a few ships that were authorized to act for the fleet’s Council until the next Gathering. They took the report of the sinking, along with the precise location and the salvage survey of the wreck. They also issued the necessary salvage claims, and bought much of what had been salvaged already.

Less than a Wohan later a somewhat crippled but now functional Princamorn parted company with the Gandalor. All of her surviving crew went with her, along with Barad’s indentures. The only exception was the gravely injured Tanlin, who was still in a coma.

Captain Barad, descended a companion-ladder to a corridor that lead to the Purser’s scriptorium. A half dozen men and women talented with quill and ink were working industriously by the light of large ports and a few candle lanterns in the brightly lit room. If the fleet Council knew just how talented these folk have been for the last seven Gatherings, the Grandalor would likely have a new Captain and officers, he thought, gleeful at getting away with yet another shady enterprise.

He examined the neatly bound piles of trade scrip. Each one bore the name of a different ship, and had the expertly forged signature of that ship’s Purser. There were several hundred Strong Skins and perhaps four thousand Glue Blocks worth. His brow wrinkled in angry concentration and he looked at the works in progress. “Morgu,” he called softly, voice quietly authoritative.

The Purser got down from his own high stool and work table in the corner of the room, where he could oversee all that was being done. “Yes, Captain?”

“Where is the Longin scrip? I do not see any, nor any in progress. Alor’s signature is no harder to forge than any other.”

“True, Sir. But this is.” Morgu pointed to a number neatly written in Alor’s precise hand.

“So? Copy it. What problem does it present?”

Morgu braced himself to tell Captain Barad the bad news. It was never safe thing to do. “Sir, each scrip, even the quarter block ones, has a separate number. This started last Gathering. Alor keeps a register with all of the numbers. When a scrip is done being traded about and is presented to the Longin for redemption, it is stricken out in her register, with the redemption date marked, and it is destroyed.

“The practical result is that our Longin scrip will be easily detected — and traced — to us.

“We are suspected of the counterfeits already put out.”

“How can you know that? The counterfeits have been discussed in the Captain’s Council but nothing has come of it. I have seen to that,” said Barad, deeply disturbed.

“Sir, a general meeting of the fleet’s Pursers has been called for next Gathering. I was not invited, and when I tried to get invited, I was bluntly told that I was unwelcome and would be ejected if I came.

“It took a number of discreet inquiries, some of them through agents, to find out the secret. The purpose of the meeting is to discuss the counterfeit situation and deal with it at the scrip issuing level, as the Captains’ Council seems unable to do anything.

“If I were you, Sir, I would drop the counterfeiting and wait for at least one or two Gatherings before going back to it.”

Captain Barad scowled, I wish that I could use him for Strong Skin bait. If I do, I will never get a reliable answer from anyone. They will all be afraid to tell me the truth. Dependable advice is the most valuable thing I can get. “I hate to let it go, but though profitable, it is a small trade. I will bow to your expertise and end it, for now,” he said thoughtfully.

“It was a good idea when you brought it to me seven Gatherings ago, when they were about to vote you off the Darok. Your transfer to the Grandalor saved them the embarrassment of admitting how badly you had hoodwinked them. It raised you from a well educated deck-hand to Purser and gave me a good income.

“Do you know why I made you Purser?”

“I have been puzzled by that question.”

Barad smiled, “It is simple. Faced with ruin by the collapse of a small scheme, you thought big enough to forge ahead and come to me with an ambitious proposal.” He smiled at his pun and waited for an answering one from Morgu before going on. “Few people will look to attack when they are being struck by a large opponent. Your ability at forgery has been useful and it will be again someday in some other way.”

Briskly Barad added, “For now, send someone up to my cabin. There are four books there, on the table. Your people should make as many copies as they can. They are the next edition of the Muline’s Moons and Sun Navigational Ephemerides. I got them while we were rendezvoused with Muline. My cabin girl will point them out.”

Morgu shuddered slightly at the thought of the Captain’s cabin girl. I pity her, truly I do. Having to take care of his cabin, and other needs. She won’t last long, they never do. Aloud, he said, “Will you accompany me to my cabin, Captain? I’ve something I’d like to discuss privately.”

“Of course, Morgu, let’s go.”

The Purser’s cabin was small and completely orderly, like its occupant. There was a small table, a chair, a shelf for books and a shut-bed. A small port-hole, open but equipped with a tightly fitting shutter, let in light. Morgu opened the folding door of the shut-bed so that he would have a place to sit, and let the Captain have the chair.

After sitting, Captain Barad demanded, “What did you want to discuss, that needs such privacy?”

Morgu steepled his hands and gathered his thoughts. “I want to ask something that may be personal. I don’t want to snoop into your affairs, but the answer may assist me in helping you with your goals. The question is about the Longin. I know how they cheated you when you tried to take over their crabbing waters, but your dislike for that ship goes further back than that. If I understand the situation better, perhaps I can help you to devise a fitting revenge.”

It was Barad’s turn to gather thoughts. “Way back, over twenty Gatherings ago, a few Wohans after the fire cough epidemic, old Captain Morthan, took ill and died suddenly, I took the helm of the Grandalor. There was not time for a popular election from fleet qualified men, by the Articles because a Coriolis storm was nearly on us. I and a few supporters took the job because someone had to. People took my commands and we got through the storm in good order. After that, they were used to my rule, and my men made it easier and safer to keep on doing so. Very few had to be logged as lost in the storm.

“I forged documents of election for the Captain’s Council. I am not as practiced in that art as you, I admit. Some of the officer’s signatures were questioned by Captain Mord, (a curse on all Halyns!) and I near lost my command and life right there. It took some fancy footwork to keep what I had bought and it cost several more lives.

“To this day I don’t understand why he opposed me. I could easily forgive being outmaneuvered, like with the crabbing waters. That’s a game with a winner and a loser.” He threw up his hands and went on, “There was no reason in it! Neither he nor the Longin could profit by it in any way!”

Morgu listened in rapt attention. Several more lives? There’s more to this story than I’m getting. Aloud he said, “I see. You only barely beat them then, and the real grievance is that they near wasted all your work for no real end. That they have managed to come out even or ahead on every try for revenge since only twists the knife.

“The best that you have done since amount to small nibbles that they barely feel.” Morgu paused before going on, “You don’t want to hit them like a hungry Strong Skin. Big as Strong Skins are, the Longin catches those. You need to strike at them like a big Wing Ray leaping from the deeps onto a small boat! You must smash something that they can’t replace!”

Captain Barad looked at the savage expression on his Purser’s face fascinated by what he saw, “What do you hold against the Longin? Such anger is well past the loss of a few counterfeit notes.” He was well aware of the answer but wanted to hear Morgu’s version from his own lips. Due to the machinations needed to get him to come to the Grandalor, Barad never had this opportunity before.

“There are two things that I hold against that Dragon-haunted ship!” Morgu paused and took a few deep breaths and regained his composure. “The first is not unlike your own. I was just making a few of the Darok’s own scrip for my own use, and none really hurt by it. The Darok found out because Captain Mord Halyn brought it to their attention and then the Longin’s crew helped to trap me. There was nothing in it for them. They just prated of honesty.

“The other thing was even worse. I was near ready to marry a fine young lady from the Muline at the time. Not only did I not get Suze, she married onto the Longin! Now do you understand why I want to hurt them?”

Sympathetically, Barad laid a hand on Morgu’s shoulder. She was going to follow him to the Grandalor but I fixed that! It has paid off better than I could have guessed. “I see why you hate them so and now you know why I do, too. What shall we do about it? How shall we smash them? Captain Mord and Alor are both too well guarded and too prominent to reach safely. I had thought of that.”

“Captain, whose name do you hear everywhere that Longin sailors gather? They talk about the girl Kurin …”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS NEXT==>

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#SEA DRAGON’S GIFT #Part 4 of 83 #World of Sea #Written by De Writer

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autoclavesarchived · 5 years ago

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dead sea | the magnus archives (ao3)

a character study of martin & depression

Martin wakes up, and doesn’t want to. This is always how it starts—the creeping fog, the wretched emptiness, the realization that he can no longer find a single reason to go through the motions of living again. It’s a slow descent. He can feel himself slipping back into that bad place again, and he is both aggressor and spectator in his passivity. On these days, he doesn’t think he can be a person even if he wants to.

(It had started the previous evening when the sun sank down. It’s so lonely out at nightfall. To look outside and see nothing else, only pinpricks of solitary light in the distance, to be the only known quantity in a sea of darkened glass. It was like the slow fade into night had bled something loose inside him.)

That had been a different kind of void, though. Less illness, more sadness, a sheet of blunt-edged melancholia. This raw, record-scratch morning is far less quantifiable and infinitely worse.

