#i did almost run out of time the cycle i killed the vulture | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eloquent-music · 4 years

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[ Memory Log 889342666 Initiating... ]

Ping. One shot. Ping ping ping ping... Shot after shot. Klunk. Klunk... Klunk....

“Another down for the count,” rang through.

“Messatine is our homestead, our planet. Get them out of the mines.”

“Another ticked off the List..”

Shot after shot straight through each Autobot insignia they ran into--along with the occasional Decepticon.

“Shoot for the fucking kill Vos. We aren’t the Decepticon Justice Division for nothing. Do your damn job.”

A pattern that Tarn was beginning to notice time after time. Unusual. No one on the DJD had ever had a weird fixation like this.

“Why do you shoot others like that?”

“My special signature tactic. It’s nothing boss.”

“Alright Vos. Carry on.”

Suspicion raised from within him. Tarn was conditioned to notice things like this. But never had he ever dealt with anyone like this--a traitor more-so. All of his subordinates had been loyal to the end. But something about this one Decepticon seemed off.

Then there was run-ins with Delphi. Tarn and Pharma would exchange words, professional or not. Sometimes the others had tagged along but stayed out of the way. Whatever happened between the two bosses. Vos had accompanied him on a few occasions. More suspicion arose.

Puzzle pieces started to come together in Tarn’s processor. He logged each and every thing. Every kill, both Autobot and Decepticon alike. He was watched like some Big Brother motive.

A fuck up. A small little fuck up after many cycles of extra close watch on Vos. The Vos before the Vos everyone knew now. The Vos that was a traitor amongst the DJD Ranks for years. The one that spilled top secret information to the Autobots, the Wreckers more-so. The little ‘non-lethal’ sharp shooter who shot Autobots and Decepticons alike on their insignia as his signature move. Most Vos’ had taken the form of some deadly handheld weapon but Tarn had caught wind of something fishy and it was the last shot Agent 113 would ever get in his life.

The reason Tarn caught on was because of his nonlethal shots. After the others had left, he’d dug out a few bullets out of the corpses. Read their encrypted messages. It fueled Tarn’s rage and hatred to the point where he started taking his frustrations out more on his victims and unfortunately onto Delphi. If one wanted to get away with spying, you had to be smarter than a criminal and the enforcers. Tarn was an excellent criminal, executioner, and enforcer alike--he wasn’t the leader of the DJD for nothing, nor was he idiotic.

The one thing Tarn never knew about was that most of these bullets were extracted from First Aid no less when they were on Messatine. One of Pharma’s medics, a demoted nurse that hid all of this behind the CMO’s back. The one mech who could’ve set off a real bad chain reaction to Delphi. Tarn wasn’t fond of killing medics but he would’ve if he had found out at the time and the perfect plan would’ve occurred, starting with the execution of the Autobot spy as a show of force and dominance over the facility, then next would’ve become Ambulon, the Decepticon deserter, a little gift to Pharma of course, before finally offlining First Aid. He likely would’ve mounted the mech on the main entrance to Delphi that was almost barely recognizable.

The last nonlethal shot to a Wrecker on Messatine drove Tarn right on over the edge. Crimson optics kept watch over Vos like a vulture waiting for an animal to keel over. Tarn called for Helex over with a snap of his digits, same with Tesarus. For now, Kaon was left out of the question due to his relationship with Vos. Tarn ordered Helex to radio Megatron for a new recruit that would be taking Vos’ spot. “Tell him that Vos has perished. We need a new replacement as soon as possible and to send him to Messatine. Oh--and make it worth it this time around. We need darker members. True Decepticons.” Until a later date, the truth would be told to Megatron. With Tesarus by Tarn’s side, they walked with Vos and Kaon as Helex went back to the Tyranny before them to inform Megatron and also get one of their interrogation rooms readily available.

That’s when the swoop came in. Tesarus grabbed Kaon and held him against his frame. Tarn on the other hand swiftly kicked Vos onto his frontside, crushing him below his pedes and right into the ice. His abilities sprung to life from his spark as his vents bristled like an angry bull. ♬ ♫ “𝓣𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓼 𝓾𝓹 𝓓𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓼,”♬ ♫ he spat out to the frame that was struggling underneath his pedes. His masked moved up some so he could fully spit onto the traitor’s frame to demechanize him right from the start. The tip of his pede curled into his back as he spat on him again.

Tarn began to paralyze the mech system by system so he could no longer move for a while. ♬ ♫ “𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓭𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓼𝓹𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱. 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻? 𝓞𝓱 𝓷𝓸 𝓷𝓸. 𝓐 𝓼𝓷𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓲𝓽𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓬𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯𝓯 𝓼𝓸𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓻 𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓵𝓾𝓬𝓴 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓻𝓪𝓷 𝓫𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷’ 𝓭𝓻𝔂. 𝓞𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓪 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓾𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱.” ♬ ♫ Dominus thought he’d seen the worst of Tarn? Oh never. Tarn was the only living original DJD member and when his mind clicked into seeing nothing but red, there was no stopping him.

Kaon was begging for Tarn not to go through to the bitter end that the leader was hoping for. Between the begging and his overly angry systems, he wasn’t sure what he was going to go through with. “Tesarus, for now put Kaon away in his quarters. He does not need to be a part of this though I will take into consideration his pleas.” The end result? Still unsure.

Tarn bound Agent 113′s legs and arms still in the field before attaching the end of the chain to his frame. A large chunk of Agent 113′s frame was left in the snow so that the Delphi medic’s would come across it when they found the Autobot’s distress signals. With a swift transformation, he drug the mech behind him back through the rough ice and snowy terrain, making sure to hit the most brutal points. A great way to physically hurt a mech’s frame without killing them. Brutal yet very satisfying.

After taking the long way back to the Tyranny, the duo had finally made it back to their homestead. That little frame had taken heavy damage and Tarn still drug him on the floor, now dragging him by his damn neck with the chain. He even darkened every light in the Tyranny. Singing wildly like a crazed psychotic mech from a horror movie. There might’ve been a dance to his walk as they made their way to a special room.

After Kaon was locked away, Tesarus made his way down to where Tarn was, Helex already waiting like the hangman at the gallows. “He’s been paralyzed for now so do as you will with him.”

Helex spoke, “The next course of action sir?”

“What will be the outcome?” Stating Tesarus as he lifted the traitor onto the operation slab.

“Kaon seems to be fond of this wretch. So we can compromise with him. We will put him through the most torturous act that can be done to a mech but let’s add an Autobot twist to it shall we?” Speaking like a maniac as he wrung his servos together. “The Autobots have preached about being free and willing when in reality they have not. They’ve always been a badly upgraded version of the old Senate. Control by taking away whom you are by demechanizing a mech.” His claws danced over the mech’s frame. “We’ll force him back into his old alternate mode. But we will take away everything he has. We will remove his transformation cog, his weapons, his speech, his sense of reality, sense of self, everything. Reshape him into nothing but a mindless beast that will do our bidding and obey our every word. He can still be used against the Autobots.”

“What would that be boss?”

“Domestication to the greatest extent.”

The to dueted one another, “Perfect boss.”

“Let’s get started shall we?” Tarn sing-songed outwardly.

Each member grabbed a torturous device of their choosing from the walls. The whirring sounds of the famous chainsaw Tarn weld, made from the chainsaw slinging medic himself, Pharma. Made by his own design, perfected and built for Tarn and Tarn alone.

A purple servo slammed the mech’s helm into the operation slab. “I know you can hear me Dominus Ambus,” growling outwardly as Helex handed over a data pad. “I have your file right here. Look lookit here. Isn’t it delightful?” His servo slammed the mech’s face once more enough to make it bleed. “Hmmm.. let’s see here. Your file. Your old mode, a turbofox no less.” Holding it up to the mech’s face, the traitor refused. “Making it harder on yourself will make this worse.”

More back and forth commenced as Tarn spoke to the mech using his abilities, pinching his pressure points so he could control the mech for a moment while his other hand stroked the area over his t-cog. “Helex hold the pad so that it’s in his view.” Some more time passed and the traitor finally was forced into taking on his old form.

“Perfect,” whispered outwardly.

More time lapsed through Dominus’ domestication. The mech was hanging on, the trio excelled in keeping mech’s alive and perfectly aware through their torturous acts. And this went on for days on end, weeks even. Kaon was never involved. Forcefully removed from the situation.

“Who were you working with?”

There was never an answer. No matter how hard each of them tried to break him and they broke him. Perhaps he never knew. Perhaps he did.

“Next we will remove who he is as a Cybertronian, a transformer. We all know what that is? HIs transformation cog.” Tarn sung, ♬ ♫ “𝓦𝓪𝓴𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓪𝓴𝓮𝔂 𝓓𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓸𝓻. 𝓛𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝔀𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓬𝓱. 𝓕𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷’ 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓸𝓫𝓸𝓽 𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓶.” ♬ ♫

Tesarus dragged the mech close to the edge of the operation table so he could force the mech to transform into his beast mode. Once it was achieved both Helex and Tesarus flipped the mech onto his backside.

♬ ♫ “𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓪 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓓𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓸𝓷. 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓷𝓸𝔀. 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓸𝓫𝓸𝓽 𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓷’𝓽 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮. 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓿𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓮𝓯𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓽 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓞𝓱 𝓷𝓸 𝓷𝓸. 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓮. 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓸𝓫𝓸𝓽 ��𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾. 𝓨𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓫𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓸 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶. 𝓑𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓱𝓶? 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽’𝓿𝓮 𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓮𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓙𝓓 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝔀𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓵𝔂 𝓪𝓻𝓮--𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓵𝔂 𝓲𝓼. 𝓨𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓮𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓘’𝓿𝓮 𝓴𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓭𝓭𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓭. 𝓨𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝓪 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷! 𝓙𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓮𝓯𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓼 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰.” ♬ ♫

“We will remove his t-cog then wipe his memories of all of whom he is before his final transformation.” Tarn removed his mask as he located the mech’s t-cog that hid in his abdomen. His claws dug out the armor to reveal the vital component. “Hold him down.” Both mech’s obeyed as Tarn leaned over the badly injured frame; his glossa flicked over his lip components before he descended downwards. His lips wrapped onto the organ and began to pull it out slowly from the beast’s frame. Line by line was broken, spilling energon onto Tarn and the slab below him. The mech howled in his pursuit. Once it was finally released from its prison Tarn slipped it out of his mouth and into his servo. “Tesarus, wrap this up and send it off to Autobot high-command with a message.”

“Yes boss.”

“Helex, patch him up before we start the mind wiping process. He’ll forget all he knows within a matter of a cycle. All he will ever know from now on is being a Pet to do our bidding. Nothing but a mindless beast.” Pausing the turned to Helex as Tesarus walked out to get the t-cog ready for transport. “No one will ever remember Dominus Ambus, the traitorous little Agent 113 the Autobots so loved. They’ll never know if he truly died or not. Oh they’ll assume he did but they’ll never know our little Pet will be attacking their ranks. Oh my an Autobot attacking Autobots--how delightful isn’t it Helex?”

[ Abrupt interruption -- disengaging.. ]

#severe dark themes/words ahead under the cut #im sorry Mare #the full process i did not write about #its a summary but #just be warned ya know #one day i might write a more in depth version of the domestication #{Memories}#panickedforcefield

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221brownstone · 5 years

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Vulture: Elementary’s Joan Watson Is the Best-Dressed Detective on TV

In the seventh and final season of Elementary, Joan Watson is blonde. The character’s style has constantly evolved alongside her detective career and partnership with Sherlock Holmes (Jonny Lee Miller), but in all her years on the show, there has been very little change to Lucy Liu’s locks. With just 13 episodes left, though, Joan has drastically altered her hair, which in turn means one last style shake-up for the best-dressed detective on TV.

Credit for that goes to costume designer Rebecca Hofherr, who has worked on the CBS procedural since its second episode in 2012, and who has guided Joan’s transformation from predominantly casual-leaning clothing to more structured menswear-inspired pieces. Hofherr spoke to Vulture about the narrative and fashion influences behind Joan’s costume evolution, including how they put their own stamp on an iconic duo and the sartorial challenges of shooting a 20-plus-episode season in New York City.

Joan’s styling was much more relaxed in the first year of Elementary. As his sober companion, her relationship with Sherlock was initially a professional commitment. She was not yet a detective and she was very much in the background of the investigation scenes. “Her clothing was very casual because that’s what the job called for,” Hofherr says. As Joan got more versed in the crime-solving world, her role shifted from sober companion to Sherlock’s protégée. By the second season, her costuming moved toward a slightly more sophisticated and buttoned-up approach. “As cheesy as it might sound, you need to put on a little more armor when dealing with the NYPD and all these criminals,” says Hofherr.

Joan’s wardrobe isn’t an either/or between suits and dresses, or even casual and business attire. She didn’t become a detective and suddenly stop wearing comfortable clothing. The suits reflect a change in Joan’s status and independence as an investigator, but dresses and sandals are still a vital style ingredient. During one Hofherr’s first conversations with Liu, they agreed Joan should “feel like a real New Yorker.” Expanding on this, Hofherr included staple items such as blazers or sandals, which most women have in their closets to dress an outfit up or down. “It was really nice to be able to incorporate them into a professional world for Joan,” she says.

Discovering the true cost of a TV character’s wardrobe is an eye-opening experience. Joan’s closet is definitely packed with high-end items — Hofherr’s go-to favored designers for Joan include Victoria Beckham, Saint Laurent, Isabel Marant, and Stella McCartney, with Rag & Bone as her signature bootee choice — but to ensure her clothing reflected that New Yorker aspect, Hofherr also shopped at Zara and H&M. “It was really important to do a mix,” she says. “I think that’s pretty much how everyone shops. I don’t think it’s realistic to only shop at high-end stores.”

Noticeable costume repeats tend to be outerwear, but Hofherr also uses staple investment pieces such as high-waisted black pencil Victoria Beckham pants. (Dressing them with an inexpensive top, she adds, is “a great way to get a lot of outfits out of a really expensive pair of pants.”) There is an aspirational element to Joan’s garments, but the high-low mixing reflects how a lot of people shop. Hofherr also notes with a laugh that “pretty much everything Lucy wore from Zara, I also own. I was like, Oh, I can afford that.”

