#makeshift tricorn hat

[chibineechan]

Instagram Coord Challenge #NewYearNewCoords by @ theacalix

Day 26: Ouji

I have 0 ouji items

[fallout-drabbles-n-stuff]

Companions react to getting a forehead kiss after sole helps patch them up?

Cait:

"Tease.."

•You best better not try this if you haven't at least developed a decent bond with her, otherwise she'll just flinch away from you and give you the stink eye.

•Nonetheless, provided the two of you are good friends (if not more)- she'll just make little jokes to distract from her newfound awkwardness.

•She's never had anyone help her with her wounds, much less "kiss the pain away."

Curie:

"How sweet...now, have you sustained any injuries that need attention?"

•Despite sounding dismissive, Curie doesn't mind the kiss at all. It's innocent and quite sweet. It's also probably the first time she really blushes, like we're talking one of those super noticeable, terribly warm kind of blushes.

•However she just doesn't know what to do or say in this situation, even though words aren't necessary at all...

Danse:

"That's one method of field aid I haven't seen before..."

•Danse freezes on spot, even if only for a few seconds. He never has been the best at reviewing affection, and you doing this only highlights how much he truly craves it.

•Will probably try his best to change the subject quickly thereafter- even if it means randomly droning on about your mission details for the next day.

•There's a good chance he'll awkwardly attempt to reciprocate the action the next time he has to dress your wounds...but knowing Danse, he'll probably chicken out and leave you hanging.

Deacon:

"Great, now I've got cooties.."

•The only thing he can think of to do is put up those damn near impenetrable walls of his.

•He secretly enjoys the attention, but it scares him when he notices the way he desires for you to kiss him once more. As such, mood ruining is the best way to ignore it.

•It may seem mean, but he might not let you tend to his injuries for a while after this incident.

Hancock:

"Better than med-ex, sunshine."

•Hancock is probably the best suited on the list to casually receive and accept affection like this.

•The ghoul would just smile, recline back on whatever crappy makeshift bed you were tending to him on before playfully placing his tricorn hat on your head.

•You bet you sweet ass that whenever you get hurt next, he's kissing the wound AND your forehead.

Gage:

"Don't kiss me unless you plan on doing it right."

•Gage is usually pretty intolerant of what he would refer to as "sissy shit" like this, but for some reason he couldn't help but grin when you- his big bad overboss- kissed his forehead.

•What? He still wasn't going to admit that he completely liked the gesture.

•As such, Gage would just make that stupid joke with an even stupider smug look in his good eye.

Macready:

"...Sorry..you, you've got me thinking of Duncan..I, I uh- used to kiss his bandages when he was littler...I'm sorry about that, just give me a second boss..."

•Doing this incites a very unexpected response...Mac will actually start tearing up, unable to stop the flood of memories rushing to him.

•Even stranger, he'll pull you into a hug with no regard for his injuries and just sigh, trying to fight off the tears from falling down his cheeks.

•He won't speak of this ever again.

Maxson:

"Thank you..I mean it, (y/n)."

•In a strange way, Maxson is a lot like Cait in the respect that he hasn't really ever experienced such sweet, tender affection. Sure, unlike Cait, Arthur had a suitable group of people that cared for him..but none did anything like this.

•Regardless, Arthur would probably appear strangely vulnerable as he thanked you- maybe even going as far as to clasp you on the shoulder before returning to business as usual.

Nick:

"You're too kind."

•Right next to Hancock in the "I can actually accept affection" club, only he has no idea how you're able to kiss him after literally putting him back together with tools and the whole nine yards.

•Nonetheless, Nick appreciates the gesture and will proceed to offer a cigarette (if you smoke) or just give you a good old fashioned pay on the back.

Piper:

"Woah there blue, you aren't gonna convince me that kisses will make the ouchies better. Nat spoiled that, haha.."

•She's the official leader of "I'm uncomfy so I'll say something dumb" club.

•It isn't necessarily you kissing her that made her feel weird, it's more or less that the action instantly reminds her of Nat and her Mom (of all people). So she understandably is a little perturbed.