Radio static in his head. He is in so many pieces. It’s hard to keep himself together when the sun has fallen right off the edge of the world and his body now feels like the unwanted inhabitant of a car crash; no, nothing quite so violent and screaming as that. A haunted house, maybe. A muffled crime scene before its investigation.

Somewhere in the middle of this glitching mindscape, a person that Martin would like to believe is his real self cries for it to stop. This self is still alive, just—inaccessible. Quietly pigeonholed into the attic, quarantined under floorboards like a bad secret. Is there a way back home? Is there a way back to you? he thinks, blindly. There is no answer, or at least, none that he can hear. Depression, in its slow and imperceptible way, continues to take up residence inside of him.

It seems so unreasonable, but he can’t bear to even lift his head. He’s just so tired.

Outside is a riotous spring, green and pink and yellow. Last fall, when the cold set in and winter rusted shut its grip around them, he’d wanted it to be spring so badly that he would have given up anything to see it happen. A hand, an eye. A lung, even. The nights had been so long and aching then. Now, the days are, too. Outside is spring and Martin is acutely aware that it is passing him by.

Time distorts strangely when he’s like this. He wakes from the blink of a sleep-sick nap to find the sun burning too high above him, and the door creaking open; a rattle of keys being set down, plastic grocery bags rustling onto the kitchen counter, and Jon’s quick footsteps walking down the hallway.

“Martin?” he hears Jon call. “Martin? I’ve got the shopping but we should really see if—”

Their bedroom door opens, the noise of it interrupting whatever he had been about to say. It’s a little darker in here with the blinds half-turned, but not dark enough that he wouldn’t be able to see Martin lying curled on the bed.

“Martin?” he repeats, more quizzically this time.

“Jon,” Martin says. His voice is raspy from disuse, so he tries again. “Jon. Hello.”

Jon draws nearer. “Is this a bad day?” He is windswept and smells like sunlight, like the springtime he’d just been outside in, and Martin can hardly bear to look at him for envy of what he wants to be. What he couldn’t be if he tried because he is barely a person right now. But that isn’t Jon’s fault, he reminds himself very carefully. Jon is trying to take care of him. (His expression has not changed in the slightest after seeing Martin motionless on the bed, all the blankets pulled up despite how mild the day is, and he is silently thankful for it. He knows what a miserable picture this must make.)

“Yeah,” he manages. “Do you—can you… come here? Please.”

“Of course.” There’s a sweep of air, and the bed dips; Jon sliding in between the sheets unquestioningly at his appeal even though the day is in its prime and it’s only Martin’s brain being irrational and happiness-deprived.

It takes a minute, but they shift so that they’re facing each other, bodies only a few inches apart on the mattress. Martin can feel the difference of a second presence and the warmth it exudes. He can feel himself reaching for it, too, with his half-starved self. A puzzle piece, or a stray bracket looped inwards.

“Can I touch you?”

Martin nods. He desperately wants Jon to touch him. He needs to be reminded that he’s real, and that he hasn’t just made this up in his mind as a respite from the echoing wasteland of the sadness. Jon is real, and that means Martin is more than a single lonely blot on the horizon.

“Okay,” Jon whispers, and doesn’t ask anything more of him. Soon enough, Martin feels hands skim the backs of his wrists, glide up his forearms and across his shoulders. They trace the pattern of freckles on his chest, forwards and backwards. Light, undemanding touches, so quintessentially Jon in their repetitive familiarity. Eventually, he pulls him closer so that their bodies are pressed against each other in a sort of half-hug: Martin’s head tucked into the bend of Jon’s chin, one of Jon’s legs draped over his hip, their torsos a single warm line from collarbone to stomach. Jon is normally so much smaller than him, and all rangy and bird-boned to boot, but when he gets like this, his presence is expansive, comforting. Martin feels lazily enveloped in it. The whole bed smells like Jon now, aftershave and rooibos tea and something citrusy—oranges, maybe.

He lies carefully still in familiar arms, and he thinks he should feel something more about this. He thinks he should feel happier, or more grateful. It’s not that he’s not, exactly, more that he’s just… temporarily divorced from it. As if he’s looking at the feeling, or the implication of it, from a point very distant at the edge of the sky. There’s something in the way that makes it hard to directly feel anything. He is looking at the happiness of someone else’s body, and then back down at the happiness-shaped imprint on his own. The place where happiness is supposed to be, but isn’t, right now.

He tells Jon this. “I think I should feel something about this. I think I should feel something about you right now. It isn’t right that I don’t.”

(He just feels so hollow. He didn’t know absence could take up so much space inside a person. Right now, he is a tenant in his own head.)

“You don’t owe me anything, Martin,” Jon says, the steady vibration of words in his throat humming through the top of Martin’s skull. That sensation, the intimacy of it, is the closest Martin thinks he has gotten to feeling something today.

“I love you. You don’t have to answer that right now, but I just wanted you to know. When you come back, I’ll tell you again. As many times as you want.” The light stretches and slants as Jon speaks.

Martin is sometimes afraid that there is no back. There is no returning. It really does seem like this is all there is, this static on a broken loop and his mind slowing like the drip of a hospital IV. If that is true, then it’s not Jon, or even the feeling of happiness that is unreal; Martin is the imposter here. The magic trick, the illusion, the Eurydice caught between person and not. There is nowhere to go back to, because the emptiness is the only part of him that means anything.

(“I love you,” Jon had tried, over and over, achingly, the first time it happened, and finally Martin had screamed at him, “I love you can’t solve this, Jon!” They’d had a long conversation that night about love and illness and how sometimes he was so numb he could die from it. Since then, Jon only says the words because they are true, not as if they could save Martin. It might seem uncaring to anyone else, but it works for the both of them.)

I love you, Jon says now, like a fact, and Martin wants to say it back, he really does.

The figure in his head, the one that he has to believe he can go back to, tries to say it. But even in the isolation of his own mind, it only comes out as a faint I really loved you, you know. He doesn’t mean for it to mangle like that, the past tense of it softly mocking. He still loves Jon—that much is not an illusion. That much is also a fact. It’s the apathy again, leaching the feeling out of his actions and his speech. There is an I love you- shaped wound on his self and it is one he cannot quite reconcile with the love he knows he has for Jon. I really loved you, you know. And the version of me that loves you, that can love you, is still out there. Just not here. There’s all this untethered, inaccessible love here, Jon. I want to be able to feel it for you.

Jon falls asleep for a while after that. He’s still clutching at Martin, the weight and anchor of his body a welcome warmth. Martin stays awake, so he looks at Jon to fill the time.

Jon is rendered looser when he drowses. He’s more inexact somehow, edges less sharply defined and face slack, unreserved. It isn’t that he withholds on purpose, and especially not from Martin, but his defense mechanisms forget to reset themselves in sleep. It’s part of why sleeping next to him is an almost unbearable closeness all by itself—a reminder that he is trusted enough to see this. Martin reaches out with a hand, and is nearly startled when it brushes Jon’s face. He’d expected it to go right through him, for some reason. He isn’t sure whether he’d imagined himself or Jon to be the insubstantial one in this scenario, but in any case, his hand finds solid skin.

He touches his fill of Jon’s angular cheeks and cradled shoulders and pinned dark hair. He’s so beautiful, all of him. Aftershave and rooibos and oranges; it feels like a foreign landscape, but Martin is determined. He is relearning the things that make up Jon the way a man deprived of senses does.

When Jon wakes up—in fits and starts, squinting at the sun that is now slouching golden across the room—Martin embraces him and very quietly says that he’ll start putting the groceries away.

So they get out of bed together, even though Martin feels like he hasn’t walked in weeks. He lifts the bags off the counter to sit down and sort through them on the floor. It is the most human thing he’s done today.

Sorting is a quiet, menial sort of task that doesn’t require much thought, which is good, because his head is still weighted down with buzzing. He sits in the sunlight and lets the rice and orzo and tinned olives and fruit pass through his hands as he puts them on the shelves, thinking, our food, our sunlit kitchen, this is the home we have made. (I really loved you, you know. He can’t change the tense of it yet so he just repeats that word, love, until he can pretend to forget the context of it. No past, no future, just love, said like it would replace the emptiness.)

Afterwards, Jon makes them baked pasta with three different kinds of cheese. Evening paints the length of him glorious and blue. As Martin watches, he shreds thyme and basil and mixes breadcrumbs to cover the top layer the way Martin likes best; Jon, who is reasonably talented at yet notoriously opposed to the idea of cooking, does all this without batting an eye. Martin is sure he will feel something about this, too, later.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #magpod #my fic #depression /

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rebellect-writes · 4 years ago

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[SIZE=1][b]Name:[/b] Jess. [b]Age:[/b] 21. [b]How?:[/b] Well your honour… It was justified.