The one item that has appeared in all seven seasons? Joan’s red men’s Elder Statesman “house sweater.” Most people have a cozy garment that they only wear in the comfort of their own home, Hofherr explains, and Joan is no different. Sherlock and Joan’s brownstone home doubles as their office, but she wouldn’t be wearing suits at all hours of the day and night while solving a case. As Liu has worn this sweater so many times on the show, Hofherr says that not only has it molded to her body but it also has the pulls of a well-loved garment. It is also a color Joan doesn’t typically wear, which visually makes it a “nice change.”

Joan doesn’t eschew color, but a black-and-white motif runs through the first season to the last. Regardless of whether it is a suit, skirt, or a more casual outfit, sticking with the same color tone allows for experimentation with pattern. In the above outfit from season four’s “The Games Underfoot,” she wears a Saint Laurent polka-dotted tie with a checkered J.O.A. skirt and polka-dotted Ji Oh blouse. Sometimes the costume choice reflects Joan’s career, but on occasions like this one, it shows that Joan has a “fashionable side” too. “She can throw these things together and look really cute,” Hofherr says.

Two big style turning points emphasize Joan’s drive for equal footing with Sherlock as a detective. First came the ties, introduced at the end of season three. Suits followed, making their initial sartorial stamp in season five. The message is clear: Long gone are the days when Joan was Sherlock’s student. As with a lot of Joan’s costuming, she doesn’t stick to one specific suit-and-tie combo. In fact, the Marc Jacobs shirt above (which Hofherr got from one of her go-to sites, Shopbop) is a bit of an optical illusion, as it doesn’t even include a tie. Vests were thrown into the mix after Hofherr made the decision to stick with suits. It is also a nod to her relationship with Sherlock: Up to this point, Hofherr points out, vests have been Sherlock’s thing, so this costume mirroring is “a little nod to her respecting him so much.”

“I went to all ends of the Earth!” Hofherr laughs when talking about the many ties Joan has worn on Elementary. Men’s offerings were out of the question for someone of Liu’s stature, as they are just too wide and long. She snapped up everything Saint Laurent and Gucci had on offer, but she also shopped at uniform companies, bought a few kids’ ties, and even made them in-house. Maybe a Joan Watson tie line should be next? “If all these designers are going to sell women’s suits, I would love for them to start making women’s ties,” Hofherr suggests.

Another later costume addition was the Victorian-style Isabel Marant blouse. In part, this outfit was a hat tip to the original Holmes and Watson, but it also added another variation on the suit theme. One of the biggest challenges when doing a show with a full 20-plus-episode order is obtaining enough clothing, particularly for a fashion-forward character like Joan. Hofherr says that she needs 50 outfits a month — on average, Joan has five changes per episode — and costuming was made trickier because designers don’t typically replenish their collections between seasons. “We end up making a lot of clothes based on designs we love and change a few things because I can’t find 20 Victorian-style blouses or 20 men’s-style blouses,” Hofherr laments. “I can find five, but then that’s it for four months.”

Fashion seasons are not the only Elementary costume challenge, as shooting outside in New York City from July to May means having to find clothing that fits all weather cycles. (The 13-episode final season was a bit easier, though, because they only shot until December.) Sherlock sticks to the same styles — “This guy would buy 20 of the same shirts, the same sport coat, and the same pants,” Hofherr says — and he has also worn the same Tom Ford winter peacoat for seven years. On the flip side, Joan has many changes, but she isn’t going to have a different coat for each outfit, as that is neither practical or realistic for either the character or the designer. Hofherr’s preference was to have between five and ten on hand: “If we got the coats fitted and ready to go we could just recycle them episode after episode.” Outerwear is something that is repeated across various seasons — including the Alice + Olivia coat above — but accessories like hats, gloves, and scarves are switched out to keep things fresh.

Sometimes the weather also dictates the type of hat required: “I originally got that hat because we were shooting outside one day in the rain and they didn’t want to have umbrellas,” Hofherr says. The wider brim of this Barneys-brand men’s hat has since been worn on a number of occasions, as has the tie-waist Marissa Webb windowpane check coat (which will reappear in the final season).

Of course, the story also dictates what Hofherr chooses for Joan. At the end of season six, creator Rob Doherty didn’t know if they were going to get renewed, so they shot two different endings. This particular Diane von Furstenberg dress fit both the ending we saw and the alternative they filmed — though Hofherr couldn’t provide any other details without spoiling the end of season seven as well. “I wanted it to be timeless, as I didn’t know if it was the last time we were ever going to see Joan Watson,” she says. “It was a little bit of an ode to all the Joans we have seen throughout the seasons. I felt a suit would have been a different look for that final scene.” No surprise, then, that it is also one of Hofherr’s costume highlights.

Hofherr couldn’t pick a single favorite outfit, but this one she considers to be the most significant. At the end of season three, Sherlock has almost killed a man and relapsed, but Joan’s loyalty doesn’t waver. “This is where we start to see the Joan that we will forever know,” says Hofherr. “And I think this is the best version of Joan too.” The pink skirt is by Roland Mouret and the shirt is Uniqlo, which is another high-low outfit mix. It also happens to be the first time Joan wears a tie, which is a huge style turning point.

Hofherr also spoke in depth about working with Liu, not only as an actress but in her role as a director. (She has stepped behind the camera six times on Elementary.) Referring to Liu as “one of the most inspirational women I’ve had in my life” — she also did the costume design on the Liu-starring Netflix rom-com Set It Up — she says Liu is “willing to take risks, but she knows exactly when to take them.”

Which brings us back to the blonde mystery. Hofherr had already FaceTimed with Liu sporting her new hair color, but the styling was a task of its own. “She walked in for her first fitting of the final season and I didn’t recognize her,” said Hofherr laughing. They did plan fewer outfits than previous seasons’ fittings, she adds, “because we were figuring out what works with the blonde hair and what doesn’t.” Don’t worry: There are still plenty of outfits to come, particularly in the last two episodes. (Hofherr teased that Joan will have ten-plus changes.)

The signature black-and-white motif remains, including these fabulous Stella McCartney palazzo pants. “I always know it’s a really good outfit when all the crew members ask me what it is,” Hofherr says. That is the exact reaction Liu got when she stepped on set in this particular costume.

#joan watson #lucy liu #rebecca hofherr #elementary #elementasquee #behind the scenes #who dresses you girl #i think what you do is amazing #read more

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shytalia · 5 years

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A Prince and a Pirate’s Fate - Chapter 3

Summary: When the future King and Queen of the Spade’s Kingdom come of age, a mark appears on their body. Alfred is the kind Prince of Spades, heir to the throne. Arthur is his fated husband, the future Queen. The only problem is, Arthur is one of the most infamous pirates to sail the seas, a wanted man in all four kingdoms, and he violently refuses his place in the castle.

No attempts at capturing him have been successful and he remains on the run, fulfilling his lust for defiance. Alfred, following his nineteenth birthday, decides to take the task of bringing Arthur home into his own hands.

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Also available on my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shytalia

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Chapter Three

Start at Chapter one here: https://shytalia.tumblr.com/post/611878754309079040/a-prince-and-a-pirates-fate-usuk-fanfic

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The following morning, Alfred woke up with a start. A loud noise aroused him from his slumber in a small inn room overlooking the sea. He was horrified to see the infamous ship beginning to sail away.

“No, no, no, shit!” He threw on some spare clothes and bolted out the door, running frantically to the shoreline where the ship had already left. “Fuck, fuck! What am I supposed to do now?” He yelled out to the sea, causing a few concerned looks from the locals. He looked frantically from side to side, only pausing when he saw a smaller boat not too far down the shore at a different pier. Even better, there was an old fisherman on it.

“Sir!” He waved his arms above his head at the man as he ran towards him, who in turn looked at him as if he were crazy. “Sir, I need to catch that ship there.” He pointed dramatically towards the fleeing vessel. But maybe it was going slow enough for them to catch. “I beg you, take me to it with your boat. I’ll even pay you for your trouble, look.” He dug out a thick bag from one of his pockets, opening it up to reveal shiny gold coins and offered them all to him. He had brought money with him for obvious reasons, but it would be useless to him if he lost Arthur now after he had just found him.

“W-What? I can’t accept this. Young man, this is too much for a simple ride--”

“No time! It’s yours, all I ask if you get me to that ship.” He begged again, urging the greying fisherman to accept his offer. After some thinking, the old man sighed and relented, allowing Alfred to hop onto his boat before preparing for a speedy chase. Thankfully Arthur’s ship hadn’t released their sails fully yet, so they were going at a leisurely pace propelled mostly only by the calm waves. That being the case, it was easy even for a small boat such as this one to catch up to them before they made it even farther out. Their small vessel rocked hurriedly against the current, coming up upon the massive, wooden form.

“Arthur! Arthur, come on! Stop! Arthur!” He yelled, but his voice was hardly audible over the thunder of the waves against the ship.

Their presence did not go unnoticed, however. As soon as Alfred was confident they could over pass the large ship and get in front of it, he was greeted by rifles being pointed directly at them from over the dock. The Fisherman gasped and in his panic turned the boat sharply, not taking into consideration his land-legged passenger.

“Whoa!” The young prince stumbled and fell, crashing into the cold waters below. He managed to resurface, taking a loud gasp of air only to see his only way out, the fisherman, was quickly driving away back towards the distant shore. Wow, did they really go that far out? He could hardly even see the land anymore as he peered into the distance.

A rush of panic pooled over him. He was stuck in the middle of the ocean! He could try to swim back but his heart was already beating hard from adrenaline and the water was cold on his skin, there was no way he was going to have the energy to swim that far without a rest.

What made it worse, he realized the ship he had been so fervently chasing after was now turning back towards him. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” He chanted, making his last dues with the gods because Captain Kirkland was going to absolutely crush him with that ship. But before he succumbed to the violent waves roaring off the wooden vessel, it slowed and turned slightly, until it came to a halt just a ways away.

Confused and scared, Alfred could feel himself growing tired already as he worked to keep himself afloat. He guessed the sadistic sea captain just wanted a front row seat to watch him die. He really was an idiot, now his kingdom would have no future queen or king.

Just when Alfred started to feel himself start to slip ever so slightly under the water, his energy draining out of him, he heard the distinct smack of something nearby hitting the water. Looking, he could see what looked like a large ring floating towards him. Desperate to find purchase on something solid, he used the last bit of his energy to make his way to it and grabbed it.

He sighed in relief and allowed the ring to pull him slowly closer to the ship and eventually even up towards the deck.

It wasn’t until he actually reached the top that his peculiar situation dawned on him. He was just pulled aboard an infamous pirate ship, one whose crew were guilty of all sorts of inexcusable acts, and now he was at their mercy. He was dragged onto the hard wood and breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath. He could feel the bodies surrounding him without even looking. He knew he had to meet his makers at some point, so he slowly stood up and glanced around at the people who circled him like vultures.

Just as he expected, he was met with various different faces, most of which looked like they wanted to rip him apart piece by piece. Others held expressions of curiosity and a few, much to his dismay, looked openly hungry as they glanced him up and down. He swallowed hard and stood his ground, wondering if he would have fared better in the ocean after all. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a different familiar voice.

“You bloody, absolute, incomprehensibly stupid git !” The voice yelled, a path between the rough men and women surrounding him parted to reveal the shaggy haired captain storming forth. Without hesitating, Arthur grabbed the prince by his soaked shirt and pushed him against the wooden frame behind him, the only thing separating Alfred from yet another watery struggle down below. “What the hell do you think you were doing? How stupid can you possibly be? Augh! I should have left you to die!” He was practically screaming in the young man’s face, and yet, Alfred only stared at him in awe.

“But...you didn’t.” It dawned on Alfred in a matter of moments. The horrible, vile, quick tempered villain of the seas had shown him some level of mercy. It was against everything Alfred had ever heard about Arthur. “Arthur, you saved my life.”

“Like hell I did, git. Consider yourself in debt.” The British captain grumbled in return, face twisting in disapproval at the accusation that he might have actually saved Alfred just out of kindness. “And it’s Captain Kirkland, to you.” He corrected, finally releasing the younger man with a rough push sideways, causing the boy to stumble away from him.

The blonde pirate took a few steps back from the confused prince, his eyes never leaving him. It was like a predator glaring down its next meal. “Take him to The Hole.”

“Huh?” Without hesitation, Alfred felt large hands grab his arms and start to pull him away. Much to his distress Arthur was not following after them and was fading into the distance as he was dragged away. “W-Wait! Hold on, just let me talk to you for a minute!” He struggled to get out of the iron grip that had him, only for it to tighten as a result and pull him faster.

Alfred found himself thrown into a cold cell deep below the ship’s surface and left to sulk there despite how he tried to convince the pirates to do otherwise. “Let me out! I want to talk to Arthur!” He yelled into the dark air, shaking the cell door with loud clunks. This did nothing to affect his captors and he was left alone to wait.

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It was hard to tell how much time had passed as he stayed there in the dim light. He sat on a small cot, hardly better than the damp floor itself but he supposed he should be thankful for it. For a time he waited and listened for any sign of life, but the only sound he could hear was his own breathing and the rumble of the waves outside.

Strangely, it was almost a soothing sound, considering they had nearly killed him not too long ago. The young prince closed his eyes and listened. The waters were powerful and threatening, easily they could grow at any moment and swallow the entire ship whole. Despite this, they rocked the vessel mercifully, and their cycle of kissing the wood helped lull him into a light slumber.

Why did he suddenly enjoy the sound of the waves so much?

They were nice, sure. He had visited beaches and sailed plenty of times to attend to royal duties in other lands, but all those times he had never simply sat and listened. It was like the waves themselves were sirens beckoning him to open his ears and jump in, not some mythical creature.

What was it that had him so unexpectedly fascinated, then?

Was it the ocean's ability to have ferocious, destructive power, only for some divine reason it chose not to use it and gave them compassionate seas instead?