Preston:

"Heh, I appreciate it General."

•Preston can't help but smile ear to ear after you finish up, maybe even blushing a little as he expresses his gratitude.

•Through all the crap he has been through, little gestures like this make him feel the slightest bit better- so he holds on and savors the moment as long as he possibly can.

X6-88:

"Why did you just do that?"

•Pure confusion.

•You don't think they actually do this kinds of stuff back in The Institute, right? Because newsflash, they in fact, do not.

•You dressing his wounds was already a beautifully foreign concept to him- but the kiss? Atom have mercy on his soul.

•Probably becomes addicted.

[post-nuclear-sweetheart]

Tranquille Moments In Chaos (1)

The start of several moments that fill in the gaps of developing a friendship, then relationship, with Hancock.

Hancock x reader/sole.

Find it on ao3 as well!

(1853 words)

“Come with me.”

You had begun to question your sanity before the words fully escaped your lips. You leaned against the wall of the State House in Hancock’s disorganized bedroom, attempting your best not to look like a complete mess inside.

You saw how his blackened, clouded eyes looked you up and down. It was casual, and it reminded you of how the “cool kids” - you deemed them - would look through your flimsy persona back in high school. His dry and malformed lips stretched into a grin, and you could see amusement play across his face.

Hancock let out a short, breathy chuckle, before reaching into his back pocket of his trousers for the crumpled pack of cigarettes. “So lemme get this straight,” he started as if you were merely having a casual conversation. He pulled out his lighter from his other pocket, leaving you hanging off his words, until he lit up the cigarette and took the first drag.

“This is your… what, second week? Roamin’ around the Commonwealth like a stray dog?” That amused look slowly turned into a scrutinizing smirk. “Fahrenheit told me all about how you turned on Bobby. Can’t even hold a gun without the recoil throwin’ your arms all over - and you wanna run with me?”

The heat of embarrassment crept up to your face. True, you still weren’t terribly handy with a gun, despite your ex-spouse having military experience, but you made plenty sure they kept that sort of violence outside the house, what with the arrival of your newborn. Oh, how you would come to regret that rule.

But if there was one thing you were good at, that you honed over your college years, was how to fake confidence. You steeled yourself and pushed off the wall, standing your not-so-tall stance against Hancock. Sure, your cheeks were still very red, but you fronted a coy smile and a raised brow.

“I dunno, Hancock. You said it yourself - you’re soft. I may have been out here for a few weeks, but you’ve been lounging around longer than I’ve been surviving. Are you sure you can run with me?”

You stared into his dark eyes, appearing so sure of yourself. You began to falter inside, however, when his playfully degrading look turned to one that was serious. He took another painfully slow drag, starring you down all the while, then blew a puff of smoke into your face. You suppressed your cough, but the tears from the stinging smoke escaped.

Hancock chuckled darkly. “I can admire a babe willing to stand up to the man. Alright, hot stuff. I’ll tag along and maybe give you a few pointers.” He winked at you then, deciding he was done with his half-burnt cigarette, tossed it down and squished it out with the heel of his boot.

“First I gotta address the people; give ‘em a big mayoral speech. Don’t wait up.” He pressed the tip of his tricorn hat down, as a way to physically show he was switching over to his “business side”, and disappeared through the white door next to the wall you had leaned next to.

You released a sigh. There was no way you could keep up that air of confidence for long, especially around the man who radiates pure confidence. Pair that up with his natural ability to remain cool and keep it all from going to his head, and you looked like a nervous teenager on the first day of work next to him.

You heard the guards that stood outside the door to his bedroom snicker. You didn’t blame them. There was one thing that made you feel a little better about devolving into a mental puddle around Hancock. Irma had told you all about how he used to be a major hit with the ladies, and sometimes the gentlemen, and it wasn’t unusual when a person or two would fall at his feet. Of course, this was all before he turned into a ghoul, and yet…

Something tells you his ghoulification only amplified his charm.