[align=center][IMG]http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_li7iezLOa81qcbv2lo1_500.gif[/IMG][/align]

[b]Name:[/b] Elijah Wyatt Hobbs. [b]Nicknames & Aliases:[/b] [LIST][x] Nickname: Eli. [x] Nickname: Hobbs; answers to this more than his given name. [x] Nickname: Cowboy. [x] Alias: Rick Dixon. [/LIST][b]Age:[/b] 43. [b]Date of Birth:[/b] May 10, 1968 [b]Gender:[/b] Male. [b]Sexual Orientation:[/b] Heterosexual. [b]Occupation:[/b] [LIST][i]Formerly:[/i] Monster hunter, specializing in common supernaturals. [i]Currently:[/i] A carpenter with his own small business. [/LIST][b]Powers:[/b][LIST][b]Electrokinesis:[/b] Elijah is a moderately adept [b]electrokinetic[/b], meaning he can mentally manipulate and control electricity and electric fields. He’s got enough training under his belt that he can produce a number of things, from an electrical defensive force field – enough to cover himself as well as two others maximum - as well as manipulate electricity into different shapes and if necessary, projectiles. The more he uses the power, the more weak and tired he becomes since the electricity actually comes from him. The major downside to his power is that he has to stay away from built up electronic areas such as offices and the like in case he causes the machines to short circuit. [/LIST][b]Face Claim:[/b] Timothy Olyphant. [b]Description:[/b] [IMG]http://i672.photobucket.com/albums/vv90/bloodwillout/app%20pics/Image1-1.png[/IMG] [i]Height:[/i] 6'0 [i]Weight:[/i] 165lbs [i]Eyes:[/i] Brown. [i]Hair:[/i] Dark brown peppered with grey. [i]Build:[/i] Average. Muscular in his own way but more thin and rangy. [i]Visible marks:[/i] He has a small black [URL=http://retrieverimages.lycos.com/images/c/e/l/celtic-knot/i/003.jpg]Celtic Knot[/URL] on his left inner wrist. His hands are calloused and rough from work, and he has a couple of smaller scars; one on the small of his back that looks like a cat clawed him, another higher up on his back from a knife. [i]Style:[/i] Casual and laid back, unless he wants to be flashy in which case he’s suits.

[b]Special Skills:[/b][LIST][x] Can speak Spanish. [x] Knows how to brew his own vodka. [x] He can actually cook! [x] Knows how to clean vampire bites, as well as tend most other hunting injuries. [x] Knows mixed fighting styles, can mostly hold his own as long as he's sober. [x] Moderately skilled with small to medium firearms. [/LIST][b]Personality:[/b][LIST]First and foremost, Elijah is a bit of an old fashioned gentleman. He’s the type that will hold a door open for a lady, say his pleases and thank yous and pull a chair out for a woman at the dining table, and more. He believes that a man should never raise a hand to a woman, and if they do, then that woman is entiled to react as she sees fit, it’s the same if a woman is being verbally abused by a male. Elijah also believes that a person should never walk into another person’s home without the proper invitation; and if they do, well he’ll happily escort them to the door. There’s pleanty of general conduct rules that he’s broken and discarded over ther years, but those are the ones that have stuck close to Elijahs heart. There’s some lines that he’ll cross with his own little code, but that’s mostly if it is mainly saving his own hide.

Elijah by nature isn’t a violent man, he doesn’t go out of his way to start a fight – either verbal or physical- he will be the first to put someone in their place when they try and draw him into violence. It’s only a curtasy to give them the option to back out without having to get violent. The only time he has openly shown his violent and angry size is when he’s had a bit too much to drink and the other person had pissed him off for some reason or another. He generally learns after that…for a week or so before he’ll do it all over again and go right back to square one. He doesn’t take crap from people, if they want to take an issue with him, that is all find and dandy, but he won’t put up with them trying to sneak up on him when his guard is down to try and kill him.

One of his other major faults is that he’s a little closed off with his more truer emotions and his agenda. He’s protective, though he may not show it in the most reliable sense of the word and he’s caring, even if at times it doesn’t really feel or look like it. He’s tolerant enough that he’ll put up with a lot of crap for people and he’s accepting of a lot of faults that people seem to need to express. He’ll help someone out, but he won’t continuously hold their hand or wipe away their tears because after a while even his patience will wear thin. It’s safe to say nderneath the bad ass calm exteria of Elijah Hobbs is a little bark and a little bite.

If someone was to go at someone close to Eli, he would bring down hell onto someone’s head with the vengeful streak he keeps hidden for everyone’s sake. In a way he’s a bit of a masochist in that respect, he’s left pleanty of people alive that he should’ve killed but didn’t, and he expects them to come after him one day but until then, he’s happy to keep things nice and civil. Generally, he’s quick to take action in a no nonsence kind of way, rather than letting things fester and wait on him to get to them. It is only after the fact that he’ll actually sit back and ask questions, and by then sometimes it’s just too late to do anything about it so he doesn’t let it get to him.

Elijah is loyal to those that have earned it. While he may think that he can do things on his own like some cowboy straight out of the wild west, he sure as hell can’t, and if someone can put up with him for long enough, he’ll show the same loyalty and respect that they showed him; even if he has to play by someone elses rules, he’d still show it. He may moan about it a little, but he’d still respect their choices and decisions. Old grudges have come and bitten him in the rear before, while he has a few, he won’t activly act on them and make them some big over blown issue that he must combat. He’d rather just deal with that quietly and move on. Should someone bring a grudge to him, well, there’s only two ways that could end. Peaceful or in pine boxes. [/LIST][b]Likes:[/b][LIST][x] Vanilla ice cream. [x] Fried chicken. [x] Working with his hands. [x] Not getting shot at. [x] A good strong drink. [x] Nature hikes and all it entails. [x] Smart mouthing without actually smart mouthing. [x] Finding a mostly peaceful way to end a confrontation. [/LIST][b]Dislikes:[/b] [LIST][x] When he accidently shorts something out. [x] Not being able to sleep; it makes him cranky. [x] People that moan at him to do something. [x] His anger issues. [x] People coming into a house uninvited. [x] Spending money on himself. [x] Getting shot at! [x] Seeing two consecutive dawns without sleep. [/LIST][b]Strengths:[/b][LIST][x] His control on his power. [x] Follows his gut instinct [x] His manners confuse most people! [x] Tries to keep his head down given his history. [/LIST][b]Weaknesses:[/b][LIST][x] A fine drink and a fine woman. [x] Isn’t that good at following someone else’s lead. [x] Has a habit of doing reckless things at times. [x] Not so controlled or polite when he's had a little too much to drink. [/LIST][b]Family:[/b][LIST][x] Fane Mitchell; nephew; unknown. [x] Abigail Mitchell; Baby sister; happily married/estranged. [x] Laurence Mitchell; Brother-In-Law; wishes he was dead! (Alive.) [x] Cooper "Cougar" Bennett; Adopted Brother/Best friend; prison. [x] Eleanor Hobbs; Mother; dead and buried. [x] Leonard Hobbs; Father; care home in Florida last Eli checked. [/LIST][b]History:[/b][LIST]Back in May of ’68, newlywed couple Eleanor and Leonard Hobbs moved into their new apartment in downtown Memphis, with their first child, Elijah. From the moment the boy could walk, he was always getting into some kind of trouble, either with his parents or with the neighbours that shared the apartment block with his family. He got into everything he should not have, despite his mother’s best attempts to keep the youngster out of trouble; it took his father taking his belt to Eli’s hide to settle finally the tiny tear away down. The transformation from midget monster to a little angel was almost instantaneous, much to Eleanor’s disapproval; though far be it from her to dictate what a father should teach his son. When he was five years old, Elijah’s little world started to fold inwards when Eleanor came home from the hospital with a daughter. His baby sister, Abigail. If anything, it was Abby that helped him grow up a little more, and over the next few years he was the token big brother that did everything he could for the little one, from helping his mother change her diapers, to picking her up when she fell down, and one time, making the tyke giggle madly when he accidently walked into a wall when helping his mom bringing in the groceries. It was a pretty typical child hood really in most respects, full of up's and down's, but that was not something that Ma Hobbs let disrupt them too much, not even when Leonard who'd had a little too much to drink and threatened her or the kids.

One constant in Elijah’s life was Cooper Bennett, his best friend. Their father’s worked together, they lived in the same building, and they went to the same school when they did not take it on themselves to flaunt their free will and skip out of school. It was as if Cooper was a brother in all but blood, even his ma, Eleanor called him son and offered him a place on the couch when Jameson got too rowdy and Coop’s mother sent the boy up so he would not fall prey to a drunken man’s rage. While Coop may’ve been his best friend and brother, it did not stop Elijah from breaking the other teenager’s nose when he discovered that he had been coaxing Abby to rob and cuss. The fight over that broke out at school, both teenagers barely scraping thirteen at the time did not really figure out their own strength, Coop ended with a broken nose and Eli ended with a black eye as well as a split lip. They had been held back late by the principal and when Eleanor came to pick them both up; she chewed them both out for being idiots. It was on the way drive home that things went from bad to worse. He started to feel odd, sick, and after asking his mom to pull over, Eli scrambled and ended throwing up his cookies. It was Coop that noticed the sparks at first. Then Eli did, they flickered around his fingers before fizzling and dying completely when Eleanor called him in. He didn’t pay it any attention, thinking that it was a figment of his imagination or just exhaustion.