Thump.

Perhaps it is its beauty, the way it shined and sparkled against the sun?

Thump thump.

Or even the way its salt littered the air, forcing him to breathe it in. A familiar scent, where was it from again?

Thump thump thump.

Alfred sighed softly, subconsciously aware of the noise that grew ever closer to his cell. His mind swirled in an attempt to place that taste of salt water dancing on his lips. Where had he tasted it before?

“Oi, are you asleep? Wake the hell up!”

A loud, unforgiving voice startled him from his sleep. He jostled awake, sitting up from his lazy position against the makeshift bed. He stared wide-eyed towards the caged door for the intruder, only to find the one person he actually wanted to see standing on the other side.

“Arthur!” Alfred didn’t try to hold back his obvious joy at seeing the older man, which only earned him another hard scowl.

“It’s Captain Kirkland, you capital tit.” The shorter man corrected quickly. He didn’t move as the prince stood up and practically ran towards the bars, merely inches away from the man he was supposed to marry, but unable to touch him.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean to make you so upset.” The wheat blonde’s frown looked sincere, only because it truly was. An aspect Arthur silently thought was too rare in apologies these days.

Still, he didn’t understand why the boy was quite so apologetic about simply calling him by his first name. Of course it was disrespectful to Arthur, he had earned the title through years of work and terror, and did not appreciate some arrogant wannabe from the capital thinking he could address him otherwise. But, most would apologize from fear of punishment, not genuine sorrow. “You must know how important names are, being from the big city and all.” That must be it. There, a certain few names of the rich and powerful ruled everything. But here on the sea? His name nearly ruled it all.

“What? Oh, yeah, I mean, I’m sorry about that too. I’ll call you Cap if you want.” Alfred’s apologetic face quickly upturned with an almost amused smile, before he suddenly remembered something and it shot down again. “I meant I’m sorry for upsetting you last night, you know, at the bar? I wasn’t trying to imply anything. I really just wanted to understand you better. I didn’t know it was a sensitive subject for you and I didn’t mean to make you mad. Are you still upset?”

Of all the things Arthur thought the boy might say, it certainly wasn’t that. He gawked at him for a moment, unable to decide if he should be angry at him for bringing it up again or impressed with his honesty. Though really, what the hell did Alfred care about his feelings? He was a pirate! Not only that, he was one of the most feared captains in all four kingdoms. He wasn’t one to be coddled, but it made him realize, it had been quite a long time since he heard anyone ask him such a compassionate question.

“I...suppose not.” He settled finally, watching carefully as Alfred’s face shifted from worried to a large grin. It accentuated his nice face, really. He looked much better with a smile than that sour face from before. This ‘capital tit’, admittedly, had a nice, goofy smile to accompany his shining, blue eyes. It was like staring into the depths of the ocean itself. Arthur would know, he had done just that many times before, after all. The realization startled him a bit and he cursed himself for losing focus.

“So,” the grinning man beamed at him with a hopeful gaze. “Will you let me talk with you now that you aren’t mad? Just a little bit, so I can get to know you better.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to smile, though it wasn’t the optimistic, toothy grin Alfred had. No, his was much more sarcastic, and he smirked as if he had just been told a nasty joke.

“Idiot, are you really not understanding the situation you’re in right now?” He placed his rough, calloused hands on his hips as he stared at his hopeful prisoner.

“Huh?” Judging by Alfred’s response, he did not.

“Here you are, on my ship, in my cell, as my prisoner, and you want to talk as if we were just friends?” He said it as if it was obvious his request was insane, since for anyone else it would be! Anyone else in their right mind would be scared shitless being the infamous pirate’s captive. Maybe Alfred really was just plain stupid after all.

“Have you really not figured this out yet? I could kill you...I could torture you...I could make you my play thing then dump you into the sea when you start to bore me.” His face twisted sharply, his Cheshire grin roughening at the edges. “I thought about it, you know? It wouldn’t be hard, after all. I could make you do whatever I wanted and there would be nothing you could do to stop any of it.” It was a face of such sadistic pleasure that Alfred had never seen a human morph like that before. It sent a chill down his spine as his eyes unwillingly locked on it, unable to force them away.

Ah, there it finally was. The fear.

Alfred’s stance stiffened and his blue eyes watched the captain carefully, even when Arthur stepped closer. His gaze remained on the pale man before him, even as said man broke the distance between them, reaching through the bars and caressing his face. It stung a little, he could only guess there was a dark bruise left from when he had been punched the night before. The touch was so gentle though, Alfred swore it had to be someone else’s hand. But it wasn’t, it was Arthur’s, and he smelt like sea salt.

Alfred swallowed the lump forming in his throat, “But...you haven’t.” He stated simply.

The hand on his cheek paused suddenly.

“What?” Came the surprised reply. Even if it was hidden deep under a low, dark mumble, Alfred could hear the confusion.

Alfred grew bolder and was quick to reply. “You haven’t hurt me yet, but you’ve had more than enough chances to.” The prince reiterated. Without thinking, he reached up and grabbed onto Arthur’s cold hand that still lay dormant on his cheek, gripping it gently in his own warm one. “From the stories I’ve always heard about you, you’re ruthless. You’re violent and you won’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in your way. But I can tell that’s not all you are, I know it’s not. You saved my life, cage or not, I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. You even held a knife to my throat for gods sake, Arthur, but I’m still here. Anyone else would call you a monster for it but I don’t see you that way. I don’t think you’re as heartless as people say you are.”

It was Arthur’s turn to go wide-eyed. His emerald eyes sparkled with so many emotions that Alfred could hardly keep up with them all. There was confusion, first and foremost. Denial, skepticism, doubt, and if he was right, a hint of fear.

The Brit jerked his hand out of the prisoner’s soft grasp, somewhere between fuming and disbelief. “Do not doubt me, I will make your life hell on earth.” He spit. And with that, the captain stormed away and out of The Hole.

“Cap? Hold on, wait! Arthur!”

But his cries were ignored, heard only by unsympathetic walls and the pacing sea.

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#usuk #fanfic #usuk fanfic #hetalia #aph #aph america #aph england #usuccc reblogged my fic omfg #one of my favorite tumblr blogs #i feel so honored XD #and their tags were funny af lmao #fanfiction #america #england #cardverse #cardverse usuk #pirate england #yo ho ho arthur doesnt know what affection is #surprise bitch

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girlinthe-chair · 6 years

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Rain & Snow

PAIRING: Tom HollandxOriginal Character (Sloane Reed) SUMMARY: Tom and Sloane have been dating each other for a while, but not without some difficulties. Written from Tom’s perspective, Tom and Sloane are faced with dealing with their unspoken problems. WORD COUNT: a beautifully long 5,666 words A/N: So I really need to thank a couple of people, @upsidedownparker and @bisexualparkers , for helping me A LOT with this. Their feedback was unbelievably helpful for me trying to figure out where I was going with this. Not to mention, I love this a lot more than when I started writing it. It took me a lot longer to write than I was expecting, but I poured my heart and soul (and maybe a little bit of tears) into this. I would love for feedback on this, and whether or not you want me to continue this!

“Thank you so much, Tom,” the yoga-pants-clad blonde moaned into Tom’s ear. Her razor nails dug into his skin, undoubtedly leaving red marks in their wake. Tom prayed the girl — woman? Honestly, he couldn’t tell — couldn’t feel how tense he was standing next to her. He had entirely forgotten what she’d said her name was.

The girl had given her phone to Sloane, who was probably attempting to angle the picture so Tom and the blonde were wholly in the middle of the frame. Sloane’s expression was unreadable — she wasn’t smiling but she wasn’t frowning, she kept her eyes trained onto the screen in front of her in deliberate indifference, and most notably, was taking long, steady breaths in and out. Tom found it mildly terrifying, but he knew what it meant. Sloane was not in the best of moods.

Out of nowhere, Sloane put on the most overly enthusiastic smile to never reach the eyes Tom had ever seen her wear.

“Okay, on three. One, two…” Sloane snapped the pictures hastily. The girl’s nails dug deeper into the skin on his wrist. It was probably out of nervousness, and Tom couldn’t blame her for it, but it hurt like hell, and all he wanted to do was pry his arm away before she broke the skin. He was sure he didn’t have the most delightful look on his face in the pictures.

Sloane relaxed her arms and rested the phone by her side after what felt like millennia. The girl glided over to her, taking the phone from Sloane’s outstretched hand without a single glance her way. Sloane took another measured breath.

“I hope you like them,” she said, careful to keep the smile plastered on. The girl nodded, scrolling through the pictures silently before looking up and throwing a sultry smile Tom’s way. She waved at him, each individual finger moving one by one. She said something about tagging him in the pictures, but Tom couldn’t hear her very well with her back turned to him. She obnoxiously swung her hips in a blatant attempt to get him to stare at her ass as she walked away. Luckily — for Tom and the girl’s sakes — he was more preoccupied with looking at Sloane, his eyebrows pinched. He could tell she was doing everything in her power to keep her face neutral, what with her fists clenched at her sides, watching after the girl. If neutral looks could kill…

Tom walked over to Sloane, trying to grab her attention. She didn’t come back to reality until he placed his hand on her waist, her hazel eyes snapping up to meet Tom’s.

“I’m sorry, love,” Tom said, pushing Sloane’s brown curls behind her ear. She started to lean into his hand but stopped herself.

Sloane crossed her arms, looking down at the wet pavement below her feet. “What do you have to be sorry for?” she muttered. “You were just doing your job. I can’t get mad at you for that.”

A pang of guilt twisted his stomach. “Sloane, you can still be mad at me. It was supposed to be a me and you day, and people have been getting in the way.”

Twenty-two people, to be absolutely accurate. Twenty-two of Tom’s fans had come up to them asking for a picture or a video of Tom saying hi to their friend. To say that Tom understood Sloane’s frustration would be an understatement. It only took so many people coming up to him essentially asking for a favor he would feel bad denying before it started wearing on him. Of course, there were the upsides, like seeing an eight-year-old’s eyes light up when they recognize him as Spider-Man. On any good day, though, twenty-two people were a lot for him, but he was with his girl who he hadn’t seen in ages. It wasn’t too much asking for a day out in public with her, was it?

Tom watched Sloane become less and less animated as the day went on. Sure, she held onto his hand like always, but she slowly started talking less like she was waiting for someone to interrupt their conversation. Sloane started looking around them more instead of looking at him. At this point, Tom was good at ignoring the stares and not-so-whispered comments and clicks of cameras, but it took a lot of getting used to and a lot of time in the public eye. He still didn’t feel entirely comfortable with it. He knew Sloane was even less so.

“You know I’m insanely proud of you, right?” Sloane asked, meeting Tom’s eyes.

Tom tried not to smile at that. He failed but nodded anyway.

“And you know that I’m doing my damndest right now too, right?”

He pulled her closer to him by the ends of her jacket. “Of course,” Tom insisted. “And you’re doing perfectly, love.”

Sloane snorted unabashedly. “I think ‘perfectly’ may be a bit of a stretch, Tom, but thank you.” She sighed. “It’s just…it can be a lot, ya know?”

Tom leaned down, resting his forehead on Sloane’s. “Do you still want to go to dinner?” he asked. “Because I could take you home right now, and you could rest on the couch with a glass of wine while I cook you up the best damn cheese omelet you’ve ever had if that’s what you want.”

Sloane gave him a real smile this time, a light laugh lingering at the end of her breath. “As wonderful as that sounds, I think I want to go to a real restaurant.”

He kissed her nose, taking Sloane’s hand in his. “Then let’s go, darling.”

Tom wasn’t a person with a whole lot of downtime. If he wasn’t shooting a movie, he was promoting one. It was a near constant cycle: prep for a shoot, film the movie, do reshoots, travel to promote, rinse and repeat. Needless to say, Tom was a very busy man, and he only seemed to be getting busier. His popularity was skyrocketing, and there were plenty of directors and producers clamoring to attach Tom to their projects.

The only problem with that was that Tom and Sloane didn’t get to see each other as often as they would like. Yes, the two facetimed and texted as often as they could when he was on set, but it wasn’t like having each other there to actually lean on. Waking up to a “good morning” text was nothing compared to waking up to the real thing.

So it came as a happy surprise to Sloane when Tom called saying he had three whole weeks of zero obligations and unlimited free time. Sloane didn’t have to ask if he was coming to visit. He was on the first flight from London to Seattle he could book. After three and a half months of facetiming and texting, the two were desperate to see each other without worrying about the connection or battery life.

When Sloane picked him up from SeaTac airport, the first thing she did when she saw him was barrel run at him and jump in his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. Tom had to drop his bags — and his phone — to catch her, but he couldn’t care less. He peppered her face with kisses and squeezed her close to him. Both Sloane and Tom had activities in mind for the evening, but he fell asleep almost as soon as he got to her apartment, stumbling onto her bed fully dressed. Sloane gave him to next day to adjust to the timezone, which he mainly spent sleeping with a blanket over his head or sleeping with his head in her lap.

The next day, Sloane took Tom on a local’s tour of Seattle as if he’d never been before. She dragged him to the aquarium, getting a few good pictures of him next to the jellyfish tank and, of course, she had to take him to Pike Place Market. “You can’t go to Seattle and not go to Pike Place,” Sloane kept repeating. Tom bought her an overly large sunflower from one of the many flower stands on the street, dramatically getting down on his knee just to hand her the flower. She bought an overly large cookie that was about the size of her head to shared together. Naturally, Tom ate most of it. Tom hesitated when Sloane brought up going on the Great Wheel on Pier 57. He eventually relented after Sloane tricked him into getting in line — he thought she was looking for a bathroom.

The entire day, Tom let Sloane talk and talk and talk, mostly nonsense and inane ramblings about professors and coworkers, or the most recent book she’d read. He’d already heard most of what she had to say during one of the many FaceTime sessions or through texts, but he let her ramble. He enjoyed watching how giddy Sloane got when she talked about something she liked, how her hand gestures became more exaggerated as the story went along and how she suddenly forgot the concept of volume control. Tom loved to actually see how her green eyes got light and bright whenever she looked at him. More importantly, he relished the warmth he felt in his chest when he saw the light and bright in her eyes.