Over the next two years, things started to go south. Misfortune ended up on the Hobbs' doorstep. Elijah's mom went back home one summer to Meadowbrook, Kentucky to visit her kin and decided that she wasn't coming back. She was sick of Leonard beating on her when he got angry, disappointed in his job, or had too much to drink, so they’d been told over the telephone by a great aunt. Leonard was angry when he heard the rage that descended on him was volatile and the first target that crossed his path was Abigail. Eli managed to get between the two of them and took the brunt of it. He wasn’t a stranger to a whooping from his daddy but this was different, some part of him knew that if Leonard didn’t stop that he would die in the living room and it was that that spurred something in him to act. Elijah reached out and grabbed Leonard’s leg as the elder Hobbs kicked and flailed. The electricity shot from Eli’s hand into his daddy, throwing the other male across the room. The last thing Eli saw was Abby and Coop running in hoping to save the day from something. When Elijah came around, he was in hospital. At the foot of his bed Leonard and Eleanor ranted and raved while Coop and Abby stayed off to the side. It took them a full ten minutes to realize he was awake and listening in, and within the week when he was fit to be moved, the car was packed and Eleanor, Abigail, Elijah and Cooper – after getting permission from his parents - were on the way to Kentucky for a vacation. Leonard, staying in Memphis to finish up things with work and stuff like that. Elijah knew what was really happening, even if his mother didn’t want to talk about it. His parents had decided a divorce was in order.

Life in Meadowbrook was quiet, peaceful and just what they needed. However for Elijah, things started to get complicated. When he was angry or confused, things happened. Electrical appliances would suddenly fry themselves or the lights in the house would flicker and then die. He put it off for a long as he could, then one day just walking through the woods, Elijah let all his pent up rage and feelings out that he’d stored over the years. The blast that he threw out cracked this big old tree right down the centre. Shocked and left stunned, he tried to recall the feeling, but rather than repeating what had happened, he was left staring at the smouldering tree like a kid outside a candy store with no money in his pocket. Over the next few days he returned to the same spot, afternoon after afternoon he tried to recreate the feeling. He managed to spark up, just a little snap crackle and pop but the feeling died.

That's when he met a man named Messer.

On the way home he found the man tangled in a patch of scrub, looking like he’d gone a round with a meat tenderizer and come out swinging. At first Messer tried to push Eli away but the stubborn kid hung about and – while he was curious about the weapons and the general state of the other male – managed to haul the grizzled old hunter up and drag his hide back to his truck. Now Eli knew that he could’ve been walking into anything when he’d decided to help, but he couldn’t just leave the guy out in the wilds and Messer had demanded that if he was going to help that he couldn’t take him back to Eli’s home in case something followed; ‘something’ Eli had known would follow them. Following the mumbled directions Eli to drive them to Harrods Creek in neighbouring Louisville. Messer bounced in and out of consciousness on the way back, but it was Eli that was in for a shock when he pulled up outside of the house that the hunter had directed him to. He got out of the truck only to face the business end of a twelve gauge shotgun and a hunting rifle.

As he no doubt, looked suspicious, covered in Messer’s blood and grime, he didn’t blame the other hunters for taking the precaution even if it hurt like hell at the time to get coldcocked, tied up, gagged and left for God and providence in a back room of the house the hunters had taken over. Tanner as he’d later introduced himself, was the reasonable one next to Messer himself, it was Samuel that thought Eli was a spy and took great delight in telling Eli that he was going to be chopped up into little pieces and fed to gators if Messer didn’t survive the night. Thankfully the old coot did, and that morning Eli was released with a down right civil apology from Messer and Tanner, though some coaxing was needed for Samuel. Since he’d done the hunter’s a favour – so they said – Eli got Tanner to call his momma and explain as to why he’d been away all night; in the nicest way possible and without the mention of guns and blood. After a quick conversation with his momma, Eli decided that he’d stick around a few days to make sure that Messer was ok; the icy feeling in his stomach warning him about something.

The night he was due to go home, things went crazy. The small group of lycanthropes that the hunters had been tracking for months and the ones that had thought they’d taken out Messer, had followed them back to Harrods Creek. First Samuel was the first to go down under the biggest black feline that Eli had ever seen in the initial first few minutes and dragged off screaming. Tanner and Eli had no choice but to fall back into the house as the weretigers taunted them, demanding that Messer come out in return for Samuel. Both hunters turned down the offer and that only served to enrage the felines all the more. The second attempted assault came in the early hours of the morning; Tanner blew the hybrid werefeline away like he was nothing. Another came a few hours later, this time from the front, Messer took that one down despite his condition. Then the rest came. There were three in total, two alphas and a feral omega. Messer clipped the omega with a silver bullet to the brain before one of the hybridized were’s threw him through a wall, Tanner was clawed up pretty badly in the fight but in the end it was just a teenager against two monsters.

That feeling he’d had days before when he’d cut through that tree like butter, chose to come back, and rather than rage and anger, it fed on the pain and the fear brought about by his current predicament. Rather than question it, Eli tackled one of the monster felines and threw all he could at it. The cat gave an almighty roaring sound before simply falling limp, smoke curling from the body; the other one that had been about to pull Eli off, thought better on it and bolted. That was the last thing he knew until he came back to consciousness three days later with Tanner trying to get him to count how many fingers he was holding up. On one hand he was glad that Tanner had survived what had happened to him, but he didn’t like the tension that hung in the air. Rather than beating around the bush, Elijah flat out asked what their problems where, and rather than lead him around in the dark by his junk, they answered. Tanner had survived but he was no longer human; and apparently Elijah wasn’t exactly human himself. Messer explained that while he was human, he had a gift. At first Eli hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Tanner backed up Messer. They were so serious, and Elijah – rather than fight with himself any longer – accepted it and told them when he’d really noticed things had been different.

“If you’ve been sparking for year’s kid, you’re lucky to be alive.”

He took that to heart since it was the last words he heard from Tanner, the following morning the fresh lycanthrope was gone and Messer would glare furiously whenever either of his two friends where mentioned. When the old hunter dragged Eli back to his mother, he was told that there would be words. Messer took Eleanor aside and after a brief reunion with Cooper and Abigail, Elijah was told to pack a bag and make sure he got everything he wanted because he was going away with Messer to learn. Eleanor tried to put a brave face on it, but when she tugged him aside his momma broke into tears and clung to him. The last thing he heard from her was that had a God given gift and he needed to put it to use with Messer. Before things got really messy, the old hunter steered sixteen year old Elijah away from his only family and spirited him away into a world full of monsters that most people would never know existed outside of the story books.

For seven years and half years he travelled all over with the hunter, learning things like how to track lycanthropes and pick up a vampire’s trail; in-between learning how to harness his powers. It wasn’t easy at all, they didn’t get paid for what they did but they did get a sense of satisfaction that they’d removed something dangerous. The few times that they did get paid it was with a warm bed, a bath and a hot meal. A very simple life really, and one that Elijah was actually quiet fond of. He met other hunters and all kinds of people that lived quite comfortable in the supernatural world. One of them was Aries De Luca, barely out of his teens. It was a seer down in New Orleans that told twenty three year old Elijah that his momma had passed on, and that his old life had turned to darkness. He didn’t question it in the end, he went back to the one person he hadn’t seen since God knows how long. His daddy. Since Messer didn’t want to come with him, they parted ways after a beer.

He tracked Leonard down to Florida; Elijah supposed that the old timer was living it big in a sunny city for shady people. Leonard was nothing like Elijah remembered, a bitter old man that hated the world and himself for losing his family. Elijah himself had to bribe him with a bottle of bourbon to find out what happened to Eleanor and was shocked to find out that she’d passed on in a car accident. He asked about Cooper and found out that his best friend and brother had run off to join some kind of Religious cult in Mexico and he asked about Abigail. Something must’ve snapped in the old man because he came up swinging and clocked Elijah straight in the face before ranting about how Abby had moved on and moved in with some hot shot Englishman. Elijah found that very hard to believe at first, his sister was only eighteen and it made no sense, but when he saw it for himself, and the Lawrence fellow that Abby had taken a shine to grated on his last nerve from the moment that they shook hands.

Rather than move on, Elijah stuck around Miami for a year as he made sure that Lawrence wasn’t using his sister for some sick and twisted game, but when they announced that they were getting married and moving, Elijah put his foot down. If anything, he just wanted to reconnect with his sister but he only succeeded on pushing her away more. The saddest thing is, she left on his twenty fifth birthday, and rather than tell him, left a letter with Leonard that he didn’t even get until eight months after the fact when it was too late. His bitterness drove him on a weeklong bender, he would move from one bar to another, pick up a woman here and there, but it was Messer that dragged him back from the abyss. The other hunter had been passing through Miami when he’d caught sight of Eli staggering out of one of the bars and after a day of intense sobering, Elijah finally confessed what had driven him to the edge. Messer didn’t take any pity on him, in fact the older hunter told him to suck it up and move on before kicking him out of his motel room.

It was on the way home that he was run into by two gentlemen that seemed to be on a mission. Again that pesky gut instinct kicked in, and rather than letting them go on their way, Elijah followed them out of the city and smack bang into the lap of a fey. The gentlemen he’d been following had attacked her, and jumping to her defence too late, he managed to attract her attention, only he didn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. Elijah didn’t know what hit him, one moment he was trying to get the hell out of there and the next thing he knew everything was lit up with a bright white/gold light, and then there was nothing. He was left in utter blackness, blind. Rather than finish him off, the young woman demanded to know what he was doing, why he was there; she practically chewed him a new rear before she allowed himself to explain fully. That’s when the mistake came to light, no pun intended. Brigetta, as she called herself, apologized and Elijah accepted gracefully. However, rather than stumbling about with no idea what was around him, he let Brigetta be his eyes for a month.

When his sight came back, he found Brigetta gone. Rather than mourning her – and in his own way he did, don’t get him wrong – Eli carried on as usual until one day a few months later he found out that Abigail was pregnant and expecting her first. Together with Leonard, both Hobbs men got on a plane and made the long and tiring journey to the UK within weeks of the news. Leonard was happy, Elijah not so much. He [i]really[/i] didn’t like Lawrence. Rather than complain kick up a fuss, Elijah soon left taking Leonard back with him to the States despite the old man’s complaints that he wanted to stay with his daughter. He dropped Leonard back off in Miami before driving down to Meadowbrook to pay his respects to his momma and tell her everything that had happened since he saw her. It didn’t feel weird talking to a grave marker, and it didn’t really give Elijah any closure but it felt like something he needed to do so he could move on.

He didn’t see his sister for another year, rather than go over to the UK to visit the Mitchell’s came to him in Memphis of all places. He met his nephew Fane for the first time, cute as a button and loud as he was! The next time he saw them Fane was about three years old and he’d been on a pretty nasty hunt involving a snake calling vampire master in Canada. He showed Fane a ‘magic trick’ and sparked up for him, nothing harmful, just hell’a flashy. When Fane hit five and a half, that’s when things got heated. After a particular stressful hunt, Elijah and Lawrence got into an argument that left the electrobug fuming. In thirty two years he’d never unleashed his powers near his family, but Lawrence’s car was the best target outside of the man himself. He made the car explode before realizing what he’d done, by then it was too late, Abby didn’t want him near her or Fane. Rather than stick around where he wasn’t welcome, Elijah returned to the states after taking a small three month detour to Brazil when he heard Coop was in trouble with a woman of some sort, and then gotten his behind thrown in jail again.

When he hit the big four oh, Elijah took a look at his life and saw where he’d gone wrong. While he didn’t regret what he’d done and the choices he’d made, it did hit him kind of hard. He had next to nothing in his life. It was only in November of two thousand and eleven that he decided something needed to change and that he needed a fresh start. After relocating to England in December twenty eleven, and hanging up his holsters, Elijah’s kept his head down the last few months when it came to the supernatural and even opened a small carpentry shop in a quaint little city called Jackford. While it has been over fifteen years since he saw Fane and Abby, longer still since he's seen Cooper or his daddy or even Messer himself. Though he still thinks about them now and again. [/LIST][/SIZE]

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fanforthefics · 6 years ago

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because fake/pretend relationships are my fucking jam would you do number 34 for sidgeno ?

a kiss… to pretend

“Tell Sid no,” Flower says as soon as Sid opens the door, before Sid even has a chance to say hi to Geno.

Geno raises his eyebrows, but, “No,” he tells Sid as he comes into his apartment, handing Sid the six-pack of beer that is his perennial contribution to their monthly potluck dinners.

“Thanks,” Sid says to Geno, “It’s just us this month, all the guys are busy, apparently.” Then he turns back to Flower, because he’s wrong. “I didn’t even say I was going to do anything.”

“You were on your way there,” Flower retorts.

“I–”

“Have you told Sid no too?” Tanger asks, wandering into the hallway in his socks. “It is unanimous, if you did.”

“It is not–”

“It is!” Cath calls from the living room.

“I’m not even proposing anything!” Sid repeats, exasperated. “I was just stating an issue.”

“Is anyone ever going to catch me up?” Geno demands. In the time they’ve been bickering, he’s taken off his boots and his coat and hung it up, and is now standing looking impatient in his warm-looking cardigan. “What is Sid doing now?”

“What am I doing now?” Sid asks. “Me? Flower is in the room!”

“And I’m not doing anything,” Flower tells him, smiling beatifically. “I’m enjoying it, too. I never get to yell at you for being stupid.”

“I’m not–”

“Someone tell me what’s happening,” Geno demands again. He takes the six-pack back from Sid, and pushes past Sid to head to the kitchen. Sid makes a face at Flower, who makes one back, before he follows Geno into the kitchen.

Geno’s made himself at home in the kitchen, or as at home as he needs to be to know where the bottle opener is and to steal a taste from the sauce simmering on the stove. Sid smacks his hand away, and takes a beer of his own, ignoring Geno’s puppy dog eyes.

“Come on, sit down, Flower and Vero brought these prosciutto things, they’re great,” Sid tells him. Geno perks up at that, as always.

Sid barely manages to sit down in the armchair before Flower starts on him again.

“You can’t do this, Sid,” he says. Sid looks at Vero.

“Can you please control your husband?”

“No,” She replies, patting him on the thigh. “Also, you cannot do this.”

“If no one tell me what Sid doing, I’m going scream,” Geno says, around a mouthful of prosciutto.

“I’m not doing anything!”

“He’s going to hire someone to date him so that the people at work like him,” Tanger inserts, smirking.

Geno freezes, then turns to Sid. “Sid…” he says on a sigh.

“That’s not what I said!” Sid glares at Tanger. If this was ten years ago, he definitely would be throwing a pillow–or a cracker–at him. But they aren’t in college anymore, and are apparently adults. Though Sid is fairly sure not everyone in this room–cough Flower cough–remembers that.

“You were going to get there soon,” Vero tells him. She steals a grape from Flower’s plate, then grins at him when he makes an affronted sound. “We’re just getting you there faster.”

“I honestly never thought of that, because I’m not insane,” Sid points out. “And my first response isn’t to hire someone to have sex with me.”

“That is true,” Cath agrees, looking at her husband. “Sid’s pretty. He probably wouldn’t have to pay for it. I’m sure he could convince someone to do it just for that ass.”

“Hmm,” Tanger hums, “I–”

“Why you need to pay someone for sex?” Geno interrupts. He sounds stern. Sid has never been cowed by Geno being stern.

“As I was saying before you all started willfully misinterpreting me,” he starts. Tanger snorts very loudly. “I just think work might be easier if I was in a relationship.”

“Why?” Geno asks.

Sid shrugs. “They don’t trust me, yet,” he explains. It’s fair–he’s only been there a few weeks, and he knows it caused a stir, bringing in someone from the outside to be director, and someone as comparatively young as him. Sid’s been facing that sort of distrust his whole life–always too young and too good at his job. They’ll get over that once they get some big wins.

“They trust once you raise them millions of dollars or do big initiative,” Geno says, as on the same page as Sid as always. “Why you worry?”

“It’s different, this time.” Sid says. “I think I’m not gay enough. Which is why a relationship would help,” he adds, over French-Canadian laughter.

“Um, think you plenty gay,” Geno says, not bothering not to look like he’s laughing. “What, they want you wear rainbows? Have sex tape?”

“Don’t,” Sid warns. It’s not not that trivial–he gets it, a little. And anyway, you don’t laugh at people’s feelings, ever. “Their Board of Directors just brought in some guy they don’t know, and they’ve got a healthy non-profit distrust of their Board anyway. They don’t want some straight cis white guy leading a place where the whole mission is inclusion. It makes sense.

“But you aren’t a straight cis white guy,” Vero points out. “Unless you went back in the closet.”

“I didn’t, and I’m not quiet about my orientation, but…” Sid waves at himself. “You know how I look.”

“Sure do,” Geno agrees, leering cheerfully. Sid smacks his knee, the closest part of him. “Hey! Just saying, you look very nice. You know.”

Sid knows he blushes, but he ignores it. Geno’s never exactly sparing with his compliments, and he’s made it clear for about ten years that he thinks Sid is hot. It’s not new, or anything.