Tom didn’t think much of it when he saw someone with an impressive camera in their hand. Sloane had brought him to the most touristy parts of Seattle after all, so he just assumed it was just another tourist. Not to mention, very few fans had come up to them for pictures that day. But it wasn’t just another tourist. After Tom saw the first person, he began to see more people with impressive cameras not so subtly pointing the lens in their direction. They started off taking their pictures from a distance, but the vultures soon began to swarm the two, pushing their cameras in their faces, not worried about blinding them with the flashes. They shouted questions Tom couldn’t hear or understand, but Tom could hear Sloane call his name weakly. She mumbled it under her breath, along with a whole slew of other orders that just tumbled out of her mouth. When he looked down at her, her face was bunched up. The little wrinkle between her eyebrows told Tom she was about to have a panic attack.

Not wanting to add gasoline to the already smoldering wildfire that had become their day, Tom kept himself as composed as he could, holding Sloane to his side and shielding her face with his hand. Tom repeatedly told them to bugger off. It took them a while to actually do it.

Tom took her home after that, apologizing profusely and brushing her hair out of her face whenever she wouldn’t look up from her hands. He let her breathe, let stray tears fall but not without wiping them away. He did everything he knew to do to help calm her down. Tom hated seeing her like that and felt powerless when he thought he wasn’t helping as much as he wanted to. Sloane kept her eyes closed for a long time, silently sobbing in the passenger seat next to him.

Yes, he knew she was doing her best. Before they even started dating, Tom made sure she knew she wasn’t just getting him. It was his fans, the long months away, and the unwarranted attention she would receive simply by association. She said he was worth it all and made that clear every time they talked. That didn’t stop the guilt and worry from building up anytime they stepped outside.

The restaurant Sloane picked was incredibly active, bordering on hectic. The conversations people were having in the dining room melted together to become just one big noise, with smatterings of dishes clanking and shouting from the kitchen. Tom knew what she was doing. The more people there were, the less likely they would stand out and get bombarded. The hostess sat the two right in the middle of the restaurant in one of the side booths. She kept her attention on Sloane, but Tom could feel her glance bouncing back and forth between him and Sloane, probably trying not to stare at him too much and instead staring at her too much.

“Your waiter will be right with you,” she clucked, staring directly at Sloane.

“Thank you,” Tom said, giving a friendly smile to the hostess. She nodded, walking away with her cheeks burning red.

Sloane scanned the menu, biting off a piece of the breadstick she grabbed from the basket in the middle of the table. Her eyes darted over every item and every picture. She couldn’t have been aware that her tongue was peeking out from between her lips, something she often did when she was concentrating. Her tight, brown curls spilled just over her shoulders. It was one of Tom’s favorite things to mess with, her curls. They wound so tightly that pulling on it and letting it go made it jump back into place…and they were always so soft, the kind of soft that was sort of mesmerizing.

She looked up from the menu, an eyebrow raised. “Whatchya staring at?” Sloane asked, innocent as can be.

Tom came back to reality, smiling innocently at her. “Hmm. Why?”

Sloane set the menu down, resting her arms on the table. “You were staring at me with this…” She swirled a finger around her face. “…this far-off, detached happy look on your face.”

He shrugged. “Well, you can’t very well blame me for liking to look at you, love,” he praised. “You just have a very stare-able face.”

“I’m not exactly sure what that means, but okay.” Sloane was smiling, shaking her head when she picked the menu up again.

The waiter came up to the table then, introducing himself as Robbie and doing a double take when he looked up from his notepad to ask if they wanted anything to drink. He looked like he wanted to say something to Tom and it was killing him not to. Tom was thankful he didn’t. Robbie just took down their order — beer for him, water for her — and walked away with a silly smile on his face.

Sloane let out a sigh. “I was worried there for a second.” She didn’t have to say why. Tom knew. He just wished it would stop coming up. But it wouldn’t. He knew that, too.

Tom went back to watching Sloane as she talked, still munching on her breadstick. As she told her story, something about her parents’ ski trip in Europe, she used the bread to gesture wildly. There was no doubt in his mind that she didn’t realize how big her hand gestures were, and it made him smile. He pulled out his phone.

“—and now, all I can do is think about my dad tumbling down a mountain, and every time I do I can’t help but — what are you doing?”

Tom’s smile grew when he took the picture. He had caught her just before Sloane realized what he was doing. She had the half-eaten breadstick in her hand, her other dragged through her hair. She had a curious smile on her face, right before the realization hit her eyes. She looked…positively radiant.

“Tom!” Sloane reached over the table to try to get his phone, but he blocked her hand just in time, pulling back so she couldn’t reach. “Tom, that’s not fair! I wasn’t paying attention!”

Tom pulled up Instagram, furiously typing a caption in and tagging Sloane before posting the picture. When Sloane’s phone buzzed on the table, she looked down at her phone. She looked up at him with squinted eyes.

“Oh, you didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.”

Robbie came back with their drinks right as Sloane grabbed her phone off the table, glaring at Tom but obviously trying not to grin.

“So,” Robbie said, notepad and pen at the ready, “have you guys figured out what you wanted?”

“Crazy breadstick lady, heart emoji? Really?”

“…I’m sorry?”

Sloane looked up at the poor, confused waiter, suddenly becoming aware of his presence. “Oh, sorry, not…I wasn’t talking to…um, sorry, can I have the Hawaiian sriracha shrimp?”

“Of course, and for you, sir?”

Tom flustered a bit, having not even looked at the menu since they sat down, and picked the first thing his eyes landed on — a mushroom garden burger. To say he immediately and adamantly regretted the choice would be an understatement. Tom was far from vegetarian and was more than slightly opposed to mushrooms on any given day. Sloane raised her eyebrows at him when he said it out loud. Even Robbie the Waiter looked at him funny for a moment before writing it down.

“Just, um…trying something new, I guess.” At least it came with fries…?

Robbie the Waiter took their menus and left with an “alrighty then.”

“You are just…so weird right now,” Sloane said, taking another bite of the breadstick. “Crazy breadstick lady and now a mushroom garden burger?”

Tom shrugged. “Well, one, you are a crazy breadstick lady, Sloane,” he said, his smile meeting her glare. “And two, is it a crime to want to try something new?”

“Tom, you hate mushrooms.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And you’re very much not a vegetarian.”

“…mmhmm.”

Sloane pointed at him with the breadstick. “See? Weird.”

Tom chuckled. He glanced over her shoulder for a moment, his eyes wandering the restaurant, and caught the eye of a man wearing a red scarf. He was looking right at him and was unwavering with his stare after Tom caught him looking at them. Tom saw the man try to hide the camera from view, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Frustration welled up inside of him, but he had to tamper it down so Sloane wouldn’t see it on his face. Tom didn’t know what Sloane would do if she knew they had followed them into the restaurant, but he knew it wouldn’t be good. For anyone. The pang of guilt returned, twisting his stomach and almost ruining what little appetite he had. Sloane, ever the talker, didn’t even notice and continued the story about her dad tumbling down a mountain.

That is, until she heard the click.

She didn’t know where it came from. Sloane looked around the restaurant, eyebrows pinched. Tom reached for her hand, grabbing her attention. “Ignore them, Sloane.”

Sloane whipped her head around to meet Tom’s eyes. “Ignore them? How —”

“If we give them nothing to photograph, they’ll leave us alone. Just…” Tom sighed, glancing at the man in the red scarf. “Just pretend they’re not there. They’ll get bored at some point.”

Sloane let out a heavy breath, taking her hand from Tom’s and reaching for her water. “They never get bored, Tom.”

The man in the red scarf wasn’t shy of showing off his camera now. He held it up for everyone in the restaurant to see, snapping picture after picture. Some people at neighboring tables looked at the man before seeing who he was taking pictures of, pulling out their phones to take their own photos. He even dared to smirk at Tom from over Sloane’s shoulder. Tom wanted to believe he saw a forked tongue between those crooked teeth.

“I’ll be right back,” Tom said. “I see someone I haven’t talked to in a while.”

Tom didn’t wait for Sloane to say “okay” before getting up from the table, keeping his eyes on the man in the red scarf. The man raised a single eyebrow at Tom, continuing to take pictures of him as he stomped towards his table. Tom ignored the whispers from other tables. When Tom reached his table, the man left his camera in his lap, no doubt recording whatever conversation they were about to have. At this point, Tom didn’t care.

“Excuse me, sir,” Tom said in the calmest tone he could muster. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I can see you’re taking pictures of my girlfriend and me. We’ve had a lot of people take pictures of us today. Do you think you could let me eat dinner with her without you bothering us?”

The man adjusted the camera in his lap. “I’m sorry, Tom, but I’m not one of the people that have been taking pictures of you today, not until now.”

Tom attempted to ignore the fact that the man called him by his name as if he knew him at all. The nerve…“Okay, but I’m asking you to stop.” He crossed his arms.

“How long do you plan on staying in Seattle, Tom?”

Tom let the frustration play on his face. “Please, stop.”

“I’m assuming you’re staying at Sloane’s?”

“Please don’t talk about her.”

“I can guess you had…plans for this evening.”

Tom could feel red creeping up his neck. This man was making him angry. “Look, man, if you don’t leave us alone, I swear I’ll —”

“You’ll what?” the man asked, unfazed. “You’ll break my camera? Make a scene? I’m sure your girlfriend would just love that.”

Tom looked back at Sloane. She was turned all the way in her spot, confusion wringing her face. He could see her looking around, noticing all the people looking in their direction. What’s going on? she mouthed to him. Tom softened. He couldn’t, wouldn’t make a scene, not now. Tom turned back to the man.

“I’m asking nicely, man. Stop.”

The man raised his hands in defense. “Sorry. I’m just doing my job.”

If it wouldn’t have made a scene, Tom would have grabbed his camera and threw it on the floor. He could see himself doing it and knew just how good it would feel, how confident he would feel. But there was no way he could do it, as much as he wanted to.

So he walked away, his fists clenched so tightly he could feel the strain in his knuckles. Sloane was bitting her lip when he finally sat down, her focus trained on Tom. He kept his eyes on the man in the red scarf.

“Tom?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Tom, you can’t tell me not to worry about it,” Sloane said. “I’m going to worry about it. About you.”

Tom blinked at Sloane for a moment. “There’s nothing to worry about, really.” He kept his tone even, leaving to cause for Sloane to be worried. “I —”

“Ohmygod, you’re right!” a high-pitched voice rang. “It is him, ohmygod!”

A group of girls came running up to their table, all smiles and overeager eyes. They looked about high school aged and young enough to be more annoying than usual. The girls all spoke at once, their voices melting together into one high-pitched squeal as they came up to them with their phones asking for pictures. They got other people around them to notice the commotion, and they must have felt more inclined to come up to their table, too because soon their table was flanked by people with their cameras and phones and flashes and voices and noise and —

Sloane wasn’t sitting across from Tom anymore. He had no idea when she got up, when she decided it was too much, but she was gone. He stood up suddenly, having to push people out of his way just to get out of the booth. Tom looked toward the entrance, hoping to see Sloane standing there waiting for him or something, anything — the guilt was pressing so hard on his stomach he was positive he was going to throw up — but she wasn’t standing by the entrance. No, she was standing next to the man in the red scarf, talking to him. Sloane didn’t look like she wanted to be standing there, listening to him. Tom knew she was desperate to get out of that restaurant as fast as she could, but the man stopped her. He showed her something on his phone. Sloane looked Tom dead in the eye for a moment before scanning the faces of the dozens of people that were surrounding him, then started walking out the door.

Tom managed to maneuver himself out of the crowd of people only to run into Robbie the Waiter with their dinner, the food and dishes landing on the tile floor with a hard crash. People gasped behind Tom.

“I am so sorry,” Tom said, bending down to help Robbie pick up the broken dishes.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” he reassured. “It happens more often than you think.” Tom started to pull out money from his wallet, but Robbie stopped him. “It’s fine, you just get away from these vultures.”

Tom gave him a thankful nod before getting back on his feet and running towards the door. When he made it out of the packed restaurant, he was hit by cold, dry Seattle winter air. He pulled his jacket closer to his body, scouring the street before seeing a cloud of curly black get into the passenger side of her car. He jogged over, eager to get to Sloane to apologize — and to get into a warm car — and to get her home. Tom knew all she wanted to do was to get home, away from people. Probably away from him, too.

Sloane sat as close to the door as she possibly could when Tom sat down in the driver’s seat of the car, avoiding looking at him and deciding instead to look at her hands. Tom couldn’t tell if she was angry or upset or both.

“Sloane?” She didn’t look at him or give any signs that she even heard him. Tom turned himself in his seat so he was facing her. He wanted desperately wanted to reach out and touch her, but he knew if he did she’d squirm away. “Sloane, I am so sorry. I’m beyond sorry. I can’t explain to you how sorry I am —”

“Stop, just stop,” Sloane whispered.

“I don’t want you to think that you come second, Sloane, because you don’t. And I wish none of that could have happened because —”

“I said stop, Tom,” she said, a bit harsher than before. “I don’t really want to talk right now.”

They sat in silence the entire way back to Sloane’s apartment. Every now and then Tom would glance over at her to see her looking out the window or looking at nothing at all. At a stop light, Tom noticed Sloane scrolling through the comment section of his post, scouring through every word and linger on those that weren’t…well, those that weren’t very nice, to say the least.

Tom hated when she did that, which luckily wasn’t often. There were too many fan accounts on Instagram that commented terrible things about Sloane on his posts, even if she wasn’t in the picture. It became too tedious to try and block every account that said a bad word about his girl, so he stopped long before, attempting to indirectly tell people to stop in his captions. Of course, they never really stopped. Tonight seemed to be worse than usual.

Most of the time, Sloane didn’t notice or didn’t care what people commented on Tom’s posts. There were too many to read, and most of the time it was pointless trying to read all the hateful comments people left just to get her feelings hurt. Apparently, though, Sloane was in the mood to get her feelings hurt.