“I look like a meathead jock,” Sid corrects. He knows that, too. It’s usually something that works for him–people underestimate him at work and like it on Grindr–but it does make certain spaces less immediately welcoming, how non-flamboyant he is. “Which is not a trope they trust. Understandably. So even though they know I’m gay, they don’t, like, feel it. Which is why,” he goes on, with a meaningful look, “I was saying that if I was in a relationship, it would give me more credit. It was these idiots who jumped from there to me hiring someone.”

Tanger says something in French, too low and fast for Sid to catch, which means it was definitely an insult, given how everyone but Geno smirks. Sid loves the pot lucks when it’s just them, just what he privately thinks of as the original crew–or the ones that haven’t moved away–but at least when all the younger people are here he has some defense against French speakers. And making fun of him–he’ll take the sometimes uncomfortable hero worship for less mockery.

At least Geno can’t understand them either, and ignores them as easily as Sid. “You could just find boyfriend.”

Sid snorts. “In all my free time?” he asks. He leaves unsaid what they all know–he’s not an easy boyfriend. Maybe not personally, though some of his previous boyfriends might disagree, especially when he was younger and didn’t really know how to deal with his obsessiveness, but Sid’s busy and he’s generally going to put work first and he’s not rich or romantic enough to make up for that. His friends, who too often have to put up with his single-minded focus and occasional neglect of them for that, understand.

And also, he doesn’t want to talk about this, like, at all. Ever since Flower’s and Tanger’s weddings, they’ve been not at all subtle about their matchmaking of Sid, because apparently it doesn’t calculate that marrying their high school or college sweetheart is a different deal than post-college dating.

“Anyway,” Sid adds. “Geno, you went on a second date yesterday, right? How was that?”

Geno gives him a horrified, betrayed look. Sid smirks and shrugs. He’s willing to play a little dirty to escape the clutches of matchmakers.

“You did?” Vero demands, like a shark scenting blood. “What was he like? How was it?”

“What’s his name? How did you meet him?” Flower adds. Geno holds up his hands, and Sid settles in to watch.

Later, Sid’s clearing the table when Geno wanders in, holding the last remaining beer bottles. “Thanks,” Sid tells him, as he throws them in recycling.

“No problem,” Geno says, and leans agains the island to watch as Sid rinses the final plates and puts them in the dishwasher. Sid waits. Geno doesn’t usually stick around for clean-up; if he’s still here he wants to talk something over with Sid. And sometimes he needs a little bit to get there–either because he’s finding the words in English, though his English is much better now than it was at the beginning, and sometimes just because Geno has a lot of emotions and figuring out the words for them sometimes takes him a while.

Sid finishes loading the dishwasher, then turns to lean against the sink, watching Geno back. Geno looks as good as he always does, all long legs and rangy body and that ineffable charm that makes objectively goofy features attractive. Sid’s never really been clear why he’s still single, honestly; Geno’s a catch. And maybe being a grad student isn’t the world’s most lucrative or interesting job, but he hasn’t really had a boyfriend since graduation, and working at Google is definitely both.

“You really think it help?” Geno asks, suddenly. Sid blinks. “To have boyfriend. You really think would help you get settle, do better?”

Sid shrugs. “Yeah? I mean, it’ll happen eventually anyway. It’s just bad timing, because we have a big event coming up and I need all hands on deck, but–”

“So it help,” Geno interrupts him. He’s still watching Sid, something thoughtful and searching in his deepset eyes.

It’s a look Sid’s familiar with. “Geno, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Geno–”

“Don’t worry, Sid.” Sid is definitely going to worry. Geno with that look on his face is the sort of Geno who, back in college, ended up leading the whole team into the penalty box in the one game Sid missed. “I take care.”

“Do not hire me a hooker.” Geno smiles, pats Sid on the head, then heads to the hallway.

“Evgeni Malkin!” Sid follows him down the hallway. “Do not get me a hooker. Do not work with Flower and Tanger to get me a hooker.”

“You think I’m do that?” Geno asks, with his most innocent face. Sid is absolutely not fooled.

“Yes,” He says. “But don’t. It’s fine. I’ll make it work.”

“Yes, you always do,” Geno agrees. There’s an odd note in his voice. “See you soon, Sid.”

“See you.” Sid hovers as he gets his boots on, then his jacket. Then he stands up and tugs Sid in for a quick hug, which Sid returns, used to it by now.

Then Geno goes. Sid closes the door behind him, goes to the kitchen table, and opens up his computer. He has more work to do before he goes to bed.

Sid’s office phone rings, and Sid jumps and accidentally types in an extra g–it’s still a different enough tone from what Sid’s used to that he’s surprised by it every time.

He glances at the caller id–the front desk–and then picks it up. “Sidney Crosby.”

“Hi, Sidney,” Sydney, the receptionist, says. Her voice is still tightly polite. “There’s an Evgeni Malkin, here to see you?”

“Geno’s here?” Sid pulls up his calendar, but he doesn’t have anything there; there’s no texts on his personal phone, either.

“If Geno is a tall Russian man, then yes,” she replies. It’s at least a hint of snark–Sid will take it.

“Oh. Um. Okay, I’ll be right out,” Sid tells her, then hangs up. If he cranes his neck from here, he can see the front desk through the glass walls of his office–and sure enough, there’s a hint of a brightly patterned jacket that Sid has been subjected to looking at plenty of times. He can also see the other people in the office, most of them on their computers but a few with the sort of tension that means that they’re eavesdropping.

Sid goes to the front desk. Geno’s leaning over it, chatting with Sydney, who looks, inevitably, charmed.

But he looks up when he sees Sid, and grins. “Sid!”

“Hey, G.” Sid pauses. “I didn’t forget something, did I?”

“No, no. I surprise.” Geno holds up a takeout bag. “Think I bring you lunch.”

“Oh. Thanks?” That’s not really something they do, and Geno is definitely up to something, but Sid’s also not going to turn down a free lunch. Geno works at Google, he can afford that shit. “Um, my office is over here, come on.”

“I come. Nice to meet, Sydney,” Geno tells Sydney, who smiles at him.

“What are you doing here, really?” Sid asks, as he walks Geno back to his office.

Geno’s innocent look is unconvincing. “Can’t just stop in, be nice?”

“No.”

Geno snorts. He’s of course loud; much more of the office is looking at Sid now, over the top of their computers. Sid is pretty sure at least some of the typing is them sending slack messages about him.

“Fine, maybe I’m have ulterior motive,” he admits, as they get to the door of Sid’s office. He pauses in front of it, and Sid can see him look around the office, clock the people watching.

Then his hand is on the back of Sid’s head, tilting it up, and Sid’s too surprised to react when Geno leans down to kiss him, chaste but lingering.

Geno’s smiling when he pulls back. “I’m miss, little bit,” he says, sheepish. Probably because he can see the murder in Sid’s eyes. Or how the sound of typing around them has definitely picked up.

Sid looks at him another moment–then he pushes the door open. “Come in,” he says. It’s an order, and Geno doesn’t push it.

Sid shuts the door, then crosses his arms and leans back against his desk. It’s not perfect–the glass is soundproofed to a degree, but it’s not perfect, and everyone can see them anyway, so he can’t yell properly. But at least he can say what he wants.

“What the hell was that?” he snaps. “G–”

Geno crosses his arms back. “That is solution,” he retorts. “You need boyfriend. You not want to hire boyfriend, don’t have time to find one. So, I find solution.”

Sid blinks. Thinks about his words, very carefully. “If this is you asking me out, G, I’m very flattered, but I don’t–”

“No! No, is not–of course not. Not want to actually date you.” Sid’s probably offended by how fast Geno answered that and how horrified he sounds. “Just, pretend. So you get credibility with co-workers.”

“And what do you get?”

Geno shrugs. “Not a big deal for me. You can buy me beer.”

“I’m not going to ask you to do this,” Sid tells him. Then, “Actually, no, I’m not even considering this. There’s no way it’d work. We’d have to pretend to be dating–I have events and things you’d have to come to.”

“So I come. Eat fancy food, tell everyone how great foundation is. Can do.”

“And what if someone ran across you on Tinder?”

“Then we say I not deactivate by accident, or we open. We figure out.”

Sid looks at Geno. That answer was fast too–fast enough that Geno had thought about it before. “Geno, why are you doing this?”

Geno shrugs, and looks down at his hands. “Because–Foundation’s work important. I’m know that–it help me, when I come to America. And I’m so excited when you get this job, because I know you do great things with it, help so many people.” He looks up, and it’s the way he always looks at Sid–like he believes in him. Like there’s no question he wouldn’t believe in him. “I want make sure you can.”

Sid opens his mouth. Closes it. “G, you don’t have to–”

“Know I don’t. I want to. Want to help.” Geno glares back at him. It’s still an open question, who between them is more stubborn. “And what you do now? Say random person just kiss you?”