Tom wanted to do something to make up for the past two days. The only moment of peace they were able to have was the first day Tom was in Seattle, the day he spent mostly sleeping. He ran different options in his head, thinking over what would make Sloane happy. For some reason, “ski” kept popping up in his head.

If life worked like a bad Saturday morning cartoon, a lightbulb would have appeared and lit up above Tom’s head. At the next stoplight, Tom pulled out his phone and texted an old friend for a favor. He responded almost immediately with the answer Tom was hoping for.

As soon as Tom put the car in park, Sloane unbuckled herself and jumped out the car faster than Tom could comprehend it. She was still upset, no doubt, stomping off into the building and unlocking her apartment door. Tom tread in behind her, feeling lighter than before and much more sure of himself.

Sloane had plopped herself on the couch, her arm thrown over her eyes. Tom went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water, setting it down on the side table close to her head. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he, despite the smile on his face. Tom walked into Sloane’s bedroom, grabbing his suitcase and backpack from next to her dresser and wheeling it outside. Sloane uncovered her eyes, watching Tom come in and out of the bedroom.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, sitting up on her elbows to get a better look at him. “I’m upset, Tom, but that doesn’t mean you have to stay in some hotel or something.”

Tom took more of his stuff out of the bedroom, stuffing his computer and a couple of books into his backpack. “I’m not,” he said cryptically.

Sloane cocked an eyebrow. “Then what are you doing?” He didn’t respond, instead speed-walking into the bedroom closet to find Sloane’s suitcase. “Tom?”

“Where’s your passport?” Tom called from the other room.

“My…my passport?” Tom could hear Sloane slide off the couch. “Why the hell are you looking for my passport, exactly?”

Sloane stood in the doorway of her room, leaning against the frame. Tom smiled at her, pushing her bright yellow suitcase out of the closet. “We are going on a trip,” he said, “away from as many fans and cameras and evil paparazzi guys in red scarfs as we can for as long as we can.” Tom sat down at the end of Sloane’s bed, heaving the suitcase in front of the dresser. “How does that sound?”

Tom could see a slight smile forming on Sloane’s lips at the mere idea of it, but crossed her arms. “Details, Tom. I need details.”

That was something, at the very least. “My mum and dad have this old friend they keep in touch with every now and again,” Tom started, getting a bit excited. “I think he’s a professor or something…professor of what, I’m not exactly sure, but —”

Sloane laughed a bit. “Tom, too many details.”

“Right. Okay, well, his son Will and I were pretty close growing up, and their family is pretty well off, so they have a ton of vacation homes all over the place — including on Whistler.”

“Whistler…as in Whistler Mountain in Canada?”

Tom nodded. “I’ve been there a couple of times, it’s really nice. It’s a cabin not too far up the mountain, but far enough where you can get some good skiing in, plus there are some amazing views from up there. It’s not too big, but it’s also not a shoebox. There’s an electric fireplace and a jacuzzi in the back…where was I going with this?” He snapped his fingers. “Right! So, I texted Will just now, and he said that nobody’s at the cabin and they’re not renting it out, so we have full reign over it until they basically kick us out!”

Sloane slowly uncrossed her arms, taking in every piece of information that spilled from Tom’s lips bit by bit. “Wait, so you’re not joking?” she asked. “You mean this? You're not just an ass to get on my nerves? You actually want to take me to a secluded cabin in the woods on a mountain in a different country?”

Tom shifted a bit. “Well, when you put it like that, you make me sound like some kind of serial killer or somethi—”

Sloane jumped at Tom — well, more like pounced — making him fall back onto the bed. She straddled his hips, leaning down to kiss every inch of his face. All Tom could do was laugh and enjoy Sloane’s sudden change in mood.

They sat up, Tom keeping his arms wrapped around her waist. Sloane took Tom’s face in her hands and laid a soft kiss on his lips. When she pulled away, she slugged him right in the shoulder.

“Hey!”

“I’m still mad, Thomas Holland,” Sloane mumbled. “But…this may make me a little less mad.”

Tom pushed the curls from Sloane’s face. “So you wanna go?”

“Of course I wanna go, Tom, are you kidding? Imagine the kinds of pictures I can get…not to mention, it’s going to be cold which means a lot of you and me time.”

“Exactly what I was thinking, love.” Tom kissed the tip of her nose. He was sure Sloane could feel the smile on his lips. “So…do you want to head out now or…?”

“Absolutely not!” Sloane exclaimed. “It has been a long day. I need to sleep in my bed and not in the car, and I refuse to let you drive four hours across the border and up a mountain right now. So we will leave in the morning.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sloane moved off of Tom and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Tom fell back on the bed again, that wonderful feeling of relief swimming through his veins. They would have to talk about what happened, Tom knew that, but at the very least Sloane wasn’t keeping her mind on the bad — at least, Tom hoped.

By the time Sloane came out of the shower and was ready for bed, Tom was fast asleep on her bed, right on top of the sheets fully clothed with his signature smile lingering on his lips.

TAGGING SOME BEAUTIFUL MUTUALS @notimeforthemessenger , @gottaletgopete , @idektomholland , @holyheckholland, @yoinksholland , @racing-faster , @starksparker , @starkravingparker , @holland-ish, @hollandlovely

#tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland moodboard #tom holland one shots #tom holland au #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #?

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solivar · 8 years

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WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one time I tried writing get-Hipsto-a-leather-clad-boyfriend PWP fic and it starts growing a plot and before I can restrain it it’s a full blown art-student-meets-charming-leather-clad-NPS-ranger AU and, yes, this is all the fault of @gunnslaughter

The cheapass rental car’s motivator sputtered and died for the last time on some officially unnamed, only dubiously mapped road in the hills southwest of Santa Fe. Fortunately, the antigrav batteries had just enough charge left in them that the whole thing didn’t just drop onto the cracked and weathered remains of the pavement, which probably would have done enough damage to render his life a miserable morass of insurance forms and impecunious college student special pleading for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, when it did drop, once he got out and half-pushed, half-steered it to the side of the road, it promptly buried itself up to the axles in the drifted sand making up most of the verge, listing rather definitely to one side.

“Fuck,” Hanzo Shimada informed the universe at large and went to pop open the hood.

He was greeted by a malodorous cloud of steam that stank rather noticeably of vaporized coolants, accompanied by a deep and rather alarming bubblebubbleticktickpTANG from deep inside the motivator’s mechanical workings. To his admittedly untrained ear, it sounded like the thing was about to a) explode, b) rupture all its previously air/liquid-tight fittings, c) fall completely out of the compartment, or d) all of the above. He let the hood fall shut, gently, because he emphatically did not want to do anything to encourage any of those outcomes and got out his phone to call for help.

He had no bars of connection. In the distance, he heard the universe laughing in a rather distinctly malicious, mocking fashion.

“It’s all right,” Hanzo told himself, out loud, because the sound of his own voice on this dusty, not-particularly-traveled-at-all stretch of almost-road gave him an inordinate degree of comfort as the shadow of a circling vulture fell across him. “It is all right. It’s 3:42. If I’m not home by six, six-thirty at the absolute latest, Genji will call the state highway patrol and tell them that his idiot brother drove off into the desert that morning to draw pictures of the death of human civilization and it’s Friday and and and Genji is going to spend the next seventy-two hours deeply chemically altered, slathered in psychotropic massage oil, and twisted into some kind of semi-Tantric love pretzel in his Yoga instructor’s lap and you are going to die of exposure and dehydration if you don’t start walking right now. I am such an idiot.”

The trunk contained his jacket, his backpack, a first aid kit, an emergency crank flashlight, a spare antigrav pod, a set of jumper cables, and four triangular road reflectors with onboard distress transponders that, when he tested them for charge, turned out to be as dead as the engine. He set them up, nonetheless, on the off chance that something might come along the road that would need to see his disabled vehicle well enough to avoid hitting it. The first aid kit contained a handful of loose biotic-impregnated bandages of various sizes, some sterile saline wound wipes, a pair of nitrile gloves, and, thankfully, an emergency shock blanket. That and the flashlight went into the backpack along with the remainder of his own supplies: three sketchbooks, a set of watercolor pencils, the highish quality camera he always carried to help with shot composition references back in the studio, a spare flannel shirt, one and a half bottles of water from the eight pack he’d carried into the desert that morning, and the apple and protein bar that he’d decided to save for later when he sat down to eat lunch in the shadow of a rusted out hulk of formerly intelligent and self-directed machinery. He put the flannel on over his tee-shirt and the jacket on over both, because the sun would be down in forty-five minutes, an hour at most, and once that happened it was going to be cold. And he, of course, did not have a single pair of gloves stashed in any of his pockets.

Still. Before the GPS had punked out, along with the engine, it had indicated following this road north would, eventually, lead back to the non-dead sort of civilization. The sort that contained reasonably accessible hot showers with which to wash away sandy grit still stained ashen and venti nonfat chai lattes with which to chase away various sorts of cold and also, in theory, people way, way more responsible than his brother, whom he passive-aggressively hoped was enjoying his tetrahydrocannabinol enhanced love-nest, the rotten little bastard.

After the first hour of walking, he stopped checking his phone every ten minutes to see if he had connection. Not only did he not have connection, glancing down at his screen killed his night vision, which made walking down even the middle of an untravelled stretch of highway an exercise in trying not to trip, break an ankle, or otherwise render himself incapable of moving effectively in the direction of his own rescue. The road surface hadn’t been maintained in years, possibly decades, maybe even before the Crisis, and it was zig-zagged with inches-deep cracks driven even deeper and further apart by endless cycles of freeze and thaw, parts of the roadbed lifted high enough to be a transit hazard for antigrav vehicles much less pedestrians walking in the near-total dark, others depressed in a way that suggested impact craters more than the natural erosion of time and indifference. As the last of the color bled off the western horizon, he paused long enough to give the emergency flashlight a good long cranking and found, even so, that its light was wan and dim, at best, but infinitely better than nothing, waiting for moonrise, or running his phone battery to death. After the second hour of walking, the darkness was no longer near-total, it was absolute in the way it could only be in the complete absence of all but the smallest traces of man-made light. On the one hand, it was stunning: the sky overhead was clear and cloudless, unmarred by light pollution, and the stars shone brilliantly in that velvety arch, a hundred million silvery eyes gazing benevolently down in their serene and distant celestial majesty. On the other hand, being the sole source of man-made light in the middle of the otherwise unrelieved blackness made him rather feel like he was being observed by things far less celestial and benevolent, considerably closer to the ground, and far more intent on running him to ground and gnawing the flesh off his bones. Occasionally, the flashlight imparted to him glimpses of sulfurous yellow-green eyes glittering just out of easy visibility, alarming enough in their predatory silence that only the chancy footing kept him from speeding up his stride. Not running. That would be bad. But walking with a bit more enthusiasm.

Sometime during the third hour, the wind picked up, scouring across the high desert floor and carrying with it hissing currents of sand and icy pellets that were neither snow nor sleet but a little bit of both. The sky clouded over, taking even the distant comfort of starlight, and he pulled out the emergency blanket and wrapped it around him to help retain some body heat. Somewhere in the middle of hour four, he pulled out his phone and, discovering himself still without connection, opened up his recording app and began dictating the please-don’t-blame-yourself message he’d been writing in his head for at least the last forty minutes so that, when his coyote-gnawed carcass was eventually found by the authorities, the hormones-and-namaste addled little dumbass he called his only family worth having would at least not feel bad about it.

By the time the lights wavered into view in the distance, he had officially stopped counting the hours. He had also officially stopped having any appreciable sensation in his hands, and his feet, and his legs were only making themselves known because his thighs hated him and wanted him to fall over and be eaten by coyotes so they could at least peacefully rest in the process of digestion. In fact, it took him quite some time to realize that he wasn’t hallucinating the vista before him which was, in fact, two strings of full-sized light bulbs strung between the side of the road, where they were attached to a pair of old fashioned utility poles, and from there to each side of an overhanging porch roof.

A house, Hanzo’s almost inexpressibly cold and weary brain realized after a long moment of staring dully, trying to make sense of what it was seeing. A house with lights. Actual working lights. There are lights on both inside and outside that house. It is a house. Lights. People. A PHONE.

He trudged slowly off the road and up the path -- the path which was lined in white-washed rocks and little beds of succulents which may or may not have been cared for, he couldn’t quite tell -- and from the path up the porch stairs, which extracted a price from his knees that he was sure he’d be hearing about for days, at least. Tucking the blanket under his arm in an effort to look slightly less pathetic, he raised a hand and knocked in what he hoped was a firm but non threatening manner on the heavy old unwindowed door.

In his mind, the response seemed to take forever: movement, footsteps, the curtains in the window next to the door moving slightly while he locked his knees and wavered slightly on his feet, tired and cold and trying not to shiver too visibly. Then: the door creaked, the light next to it came on, and he found himself gazing directly at someone’s collarbones, around the crack of a barely opened door. “Can I help you?”

Someone was tall -- taller than himself by a good head, eyes dark and narrowed slightly, expression not particularly welcoming. Well, he supposed he could hardly blame someone living in the middle of the desert miles from any other humans for not being particularly happy to have one turn up uninvited on his doorstep in the middle of the night. “Hello -- my apologies, I saw your lights and -- “ The ability to think in coherent sentences momentarily skittered away, laughing mockingly. “Listen, my car broke down back that way and -- “ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder in the direction he had just come, “I’ve got no connection on my cell and I was really just wondering if you could just...borrow your phone for a minute to call a tow? I’ll just be on my way then and -- “

“That way.” The door opened more fully with a labored creak and Someone stepped out, glanced both ways, and then looked at him, expression going from moderately suspicious to moderately appalled between one breath in the next. “You’re from the city. Holy Hell.”

“How can you tell?” Hanzo asked, genuinely curious and borderline hypothermic all at once.

“Your student ID’s hanging out of your jacket pocket,” Someone observed perspicaciously and threw open the door. “Get in here before you freeze to death. How long have you been walking?”

“I...don’t know? A while.” The warmth inside enfolded him like an embrace and it was all he could do to control the urge to moan. A fire burned in an actual honest-to-gods fieldstone fireplace in one corner of the trim little sitting room and a gentle hand in the small of his back steered him toward it, and the couch sitting a safe distance back from the spark guard.

Those same hands divested him of his backpack and the emergency blanket, both of which went on a chair nearby, pushed him down into the couch’s soft cushions and spread a far thicker and warmer blanket over him. “You’re almost blue. Stay under the blanket and warm up while I get you something to drink. And don’t close your eyes, okay? Just until I’m sure you’re -- “

And that was, in fact, the last thing Hanzo heard before he totally closed his eyes and drifted off into a pleasingly warm darkness.

Hanzo woke up suddenly and all at once. His mouth tasted like something small and innocent had crawled inside it in the night, died a slow and terrible death, and then rotted into putrescence, the results of which were coating his tongue, his cheeks, and every single one of his teeth. His head was throbbing with the sort of headache that could only be described as skullfucking, centered as it was directly behind his left eye. These things were, however, not what jarred him from an otherwise satisfyingly deep and mostly painless slumber. Rather it was the smell, coming from somewhere quite nearby, cooking smells, outrageously wonderful cooking smells, smells that caused his stomach to roll over, remind the rest of him that the apple and protein bar had been a long time ago, and it was time to get in gear and remedy that fact more or less immediately.

He cautiously opened the eye that didn’t feel like it was being stabbed by a red-hot spiked dildo of agony and found himself looking up at a gently arched ceiling, dark open wood ribs and whitewashed plaster, a darkened chandelier light fixture hanging almost directly overhead. The light leaking in through the still mostly-drawn curtains didn’t punish his head more than it had to, and so he opened the other eye, as well, rubbing the involuntary tearing away with the back of his hand. A fire still burned low in the fieldstone fireplace -- a kiva, his brain supplied the information, organically rounded all the way up the wall and through, sculpted with a pair of little niches higher on the flue, a mantle over top and a spark guard high enough off the floor to function as a seat on its own, covered in a gorgeously colorful geometric mosaic. One niche had a tiny pot in it containing an equally tiny flowering cactus; the other a polished wooden sculpture of a horse rearing on its hind legs. Most of the furniture was honest-to-gods old, dark wood not the new-synthetic-realistically-aged stuff, he could smell it, spicy and rich as the lingering tang of the woodsmoke, covered in cushions upholstered in the sort of patterns he’d become intimately familiar with during his Native Textile Arts of the Desert Southwest elective two semesters ago. The area rug right under the little coffee table, too, upon which sat a clear glass pitcher containing a substance too vividly red-orange to be natural, an empty glass, two small white tablets and three large tan ones, and a note that read drink two glasses when you wake up and take the meds, you’re going to need them.

Moving slowly, oh so slowly, slow as a slow-ass thing to avoid aggravating his body more than he had to, Hanzo sat up and slid his legs over the side of the couch. His legs, which were no longer clad in his own jeans but rather a pair of dark olive greenish sweatpants. A small part of his brain thought he should be loudly and extravagantly upset by this development; a substantially larger part was loudly and extravagantly grateful that he hadn’t slept in a pair of pants that he’d spent all day hiking across the desert, and then walking for an unknown length of time up a deserted road, in. The socks also felt comfortably soft and clean and new rather than caked in sweat and sand. So did the tee-shirt, which he noted was a pale tan with a somewhat darker patch in the shape of a roughly shaped arrowhead, point down, washed almost completely away on the left. Hanzo decided that he owed his rescuer something loud and extravagant, though he wasn’t quite sure what just yet.

The unnaturally vivid beverage tasted like what would happen if a citrus fruit fucked a salt lick and the resulting offspring were subsequently captured and juiced for their vital fluids. It was simultaneously repellent and delicious and he gulped down three glasses of it before he remembered he had medicine yet to take. The pills turned out to be a pair of regular aspirin and probably some kind of vitamins and by the time he got them all down someone somewhere quite close by had begun whistling and the delicious-food-cooking smells had reached the scent equivalent of a crescendo and Hanzo’s stomach made a long, embarrassingly loud noise of dismay over the fact that he wasn’t yet eating. One that apparently carried because the whistling suddenly stopped and an unseen voice, vaguely familiar, asked, “Mr. Shimada? Are you awake?”

Firmly throttling his shame, Hanzo cleared his throat. “Yes -- I just woke up a few minutes ago.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how his rescuer new his name but then he saw his wallet, his Santa Fe University of Art and Design student ID on its brick red lanyard, and the keys to the goddamned POS rental car that was the author of all his most recent woes sitting on the coffee table and solved the mystery for himself. “Give me a second and I’ll -- “

He heaved himself to his feet -- or, rather, he attempted to heave himself to his feet and, in that instant, every muscle in his legs and lower back registered their displeasure with his continued existence immediately and simultaneously and it was all he could do not to crash directly into the table as he fell. “....ow.”

“Oh no.” Footsteps rapidly approached from somewhere beyond the back of the couch. “Easy there, sugar. Let me help you up.”

A pair of warm, strong hands came to rest on him and, in relatively short order, they got him warmly and strongly relocated back off the floor and into a reasonably comfortable sitting position on the couch in a nest of colorfully patterned wool blankets. Hanzo found himself looking upon his rescuer for the first time in decent lighting and for a moment any and all coherent thoughts fled his head because he looked like what would happen if the Marlboro Man had sex with a male romance novel cover model who subsequently gave birth to the Platonic ideal of ruggedly handsome, all shaggy brown hair and sunkissed dark skin and eyes only a shade or two off true black and a slow spreading smile surrounded by a beard that clearly had some attention paid to it in the name of manscaping because otherwise Romance Novel Cover Dad would have disowned him. Hanzo knew people who’d commit a number of serious criminal acts just to look at those cheekbones and that jawline, much less possess them so effortlessly and he was staring. He was completely staring. Hopefully he wasn’t drooling and staring, because that would be the actual and entire end of his existence, and all of his rescuer’s efforts would be for naught as he ran off into the desert to bury his shame. A voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother’s was screaming in the back of his mind about manners, manners, what was wrong with him and another, that sounded even more suspiciously like Genji, was offering tips and tricks on how to recover this situation and turn it into the world’s smoothest not-damsel-in-only-mild-to-moderate-distress pass but he’d have to open his mouth right now.

“Hello,” Hanzo croaked. “Er. I’m sorry. Thank you?”

“No apologies necessary,” The offspring of gorgeous manly perfection replied, flashing an easy, and apparently quite sincere, smile. “And it’s no trouble at all. How’re you feeling?” He flicked a glance at the mostly-empty pitcher. “I’ll get you more to drink, and somethin’ to eat, in just a second. But first I need to ask you a few questions, all right?”

Hanzo nodded wordlessly.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” Warm and gentle and kind, with the sort of charmingly encouraging smile that got people suffering from shock to come around much more slowly just so he’d keep providing it.

For an instant, Hanzo could not actually remember his own name. “Ah -- Hanzo. Hanzo Shimada.”

“Hanzo. That’s a pretty name. Unusual.” More of that gentle, encouraging smile. “Where do you come from, Hanzo?”

“Hanamura. Japan.” It took him far, far longer than it should have to remember that and he chose to blame some combination of lingering fatigue and skullcracking headache pain for that. “I’m attending college in Santa Fe right now and I’m planning to permanently immigrate at some point in the future.”

“Why Santa Fe?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Because it’s as far as I could get from Hanamura while still residing on the same planet.” Hanzo replied, honestly. “And my school also gave me a pretty sweet scholarship.”

“Understandable.” The gently encouraging smile slid into a more sternly serious expression and Hanzo’s heart began fluttering around inside his chest in a way that suggested some sort of tragic cardiac event was about to unfold. “So am I safe in assuming that pretty tattoo of yours is not actually an indicator of the sort of gang involvement that’d require me to call the Santa Fe police and the Department of Homeland Security border enforcement office?”

Hanzo’s heart stopped fluttering around. In fact, his heart pretty much stopped, and it was all he could do to open and close his mouth wordlessly for what felt like forever but was probably only a small slice of forever. “No,” he finally managed to get out, as his rescuer’s eyebrows began inclining slightly. “It’s not.”

His rescuer regarded him steadily for a moment, as he fought with the urge to try and sink through the cushions of the couch and possibly through the floor and hopefully to the center of the Earth, where his lack of long sleeved concealment options would be hidden forever. Then he smiled again, quick and bright, and stood up, and for the first time Hanzo noticed he was also wearing a tannish tee-shirt with an arrow over his heart, only his wasn’t washed mostly away and contained a pine tree, a snow-covered mountain, a white buffalo, and the words National Park Service, also in white.

“You’re a ranger?” Hanzo asked -- which, of course, explained a lot, explained pretty much everything, up to and including living in the middle of nowhere and looking like the anthropomorphic personification of rugged masculinity and being willing to rescue randomly occurring strangers in the night. It was his job.

“Jesse McCree, ranger-in-residence of Cerrillos National Monument, technically legal population one, three if you count the old hippie couple that lives on the other side of town, seven if you count their dogs.” He offered his hand and his grip was as impossibly strong and perfect as the rest of him. “Let me get you a plate and then we can talk about how you came to be here and see what we can do about it.”

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66 #Y'all totally know who the old hippie couple is

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survivalevolvedhq-blog · 7 years

Photo

HELDER of the whitesky nation

[ energetic ] : [ friendly ] : [ determined ] : [ devoted ] : [ excitable ]

Helder doesn’t remember very much, he only can catch small glimpses of his life before the island, often in dreams. He supposes the lack of memories is in part due to the number of deaths he’s suffered and how violent his previous life was before being dropped on the island — so he’s almost happy he doesn’t remember it.

What he does remember, he sees in nightmares that leave him tossing and turning. Gunfire, the cracking of bones and screams, tension that left you suspicious of the person next to you, watching as a man (which he can only assume is his father) was lead away in chains, the screams and chants of a riled mass of people, and the smell of acres of bananas rotting under a punishing sun. But other times, the nightmares are just dreams, and sometimes soft ones at that. Books hanging heavy at his side in a leather satchel as he felt the breeze from an ocean, the soft brush of a girl’s hair as he held her in his arms, the green smell of a rainforest, the press of wooden beads in between his fingers as he whispered prayers, the taste of a food he knows he’ll never have again, the sound of a pen documenting things never before seen.

He doesn’t know where these memories are from, or when they are from. Helder knows he had a job involving creatures, as one of his clearest memories was thumbing through a book of animals, similar in some forms to the ones on the island and completely strange in others, and being able to scientifically name them all. He can no longer recall their names or exact appearances but it remains one of his favorites. Understanding that he was knowledgable about something like that gives him joy so Helder looks forwards to the nights he only remembers that feeling of clarity.

However, he would much rather prefer to forget the more terrifying memories, to be able to sleep soundly through the night. The nightmares are becoming fewer and fewer but he cautious of the day they completely disappear as he fears that when they leave him, so will the rest of his recollections of a life he never had.

Helder has been on the island for 15 years by his estimates. He has become use to the danger and wonders of the island, and has a healthy respect for all the animals and the environment that seems to want to kill every single one of them thousands of times over. He has been slain and awoken again multiple times, so the cycle of death and resurrection doesn’t shock him as much. Helder is trying desperately to figure out his purpose on the island, aside from supporting his pack and the greater Whitesky Nation, and sadly, he hasn’t found one yet.

If he was to guess, Helder thinks he’s died maybe ten or twelve times. The confusion in the earlier days post-awakening makes his count a low estimate, but he remembers two deaths very clearly.

The first was his first death. He had awoken on the Western Approach, and once he figured out there were creatures that were massive with far more teeth than he was comfortable with, and had figured out to fish a little, he had tried to walk over the foothills of what he later learned were the Grand Hills. Helder had assumed it would be quicker to pass that way than hug the unknown coast and simply wanted to move somewhere else rather than wait on the coast for who knew how long.

What he hadn’t counted on was the skin numbing cold he would encounter there and that he had miscalculated the distance it would take to make it around the mountain. He wasn’t killed by the deadly beasts that stalked him, it was the frozen air that ended him. It started with shivers, then he was walking slower and slower, and then his fingers and toes started turning blue, then purple then black. One evening, he laid down in the snow, and fell asleep, confusing the frozen ground for warmth. That was his first death, curled up in a loose ball on the foothills of the Grand Hills, somewhere between their sudden rise and the Western Plains, and he would never find his remains — all that remained from his first death was a fear of being left alone in the cold.

The next death he remembers the most was around his sixth or seventh, one where he had awoken on one of the beaches near Cragg’s Island where he was claimed by the clan found there. Due to the confusion he suffered after his death, he didn’t look for the Whitesky Nation, and instead stayed with the Cragg’s Islanders. He became a Harvester and on one fateful day, drowned. It was a terrifying experience for him and he still has nightmares from the death.

Helder has been with the Whitesky Nation for much of his duration on the island. He joined them when they found him soon after his second awakening, and that was when he bonded with Frost. There was a half a year he wasn’t a part of the Whitesky Nation but instead call himself a Cragg’s Islander because he woke near their settlement and stayed. His stay there was short, as he soon drowned, which caused him to return to Whitesky Nation’s territory. Each of his deaths has had him wake up near Whitesky Nation, and he has nearly always been quickly found as he’s the leader of their direwolf pack.

Helder keeps going because he knows the Whitesky Nation needs him. He’s close to his pack and they anchor him, a smaller and tighter knit family than even the greater Whitesky Nation and he knows he wouldn’t be able to survive without them. But perhaps the greatest motivator is Frost, his direwolf, who is his and his alone, the one thing that is a constant throughout his life. She’s what makes him come back.

[ taken character ] : [ canon character ] : [ oscar isaac ] : [ by cai ]

WRITING

His legs were still unsteady from the ride on the — what did they call it, an Argentavis? — enormous vulture. Helder stumbled a bit, whether from the dizziness at being at such great heights or from the cold soaking further into him, he wasn’t sure.��But he forgot the shaking of his body because before him was an entire village.