So that was him cornering Sid. Sid should have known. “I’d say that that’s how you say hello, because you’re insane,” Sid answers. Geno makes a face. “Flower or Tanger didn’t put you up to this?”

“No, they not know. We not have to tell them.” Geno’s still looking at Sid, steady and sure. “This all me. You want to do?”

Sid–it’ll help, he justifies. It’ll help. And Geno really won’t have to do much, and he’ll pay him in so much beer, and–”We don’t ever tell Flower,” he says. Geno grins. “And this doesn’t mean you get to do your insane plans whenever you want, you or him.”

“Okay, Sid.” He pats Sid’s thigh, looking very smug now that he’s gotten his way. “Now, we eat lunch?”

Sid sighs. This is definitely opening a Pandora’s box. “Yes,” he agrees. He can feel a lot of eyes on him. “Let’s eat lunch.”

They eat lunch, and then Geno leaves, but not before he kisses Sid again, a little less chaste this time. It’s a good kiss–Sid would expect nothing less, he’s heard the reviews from some of Geno’s exes and hook-ups–and Geno’s eyes gleam when he pulls away, like he got away with something. Sid rolls his eyes, but shoos him out of the office with a, “Go away, I’ve got work to do.”

“Fine. See you tonight?” he asks. Sid raises his eyebrows–they hadn’t had any plans tonight that he knew of, and generally Thursdays are Geno’s nights where he goes out with his Russian friends and has a little taste of home–but Geno gives him a meaningful look, so he nods anyway.

“Yeah, tonight. Bye. Babe,” he adds, because he feels like he should. Then he makes a little face, because that sounded wrong.

Geno is definitely laughing at him, but he leaves with a cheerful wave to Sydney.

Sid turns to go back into his office–then thinks better of it. If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it.

“Hey, Sydney,” he says, wandering over to her desk. “Sorry, I should have said earlier–but if Geno comes by, you can just always send him over unless I’m in a meeting.”

“Okay, I’ll make a note of it.” Sid can see her physically struggling not to ask for gossip. He waits, and sure enough. “So, that was your…”

In for a penny. “Boyfriend,” Sid confirms.

“He’s cute,” she observes. “He was singing your praises over here.”

Sid rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he does that,” he agrees. “Feel free to tell him to shut up, he needs that sometimes.” Sydney smiles at him, and Sid knows that he’s smiling too. “Anyway, thanks.”

“No problem,” She says. Her voice is definitely warmer.

It annoys Sid to no end, but the thing is–it works.

It’s still slow, but his co-workers definitely are more comfortable with him, as he peppers conversations with casual references to his boyfriend. It’s not much–Sid’s not a sharer by nature, and any more than that would be out of character–but he drops in stories about Geno, that they’ve seen each other. Little things, like he’s noticed Flower and Tanger do with their wives.

It’s easy, anyway. He and Geno have known each other for years, even did live together for a brief summer that mostly worked, and they see each other plenty as friends. The stories he has of Geno could be adapted. He has to make up a little, on the edges–how they got together (right after graduation), a few things about like, anniversaries and such–but even that’s easy. Sid knows how Geno acts, in a relationship–the big, ridiculous romantic gestures and the quiet, abiding loyalty. He can imagine how that would fit with him.

And Geno himself helps too–he’s started stopping by for lunch sometimes, and of course he charms everyone in the office. And, Sid knows, both because he can see it on them and because he knows how this works, they like to see how SId is with Geno. Sid, as Geno has informed him, can tend to be too serious, too intense; apparently having his boyfriend come in and try to bully him around and make Sid roll his eyes a lot humanizes him.

“It’s okay, they figure out you big dork soon,” Geno tells him over lunch one day, when Sid tells him this. Sid rolls his eyes, but lets Geno pat him on the head and grin at him. Sid finds himself smiling back. It’s nice, spending this much time with Geno again. They haven’t hung out this constantly since college, probably, when they were always in and out of each other’s lives. It’s not that Sid ever forgot how much of a constant Geno was to him, how much he steadies him and pushes him, how funny he is, but having it all the time is…nice.

And so is work–they’re coming together, Sid can feel it, how they’re uniting. The big fundraiser–a combination of science fair and art show for the kids, and a bit of a gala for the adults–is going to be great. Sid can feel it in his bones, and also in the work that’s happening. This is what he took this job for.

Geno comes to the gala with Sid. He meets him there, because Flower and Vero had been sniffing around Sid’s apartment before he left–Sid suspects they can smell the fact that he’s in some sort of relationship, even if it’s fake–and they still haven’t told Flower or anyone else of their old college crew what they’re doing. At the potlucks, it’s still just them, and no one’s noticed. Apparently.

But at the gala, it’s the work-them, the pretend them, so Geno finds Sid about half an hour in. Sid might be annoyed at him being late, but it’s Geno so he expected that, and anyway, Sid’s busy.

Busy enough that he doesn’t notice Geno’s there until a hand lands on his shoulder, and Sid almost jumps out of his skin.

“Just me,” Geno announces, laughing openly as the two people Sid was giving instructions to pretend not to laugh. “Not mean to scare.”

“Yes you did,” Sid retorts, then, “Hi.”

“Hi.” Geno smiles at him. He looks good–Geno’s always cleaned up well. And his eyes are warm as he clearly eyes Sid up back. “Look nice.”

“Thanks.” Sid resists the urge, long out-grown, to shove his hands in his pockets. “Um, you too.”

“I know,” Geno agrees easily, which makes Sid snort and nudge him with his shoulder. “Need help?”

“Not right now, I think we’ve got it. You can go get a drink, I’ll find you–”

“Take him with you,” Sam interrupts. “Please. We’ve got this, Sid. Go see your success.”

“But–”

“No, you hear,” Geno tells him, the hand that was on his shoulder sliding around his waist–an easy, proprietary motion. “Come on, we go see projects, talk people into giving money.”

“Yeah, Sid. Go away.” Lisa adds, and Sid makes a face, but it’s good, really. That they’re comfortable enough to joke with him.

“But text–”

“We’ll keep you updated,” Sam assures him, and Sid lets Geno lead him away.

It is fun, to see the kid’s projects. More, it’s rewarding, and Sid clocks the different donors wandering around. “G,” he mutters, “We have to go–”

“Yes, I see,” Geno agrees. “Come, you smile, I be very charming, we get lots of money.”

“Hey, I can be charming!”

“Okay, Sid,” Geno agrees, clearly humoring him. “Let’s go.”

They go. Geno is, as promised, very charming. Sid does smile, but he also talks plenty, which is, in fact, his job.

“Is good? You satisfy?” Geno asks, after a few hours. Sid’s dragged him away for a second to breathe. “Get lots of donations.”

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. He smiles as he looks out at the fundraiser. Then, “Thanks,” he says, not looking at Geno. “For–all this. It was ridiculous and risky, but it helped pull this off.”

Geno nudges at his shoulder, so Sid has to look up at him. Geno’s beaming down at him, the small fond smile that he usually gives Sid bright on his face. It’s the same look he’s given Sid for years. “You and me, best team,” he says, Always.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sid’s known that for years. “But still, thanks.”

Geno’s smiling at him. Then he’s–then something changes, for a fraction of a second, something Sid can’t quite catch.

“G?” Sid asks.

Geno shakes his head. “You know I’m always help, Sid. Whatever you need.”

Sid does know that. Sid’s always known that. But it’s different here, with Geno so close to him, with him smiling that way that’s not the same.

Sid’s not stupid. He knows himself, even if everyone always accuses him of being emotionally immature. He knows what the flip in his stomach means, even if he’s never felt it in this context before. With Geno. With Geno, of all people.

But… “Yeah,” Sid says, and looks away again. He can’t–this is not what this was for. Not what creating a whole relationship between them, of conjuring everything he’d maybe want out of a relationship out of thin air, with Geno there to be funny and ridiculous and attractive to top it off.

He’ll have to cut off the relationship, maybe. Tell Geno it’s over. If only to nip this thing in the bud, before it becomes more.

“Okay?” Geno asks, and nudges Sid. Sid looks up at him again–at his smile, at his concern, at everything about him. His stomach twinges again.

No, Sid’s not going to cut this off, he realizes. It’s stupid and reckless and maybe this is all Geno’s fault, because that’s not him, but–he’s going to take this as long as he can have it.

“Yeah,” Sid says, smiling helplessly back at Geno. Geno is looking at him like he knows he’s lying. “I’m good.”