From up in the air it had been a small collection of black dots and the sudden swooping dive of the flying bird had him burying his face in the hide jacket clad shoulder of the rider, clutching the blanket around him further as he held tightly to the straps. So he hadn’t seen the buildings until he gotten off.

Now there were a varied collection of buildings, all in a low line stretching away from a grander hall, all the way back towards a massive gate and two towers on either side of it that stood guard behind him. He was so enamored that he didn’t even notice the take off of the mount he flew in on until it’s powerful screech was heard over the settlement.

That was also when he finally noticed broad shouldered man who stood in front of him. He introduced himself as Buck and said if Helder was willing and ready, he would guide him through the history and buildings of the Whitesky Nation. Helder accepted and Buck, who he guessed was the leader of their community, offered him a warmer cloak to add to the blanket around his shoulders.

His shivers had subsided a bit, thanks in part to the cloak and also due to the oversized two legged bird thing that Buck called a kairuku that was following him and occasionally tugging at the cloak. They had just passed the main lodging when a gasp escaped from him.

What appeared to be a pack of wolves bounded down the lane, accompanied by a man. Helder couldn’t tell if they were hunting him or simply chasing the man but he ran behind him and Buck so instead he was faced with the terrifying spectacle of a pack of wolves running full tilt towards him.

It was only when the biggest of them stopped in front of him growling slightly did he realize that these things were young, not yet fully grown even. And then one detached itself from the group, a white one, rivaling the size of the one growling a yard away from him.

It inserted itself between him and the growling one, and he had the distinct feeling he should remain very very very still. There was something complicated going on here, and he could see it in how Buck backed away from him, standing closer to one of the buildings with crossed arms and an judgmental look on his previously open face, the kairuku beside him.

It was a small yip that brought him back into the moment, issued from the white wolf. It stood in front of him, and he extended one cautious hand from within the warm circle of his cloak, noting the slightly bared teeth of this wolf while the previously growling wolf had backed away, tail between its legs.

When the white wolf’s nose touched his fingertips, it felt right, like the swooping dizziness he had been fighting had just leveled out. Helder knelt, it came as naturally to him as walking, heedless of the frozen snow that bit into his knees.

“Hello there. I- I feel connected to you — why?”

The last part he directed towards Buck, unsure what this meant. The wolf huffed softly, pressing its snout into his neck and nudging him which set him back on his heels. The movement prompted a laugh out of Buck. The leader then nodded to himself, like he had just confirmed a long held belief before he spoke.

“You are beginning the bonding process to the first of the new litter. This is good. What are you going to name her?”

Her. Of course, Helder smiled as he placed a gentle hand in the scruff around her shoulders, humming low in thought, as he ran his fingers through the whiteness of her coat.

“Frost."

#wn character #wn taken #taken character #canon character

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solivar · 8 years

Text

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka, the one in which Hanzo is an expatriate art student, Jesse is a park ranger, and there’s weird stuff going on in the desert, because I am fundamentally incapable of writing a plotless porny AU no matter how hard I try.

For @gunnslaughter

“Fuck,” Hanzo Shimada informed the universe at large and went to pop open the hood.

He had no bars of connection. In the distance, he heard the universe laughing in a rather distinctly malicious, mocking fashion.

“How can you tell?” Hanzo asked, genuinely curious and borderline hypothermic all at once.

“Your student ID’s hanging out of your jacket pocket,” Someone observed perspicaciously and threw open the door. “Get in here before you freeze to death. How long have you been walking?”

And that was, in fact, the last thing Hanzo heard before he totally closed his eyes and drifted off into a pleasingly warm darkness.

“Oh no.” Footsteps rapidly approached from somewhere beyond the back of the couch. “Easy there, sugar. Let me help you up.”

“Hello,” Hanzo croaked. “Er. I’m sorry. Thank you?”

Hanzo nodded wordlessly.

For an instant, Hanzo could not actually remember his own name. “Ah -- Hanzo. Hanzo Shimada.”

“Hanzo. That’s a pretty name. Unusual.” More of that gentle, encouraging smile. “Where do you come from, Hanzo?”

“Why Santa Fe?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Because it’s as far as I could get from Hanamura while still residing on the same planet.” Hanzo replied, honestly. “And my school also gave me a pretty sweet scholarship.”

The plate turned out to be more of a platter, heavy glazed earthenware loaded down with scrambled eggs mixed with bits of loose sausage, queso blanco, and salsa that had never seen the inside of a jar, a side of hashbrowns, and freshly baked biscuits, honey and butter on the side. Hanzo inhaled it all almost without bothering to chew, to his host/rescuer’s completely evident amusement, and he was provided with seconds and a giant mug of coffee without comment but with a crinkles-at-the-corners-of-the-eyes inducing smile that made his heart start fluttering around in his chest again. This time, he took the obviously gods-sent opportunity to savor the perfect fluffy-yet-creamy texture of the eggs, the tang of the cheese mixed with the salsa, the expertly seasoned potatoes, and the beverage strong enough to chase the last, lingering traces of exhaustion out of his body.

“Thank you. That was delicious.” Hanzo said, scrubbing the last traces of cheese-salsa-eggs off his plate with the remaining half a biscuit still in the bread basket and consuming it in two bites.

“You’re entirely welcome. Nana McCree’s recipe cards haven’t let me down yet.” Ranger McCree started gathering the plates and, seeing an opportunity to begin repaying his hospitality, Hanzo assisted, despite the complaints of his legs and back, neither of which seemed particularly inclined to straighten out or work properly without an argument.

The kitchen continued the arched open beam ceiling/hardwood floor with geometric patterned area rugs theme as the sitting/living/dining room, the walls painted a cheerful dark yellow and the bit above the sink lined in windows, sills covered in planters growing what looked like fresh herbs. Looking out as he deposited his armload of dishes on the counter, he could see that there was, indeed, a well-maintained garden of succulents, cacti, and tiny, wind-tortured junipers ringing the house in raised beds of whitewashed stone. Leaning there, he was also poignantly aware of how good the sunlight slanting through those windows felt on the abused and pathetically whining muscles of his back.

“Could I make a suggestion?” Ranger McCree set his armful down, as well, and sunlight brought the red highlights out in his otherwise brown hair and there was the staring and the hopefully not drooling again.

“Sure.” Hanzo straightened up and all the bones in his lumbar spine audibly cracked.

“Bathroom’s thataway,” The ranger hiked his thumb in the direction of a doorless arch on the far end of the kitchen. “First door on the left. Towels are in the closet right inside. A hot shower’ll sort you out better than anything short of a full body massage. I’m also going to suggest you keep those sweats for now because the NWS forecast called for today to be brisk which is a polite saying colder than a witch’s tit plus windy out here. And your clothes are still in the dryer.” He flashed the world’s most winning grin. “I’ll go get the truck ready and then we’ll go see what we can do about your car. Deal?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Hanzo objected, more reflexively than anything else, iron cradle training in Manners exerting itself despite the screeching objections of his aesthetic brain, which wanted to spend as much time as possible testing his ability to consciously halt the function of his salivary glands. “I’ve already imposed on you -- “

“Not really an imposition, t’be honest.” The ranger’s grin took on a hint of rue around the edges and that was somehow even more winning and this whole situation was absolutely unfair. “We don’t get very many visitors out this way -- hence the lone resident ranger -- and those that do are generally just passing through. Company’s been nice. Also: it’s a genuine pain in the ass to get a tow truck out here, so if it’s something we can finesse a bit until you get out to the main highway, I’ll be happy to do it. Otherwise, you might be stranded here again overnight.”

He did not, in fact, sound as though he considered that the worst possible outcome even as he offered to help avoid it. Hanzo’s heart did that little flip-flutter maneuver that he should really have checked out by a cardiologist when he got back to civilization. “Thank you. That would be wonderful -- I’ve never really been this far out of the Santa Fe Metro Axis before and, uhm, is there any way I can recover that statement without sounding like a complete idiot?”

“No need.” The grin relaxed into another eye-crinkling smile. “No shame in trying something new or asking for help when you need it, Mr. Shimada.”

Doomed. I am so doomed. This is the knell of doom, and it is sounding for me. “Okay, then, I’ll just,” Hanzo gestured vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, “get cleaned up.”

“Take your time. If I’m not back by the time you’re finished, I’ll be right across the street -- that’s the actual park office over there -- and I’ll leave the door unlocked.” The ranger made an abortive gesture that looked to all the world like he was going to tip a hat that wasn’t actually there and turned it halfway through into a kindly little shooing motion.

“Okay!” Hanzo did not squeak primarily because Shimadas did not, as an iron-clad rule of reality, squeak and he absolutely did not retreat down the hallway to the bathroom for exactly the same reason.

He was, however, completely in danger of hyperventilating as he planted his back against the bathroom door and sent a silent prayer to a thousand generations of his ancestors for their intercession in the cause of not making more of an idiot of himself than he already had. Genji would have known what to say -- Genji would have more than one smoothly charming thing to say -- and how the Hell had Genji managed to inherit all the tall and handsome and desirable and charismatic genes, anyway? It was deeply unfair. Hanzo breathed in peace and breathed out stress as he stripped out of his borrowed clothing, folding it neatly and piling it on the counter next to the sink, and just barely managed to restrain a howl of despair at the sight that greeted him in the mirror. His hair had, at some point during his interminable trek across the desert, been molested by noneuclidian entities from beyond reality and was now plastered to his skull in spikes and whorls held in place by hardened inhuman bodily secretions. Or possibly drool. Definitely drool. Every bit of skin that had been exposed to the wind was chapped red by the contact, so in addition to looking like the victim of an alien hair abduction, he could probably also pass for the local drunk after a three-day mescaline and tequila bender.

Shimadas also did not whimper, and so that sound did not emerge from his throat as he turned away from his reflection to fetch a towel from the closet. As he waited for the shower to warm, he comforted himself with the knowledge that at least he was in good hands -- the ranger didn’t strike him as the sort of freak who’d drive the Bride of the Spit Monster out into the desert for anything but reasons of pure humanitarian aid-rendering and thus his virtue was at least safe even if his dignity had already been summarily beaten to death before he was even awake enough to defend it. If he indulged in a moment of pure death-of-all-hope-related despair under the comforting warmth of the spray, there was at least no one there to witness it. And the water did do a perfectly excellent job of loosening up his muscles enough to tolerate a few gentle stretches in the generously-sized shower stall, which helped loosen things up even more. The toiletries weren’t brand name -- or, at least, not any brand he recognized, the sticker on the shampoo bottle was worn to illegibility -- but they smelled and felt wonderful on his hair and skin. The shampoo had a cedary, spicy note to it that made him want to breathe deeply just to get more of it into his head and the soap, a variegated block of color, made the chapped skin of his face tingle in a way that suggested healing immediately underway instead of the multitude of horrible alternatives, a definite mood-improver as far as he was concerned. All told, he felt a solid sixty percent more human after the shower which was, he supposed, probably at least as much the point of that suggestion as limbering up.

The skin on his face did look a good deal less red and horrific than it had before the wash and his hair was at least willing to obey the commands of a comb. The ranger had not, in fact, returned yet as he padded back down the hall in stocking feet and found his hiking boots and his bag next to the door and a spare hair tie in one of the side pockets along with a half-empty package of spearmint gum, a piece of which he used in lieu of borrowing his host’s toothbrush, which was a bridge way, way too far. His jacket hung on the peg rack next to the ranger’s heavy winter parka and a vividly red-and-gold garment that looked for all the world like a cloak. Hanzo ran his hands over it and found it a soft, warm wool, the scent that rose from it the same cedary-sagey-spicy as the shampoo, the geometric pattern around the edge similar to but subtly different from the border of the blanket folded over the back of the couch. He thought of the ranger’s golden-brown skin and dark eyes and wondered as he pulled on his boots and his jacket and stepped outside into the cool of the bright morning.

Cold with the wind, as promised, but the park office was directly across the street -- unpaved, rutted dirt and gravel, a startling contrast to both the lovely well-maintained house at his back and the modernish building at his front, a low one-story confection of glass and adobe with a fully solar roof and a wraparound verandah that resembled the sort of thing you’d see on a saloon in a western. The door chimed gently as he entered and found himself standing in something part souvenir shop/part mini-museum, the walls lined in locked glass cases of artifacts (“Cerrillos and Its Place On the Turquoise Trail,” “El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro -- Historical Trade Routes of the Old Southwest,” “Native American Tribes of the Four Corners Region”) and the middle filled with racks of touristy tchotchkes in bins, t-shirts in dozens of sizes and colors, and, to his surprise, an extremely respectable collection of academic-grade books on local history, culture, and art, some of which he didn’t yet own, along with the usual ghost-towns-and-Native-American-folklore suspects. He was paging through one when the door chimed again and the ranger ducked inside, holding down his hat, his honest-to-gods cowboy hat, it was a fucking Stetson if it was anything, and Hanzo had to physically resist the urge to swoon.

“Wind is definitely picking up,” Ranger McDreamy greeted him, sounding a little breathless himself. “I’ve got the truck gassed and good to go, so whenever you’re ready Mr. Shimada…”

“Hanzo,” Hanzo heard himself saying in something approximating a natural, non-squeaky tone of voice -- not a suave tone, per se, but at least not a traumatically prepubescent peep, which was a definite improvement on recent events. “Please. Call me Hanzo, Ranger McCree.”

“Hanzo,” Ranger McDoMeRightHereandNow replied, and the way his tongue caressed the syllables turned Hanzo’s knees to a particularly bendy variety of gelatin and he leaned mock-casually against the bookcase in an effort to avoid melting to the floor in a babbling puddle of squee. “Then you’ve got to call me Jesse. I insist.”

“Jesse.” That was a little squeakier, but not much, so Hanzo was inclined to call it a win. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” The ranger opened the door and held it for him with a flourish.