#pens fic #sidgeno #my fic #i just like competent Sid and loyal Geno and Sid being most of the Pen's impulse control #Anonymous #pens tumblr fic

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cathygeha · 4 years ago

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REVIEW

Running Out of Time by Cindi Myers

Tactical Crime Division #4

FBI Agents Laura Smith “Smitty” and Jace Cantrell are sent with a few other team members to Mayville to find a killer using poison to murder with. Working undercover as husband and wife is not comfortable at first but becomes much easier as the two cohabit and spend time together. The poison is bad but then bombs start going off with more loss of life. Is there more than one person doing the killing? Who is doing the killing and why? That is the question Jace and Smitty need to figure out with their colleagues.

What I liked:

* Laura: smart, dedicated, good at her job though some think she is cold. I liked her and enjoyed watching her work to solve the case and fall in love

* Jace: a man who knew what he wanted, did his job well, and fell for his partner while working to solve the case

* The rest of the team

* The plotting, pace and writing of the story

* The romance

* That the bad guys were caught

* That justice was served…eventually

What I did not like:

* The people that I was meant not to like

* Wondering if there will be more books in the series or if this was the end

Did I enjoy this book? Yes

Would I read more books by this author? Yes

Would I read more in this series? Yes

Thank you to NetGalley and Harlequin for the ARC – This is my honest review.

4-5 Stars

BLURB

When a terrorist is on the loose, the Tactical Crime Division is on the case. To find out who poisoned medications, two of TCD’s agents are tapped to go undercover posing as a married couple and infiltrate the company. But as soon as Jace Cantrell and Laura Smith arrive at Stroud Pharmaceuticals, someone ups the ante by planting explosives in their midst. Turns out that the small-town family business is hiding a million secrets. Could they unknowingly be protecting a vengeful killer?

EXCERPT

Love CSI and Criminal Minds? Meet the Tactical Crime Division. Get to know a team of dedicated crime solving experts as they fight for justice, safety, and one by one are rewarded by finding love.

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

Special Agent Laura “Smitty” Smith—A disciplined agent who never breaks the rules, Laura must go undercover as a newlywed to find the person responsible for a rash of poisonings and bombings in a small West Virginia town.

Special Agent Jace Cantrell—The military veteran and special ops expert has a reputation as a rebel and a rule breaker—exactly the kind of man to clash with Laura, yet the two must pose as husband and wife to solve a case that brings death to their very doorstep.

Donna Stroud—The head of Stroud Pharmaceuticals intends to keep her company going and her family together in the face of tragedy, but how far will she go to do so?

Parker Stroud—Donna’s son chafes at his parents’ unwillingness to put him in charge of the family business.

Merry Winger—Parker’s girlfriend has big plans to marry Parker, despite his parents’ disapproval of their relationship and Parker’s own reluctance to make their relationship public.

Leo Elgin—His mother was poisoned by tainted medication manufactured by Stroud. He holds a grudge against the Stroud family.

***

“We’ve got another tough case on our hands.” Jill Pembroke, director of the FBI’s tactical crime division, surveyed her team from the head of the conference table in the Bureau’s Knoxville headquarters. “One that re-quires a great deal of discretion.”

Something in the director’s tone made Agent Laura Smith sharpen her focus. Pembroke, with her well-cut silver hair and feminine suit, might be mistaken for a high society grandmother, but she was as hard-nosed as they came, and not prone to exaggeration. That she reminded her team of the need for discretion pointed to something out of the ordinary.

The door to the conference room opened and a man slipped in. Tall and rangy, Agent Jace Cantrell moved with the grace of an athlete. He nodded to the director and eased into the empty seat next to Laura. No apology for being late. Typical. Laura slid her chair over a couple of inches. Cantrell was one of those men who always seemed to take up more than his share of the available space.

“We’re going to be investigating product tampering at Stroud Pharmaceuticals in Mayville, West Virginia.”

Director Pembroke stepped aside to reveal a slide showing a squat factory building set well back on landscaped grounds.

“The antacid poisonings.” Agent Ana Ramirez spoke from her seat directly across from Laura. She tucked a strand of dark hair into the twist at the nape of her neck, polished nails glinting in the overhead light. “That story has been all over the news.”

“Do the locals not want the FBI horning in?” Agent Davis Rogers—the only member of the team not wearing the regulation suit—sat back in his chair beside Ramirez, looking every bit the army ranger he had once been. “Is that why the extra discretion?”

“No, the local police are happy to turn this over to us,” Pembroke said. She advanced to the next slide, a listing of the deaths—six so far, with two additional people hospitalized—attributed to Stroud’s Stomach Soothers, a natural, organic remedy that claimed a significant share of the market as an alternative to traditional antacids. “This hasn’t been released to the public, but the poison in the contaminated tablets was ricin.”

Laura would have sworn the temperature in the air-conditioned room dropped five degrees. “Any suggestion of a link to terrorism?” Hostage negotiator Evan Duran, bearded and brooding, spoke from the end of the table. “Anybody claiming credit for the deaths?”

Pembroke shook her head. “At this point, we aren’t assuming anything. Obviously, we want to avoid panicking the public.”

“The public is already panicked,” Rowan Cooper, the team’s local liaison, said. “People have been organizing boycotts of all Stroud products.” She absently twisted a lock of her jet-black hair, brow furrowed. “We’ll need a strategy for managing the public’s response.”

“The facility where the Stomach Soothers were manufactured has been closed for the time being and the product is being pulled from store shelves,” Pembroke said. “But another facility in town, which manufactures other items, remains open, and the company has reduced hours and reassigned as many employees as possible to the single plant. The company, the town, even the state officials, are very anxious to downplay this tragedy and get Stroud up and running full-speed as soon as possible.”

“Why do that?” Kane Bradshaw, Agent-at-Large, said. Laura hadn’t noticed him until now, seated as he was behind her and apart from the rest, almost in the shadows. Kane always looked as if he’d just rushed in from an overnight surveillance, all wind-blown hair and shadowed eyes. The fact that he was here spoke to the gravity of this case. While always on hand when the team needed him, he wasn’t much on office decorum.

“Jobs.” Cantrell’s voice, deep and a little rough, like a man who smoked two packs a day, sent a shiver through Laura. He didn’t smoke, but maybe he once had. “Stroud Pharmaceuticals is one of the biggest employers in Boone County,” he continued. “The coal mines are shutting down, and there isn’t a lot of other industry. Stroud has been a savior to the community. They—and the officials they elected—are going to do everything in their power to keep the company running and redeem its reputation.”

“Even covering up murder?” Laura asked.

Cantrell turned to her, his gaze cool. “I doubt they want to cover it up, but they’ll definitely downplay it and keep it quiet.”

“They want us to help, but they don’t want us to be obvious.” The youngest member of the team, computer specialist Hendrick Maynard, jiggled his knee as he spoke. A genius who looked younger than his twenty-six years, Maynard never sat still.

“Precisely.” Director Pembroke advanced to another slide of a small town—tree-shaded streets lined with modest homes, some worse for wear. A water tower in the distance displayed the word Mayville in faded green paint. “Agents Smith and Cantrell, you are to pose as a married couple and take jobs at the Stroud factory. Investigations so far point to the poisonings having originated from within the plant itself, so your job is to identify possible suspects and investigate. Agent Rogers, you’ll be in town as well…”

Laura didn’t hear the rest of the director’s assignments. She was focused on trying to breathe and holding back her cry of protest. She and Cantrell? As a couple? The idea was ridiculous. He was rough, undisciplined, arrogant, scornful…

“You look like you just ate a bug.” Cantrell leaned to-ward her, bringing with him the disconcerting aroma of cinnamon. His gravelly voice abraded her nerves. “Don’t think I’m any more excited about this than you are.”

***

Purchase links:

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48920861-running-out-of-time?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=x26Tj13kEC&rank=1

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Running-Time-Tactical-Crime-Division/dp/1335136584

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/running-out-of-time-cindi-myers/1135079353?ean=9781335136589

Google: https://books.google.ca/books/about/Running_Out_of_Time.html?id=3PXrywEACAAJ&redir_esc=y

IndieBound: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781335136589

Harlequin.com: https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781335136589_running-out-of-time.html

AUTHOR BIO

About Cindi Myers: Cindy Myers became one of the most popular people in eighth grade when she and her best friend wrote a torrid historical romance and passed the manuscript around among friends. Fame was short-lived, alas; the English teacher confiscated the manuscript. Since then, Cindy has written more than 50 published novels. Her historical and contemporary romances and women’s fiction have garnered praise from reviewers and readers alike.

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From Harlequin Intrigue: Seek Thrills. Solve Crimes. Justice Served.

Discover the lives and loves of the remaining team members in the Tactical Crime Division series: Book 1: 48 Hour Lockdown by Carla Cassidy Book 2: Secret Investigation by Elizabeth Heiter Book 3: Midnight Abduction by Nichole Severn Book 4: Running out of Time by Cindi Myers

#Cindi Myers #Tactical Crime Division 4 #NetGalley #Harlequin #FBI Crime Mystery #Murder #Mystery #Romance

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