The garage was tucked away well out of sight behind the park office and the row of older buildings alongside -- original town buildings he recognized from the artifact photos, older and more weathered and showing clear signs of preservation effort -- a squat cinderblock structure, one of its front doors already rolled open. The truck was equally squat and blocky with a fully enclosed cargo compartment in back and sat on real rubber wheels rather than antigrav pods, painted white with a vivid green stripe down the side bearing the words PARK RANGER with the NPS shield on both doors.

“Does this thing actually run on gas?” Hanzo asked as he climbed inside and got a look at the gauges on the dashboard. “How old is it?”

“Older’n both of us.” Ranger McImplishSmile replied and turned the key in the ignition, the engine coming to life with a behemoth roar of internal combustion. “I think it technically reached classic car status something like three years ago but keepin’ it runnin’ is sort of a necessity out here, so…” He popped it into gear and pulled out, following an unseen access road out to a junction with the not-really-a-highway Hanzo had followed into town. “How long were you walking, Hanzo?”

Telling him to use his given name was mistake -- a terrible, mortal error that he was going to be paying for, oh, yes, he could see that now. “Uh.” It took a moment to cudgel the information out of his brain. “At least a couple hours. Probably not as many as it felt like, because it felt like forever -- there was a little...not really snow, but it was pretty miserable there for a while.”

“Yeah, the desert this late in the autumn can be deceptive temperature-wise, particularly after dark. You weren’t badly prepared, though you probably could have done with more water. And some gloves. Spare pair in the dash box, by the way.” Ranger McWarmlyHelpful pointed out to him as they hit cracked and pitted asphalt for the first time. “This is old Highway 14. How’d you come to be down this way?”

Hanzo pulled the gloves on and frowned, considering. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I was following my GPS -- I spent most of the day in the desert between Shiprock the ghost town and Shiprock the geological feature, taking reference photos and video, doing some color studies -- “

“In the Omnic boneyard? That part of the desert?” Hanzo risked a glance and found the ranger’s face in an expression he was tempted to call Study of the Marlboro Man’s Gorgeous Son Attempting Studied Neutrality and Not Quite Making It.

“Yes.” Hanzo admitted. “I know it’s supposed to be off-limits but -- “

“But that hasn’t ever stopped anybody in the history of time.” Ranger McReassuringSmile gave him one, but there was more than a ghost of concern in his eyes. “You were sayin’?”

“I was following my GPS on the most direct route back to Santa Fe when the car started fritzing out -- or, rather, I asked it to give me the most direct route back, but it wasn’t following the roads I took in and it kept directing me off the main highways. I had to reboot it twice to get a good connection and by the time it started showing me the route that took me into Cerrillos, the car was sputtering like it hadn’t been sucking down sunlight all day.” They left the main road onto a well-detailed siding and, yes, that was a fucking impact crater. “And it’s a rental because of course it is.”

“You lost cellular connection at some point, right?” Ranger McCalmlySoothing asked, in precisely that tone. “And never got it back.”

“Yeah. I’m not exactly sure where -- it was spotty out near Shiprock but I still had some bars, at least.” Hanzo checked his phone and found it still connectionless. “I really hope Genji’s too blissed out to be worried about me right now.”

“Genji?” Ranger McCurious asked and Hanzo silently cursed himself because hearing that voice saying his brother’s name was the worst thing he’d done to himself for at least, oh, an hour.

“My brother.” Hanzo replied. “He’s studying here, too. Video game design -- the tech end. Spends most of his time hunched over a computer.” My handsome, charming, sociable, insanely flexible little brother, he thought, but did not say, in the desperate hope that none of those details would ooze out at any point. He is in no way sex incarnate with a side order of willing to try anything once, more than once if he enjoys it and nobody gets arrested. Why am I even thinking this why?

“Must be nice to have a familiar face around, this far from home.” The ranger upshifted and guided them back off the siding -- they were past the length of rucked-up-by-way-more-than-natural-forces road that had given him such fits in the dark.

“Yes -- yes, it is.” Hanzo admitted, after a moment, and it managed to not sound grudging. “Better than being alone the first couple years. I don’t think it’s much further -- it felt like so much longer last night.”

“I’ll bet. It’s so dark out here once the sun goes down, it feels like you’re walking alone in the middle of nothing, even if you’ve got a good flashlight. Not to cast any disparagement on your flashlight.” Ranger McGoodAtChangingtheSubject grinned at him. “And I’m saying this as somebody born and raised around here.”

“It was nice until the clouds rolled in. So many stars. Unfortunately, I think there was also at least one coyote and thaaaaaaaat kinda freaked me out a little. Or a lot. It was a lot,” Hanzo admitted, and that got a laugh -- a gentle, husky sound completely devoid of mockery. For a moment he forgot what he was about to say because that was the most perfect sound in the world and some part of his brain immediately began working out how to make him do it again. “They’re pretty harmless, aren’t they?”

“For the most part, yeah, they are. Probably at least as scared of you as you were of it.” His natural default expression seemed to be a smile -- the kindly, eyes-crinkling smile he’d worn at the breakfast table. “There it is.”

Hanzo’s POS rental rose out of the desert in front of them and he found himself hoping that, whatever the fuck was wrong with it, it was beyond the skills of a handy park ranger capable of keeping legit antique gas-drinking vehicles functional and that they’d have to call for a tow, at least, and this pleasant time wouldn’t have to end just yet. They pulled up alongside, Hanzo fishing out his keys and the ranger retrieving a tool case from the back of the truck. The toxic chemical cloud that greeted him the evening prior had dissipated in the intervening hours, leaving only the faintest piquant ghost of itself when they opened the hood, the ranger -- Jesse, his name is Jesse, you can totally think his name, really you can -- extracting a nameless tool of automotive diagnostics from his case and getting to work inside the engine compartment.

“Why do you drive a gas-drinker, anyway?” Hanzo asked, as he checked over the vehicle to make sure there wasn’t any outstanding damage he’d missed the day before, and that he hadn’t left anything of his own in it.

“Honestly?” The ranger looked up from the screen of the diagnostic pad he was tapping queries into. “Because relatively advanced modern vehicles like this one tend to have...issues...around here. Computer brains get all fried crispy. Electrical systems punk out. Antigrav up and quits without warning. GPS gets utterly lost. Such as is the case here.” He shut down the diagnostic tablet. “It’s been that way since just before the Crisis and quite a bit worse since, I’m afraid to say -- there’s not a formal exclusion zone, because that’d require the Federal government to actually admit out loud to something and I am sayin’ as a Federal employee that’s about as likely to happen as an honest politician, so we gave up on gettin’ official recognition of the situation some time ago.” He dropped the hood, the bang of it echoing away across the low, rolling, scrub-covered hummocks, the bits of desert flat to either side of the road. “Given how misdirected you got, it was a pretty good thing you broke down as close as you did to Cerrillos -- “

A low, ululating howl rose over the hills from somewhere unseen and, in the instant, it seemed even colder, despite the flat wind and the high, bright sun, a chill crawling up Hanzo’s spine and directly into the places of his hind-brain where the ancestral memory of predators that actually did eat human meat preferentially lived and wanted him to start running, right now.

“Hanzo, darlin’, get in the truck.” Ranger McCalmandCool suggested, politely, and Hanzo didn’t have to be told twice -- he was inside with the passenger door locked before his host had the tool case replaced in the back and the cargo compartment shut and locked.

A second voice answered the first, and a moment after that, a third. Ranger McTakingHisDamnSweetTime placed what looked like a portable telemetry beacon on the roof of the car, on the hood, and on the trunk, activating them as he went. Watching him do it, for the first time Hanzo realized he was armed -- really armed, with a gun holstered on each thigh, and he went about his business in a calm and thorough fashion that betrayed nothing but cool comfort and absolute confidence with that state. He laid a string of something -- beads? They were tiny whatever they were -- around the car and climbed back into the truck as the howling chorus rose to a genuine cacophony, started it, pulled a U-turn in the middle of the road, upshifted and dropped the accelerator in a fashion so completely unhurried that Hanzo was almost inclined to think that he was having a personal auditory hallucination. A flicker of movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye and he glanced up only to have his chin caught in a gentle, but firm, grip.

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that.” Jesse informed him, catching his eyes and holding them, as well, for a precious few seconds, and the deadly seriousness he saw written there chilled him almost more than the howls. “Mostly they ain’t very active during the day but something’s got ‘em worked up. Best to keep your eyes forward for now, okay?”

It took a moment to convince his throat to work and, once it did, it came out husky rather than a squeak. “‘They’?”

“Nana McCree would’a called ‘em naayéé -- works as well as anything, since we don’t really know what they are.” His mouth settled into something nowhere near a smile. “It’s how I knew you were walking with a coyote last night. Otherwise, you might not have made Cerrillos at all.”

A howl, louder and closer than all the others, rose so close behind them that even Jesse started, jerking the wheel involuntarily, and Hanzo’s gaze flicked reflexively back to the mirror. What he saw reflected there hit him in the hindbrain like a brick made of the pure and merciful inability of the human mind to consciously correlate all its contents: he experienced, briefly, the horrible, vertiginous awareness that he was looking at something that should not exist in a sane and benevolent universe, the realization that that understanding was significantly less shocking than it should have been, and then his mind, completely out of patience with him, pulled the curtains and the world spiralled away into soothing darkness. The last thing he heard, before everything faded away, was Jesse’s voice, and the last thing he felt was Jesse’s arm, wrapped around him and pulling him close.

#WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

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solivar · 8 years

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Fic Snippet:

aka Operation Get Hipsto A Leather Boyfriend

aka It’s Growing A Plot

aka this is all @gunnslaughter ‘s fault

And speaking of things you might like, Gunns, there’s also this:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/9705158

and this: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9342227

“Fuck,” Hanzo Shimada informed the universe at large and went to pop open the hood.

He had no bars of connection. In the distance, he heard the universe laughing in a rather distinctly malicious, mocking fashion.

“It’s all right,” Hanzo told himself, out loud, because the sound of his own voice on this dusty, not-particularly-traveled-at-all stretch of almost-road gave him an inordinate degree of comfort as the shadow of a circling vulture fell across him. “It is all right. It’s 3:42. If I’m not home by six, six-thirty at the absolute latest, Genji will call the state highway patrol and tell them that his idiot brother drove off into the desert that morning to draw pictures of the death of civilization and it’s Friday and and and Genji is going to spend the next seventy-two hours deeply chemically altered, slathered in psychotropic massage oil, and twisted into some kind of semi-Tantric love pretzel in his Yoga instructor’s lap and you are going to die of exposure and dehydration if you don’t start walking right now. I am such an idiot.”

After the first hour of walking, he stopped checking his phone every ten minutes to see if he had connection. Not only did he not have connection, glancing down at his screen killed his night vision, which made walking down even the middle of an untravelled stretch of highway an exercise in trying not to trip, break an ankle, or otherwise render himself incapable of moving effectively in the direction of his own rescue. The road surface hadn’t been maintained in years, possibly decades, maybe even before the Crisis, and it was zig-zagged with inches-deep cracks driven even deeper and further apart by endless cycles of freeze and thaw, parts of the roadbed lifted high enough to be a transit hazard for antigrav vehicles much less pedestrians walking in the near-total dark, others depressed in a way that suggested impact craters more than the natural erosion of time and indifference. As the last of the color bled off the western horizon, he paused long enough to give the emergency flashlight a good long cranking and found, even so, that its light was wan and dim, at best, but infinitely better than nothing, waiting for moonrise, or running his phone battery. After the second hour of walking, the darkness was no longer near-total, it was absolute in the way it could only be in the complete absence of all but the smallest traces of man-made light. On the one hand, it was stunning: the sky overhead was clear and cloudless, unmarred by light pollution, and the stars shone down on him from that velvety arch, a hundred million silvery eyes gazing benevolently down on him in their serene and distant celestial majesty. On the other hand, being the sole source of man-made light in the middle of the otherwise unrelieved blackness made him rather feel like he was being observed by things far less celestial and benevolent, considerably closer to the ground, and far more intent on running him to ground and gnawing the flesh off his bones. Occasionally, the flashlight imparted to him glimpses of sulfurous yellow-green eyes glittering just out of easy visibility, alarming enough in their predatory silence that only the chancy footing kept him from speeding up his stride. Not running. That would be bad. But walking with a bit more enthusiasm.

In his mind, the response seemed to take forever: movement, footsteps, the curtains in the window next to the door moving slightly while he locked his knees and wavered slightly on his feet, tired and cold and trying not to shiver too visibly. Then: the door cracked open, the light next to it came on, and he found himself gazing directly at someone’s collarbones, around the crack of a barely opened door. “Can I help you?”

“Hello -- my apologies, I saw your lights and -- “ The ability to think in coherent sentences momentarily skittered away, laughing mockingly. “Listen, my car broke down back that way and -- “ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder in the direction he had just come, “I’ve got no connection on my cell and I was really just wondering if you could just...borrow your phone for a minute to call a tow? I’ll just be on my way then and -- “

“How can you tell?” Hanzo asked, genuinely curious and borderline hypothermic all at once.

“Your student ID’s hanging out of your jacket pocket,” Someone observed perspicaciously and threw open the door. “Get in here before you freeze to death. How long have you been walking?”

“I...don’t know? A while.” The warmth inside enfolded him like an embrace and it was all he could do to control the urge to moan. A fire burned in an actual honest-to-gods fireplace and a gentle hand in the small of his back steered him toward it, and the couch sitting a safe distance back from the spark guard.

Those same hands divested him of his backpack and the emergency blanket, both of which went on a chair nearby, pushed him down into the couch’s soft cushions and spread a significantly heavier and warmer blanket over him. “You’re almost blue. Stay under the blanket and warm up while I get you something to drink. And don’t close your eyes, okay? Just until I’m sure you’re -- “

And that was, in fact, the last thing Hanzo heard before he totally closed his eyes and drifted off into a pleasingly warm darkness.

#Examples of things that are all Gunnslaughter's fault #Hipsto and BikerCree #Why an art student AU cousin?

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