-

He made good on his promise, even if it was made in jest. In your days wandering with this alluring ghoul at your back, he had taught you how to properly hold your 10 mm gun, and when you felt ready for rifles, he taught you how hard to press the stock against your shoulder and how to safely handle them. Although seeming to be intimately familiar with most common place guns, he himself preferred the ol’ reliable shotgun.

You’ve also come to be acquainted with his way of life and his morals. He lived up to his self-proclaimed title of “freedom fighter” with his rebel-rousing, tough guy nature who kept an eye out for the little man. He tried telling you after he shanked Finn to death, but you didn’t quite believe it then. A mayor, fronting as a freedom fighter? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t until one dark day with a downpour to rival a waterfall that would change your mind.

After one particularly bad firefight, you both found shelter in a half-dilapidated, vacant home. You had a friend in this neighborhood many years ago, although he moved away to another town to attend high school.

You sat on a dust covered cushion near a fairly in-tact windowsill, watching languidly as the rain fell heavy. One leg was tucked under you, while you stretched the other so that Hancock could remove the bullet deeply embedded in your thigh. You didn’t feel much of his makeshift surgery, what with the drug concoction he fed you. You were more entranced by the rainfall, and how the droplets pattered on the crumbling road not far from the house. The only light you had to serve was the half burned candles from the last squatter at the residence; five waxy candles that illuminated a warm, flickering orange against the cold darkness of the rest of the house.

“Hancock?” You quietly called for him, never moving your stare from the outside world. He hummed in response.

“Did you-“ you paused yourself. Your drug-filled mind struggled to figure out how to word your question. “Were you… Did you grow up here, before the war?”

Although the pain was completely numbed, you did feel an intense pressure from his work. You felt that pressure stop momentarily, before starting again.

You heard Hancock let out a scoff. It didn’t sound rude, but baffled. “What makes you think I’m one of those pre-war ghouls?”

“You’re a ghoul.”

Hancock laughed quietly. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m in my thirties?”

“Thirties?” You lulled your head, rolling lazily on your shoulders to face Hancock. Your vision was blurred by the pain killers, but still you could see the deep ravines in his skin. His eyes appeared exceptionally black, and where his nose rotted off long ago appeared darker. At the sight of what would have frightened you 200 some years ago, you smiled. “You look amazing for your thirties.”

“You should’a seen me before.” He looked up to wink at you, before reaching for a roll of bandages he kept hidden away in his coat pocket. “Drugs are a hell of a… drug.”

“Drugs can make you a ghoul?”

“Not just any drugs. This stuff,” he blew air from between his recessed lips as his mind dove back into his memories. “they didn’t even have a name for this stuff. Picture it - a vial of this scary glowing liquid that promised to give you a high that was outta this world. And get this, there was only one more hit of it left. You know what I did, doll?”

There was something so charming, so endearing, about the way he spoke. It was old school, but his rumbling voice, no doubt caused by their decay via radiation, kept you enraptured. Your smile grew more silly and enamoured. “What did you do, Hancock?”

“I shot it up.” He began to wrap the bandages around your thigh. “Lemme tell you, there’s nothing else in this whole damn world that’ll make you see - no, feel - the things I did. Everything else pales in comparison.” He tied them off with a yank, and gave your leg a light pat before continuing his story. “‘Course, it came with a price. That price is this gorgeous mug you see before you.”

You giggled at his display of gesturing to himself and giving you an exaggerated smoulder. He shifted over to the cushion that was beside the one you sat on and took his place beside you. You came to an agreement to wait, guns ready, for the rain to pass before moving on. Hancock leaned his back against the wall from where he sat, and in your drugged-up haze, you slumped over against him.

“Good Neighbour didn’t mind a ghoul for a mayor?” You asked, unaware of how your line of questioning came across. Still, Hancock answered freely.

“I wasn’t a ghoul yet.”

“How did you become mayor?” You asked him, moving your head to look up at him.

Seeing no harm in telling you, Hancock regaled you in the bigotry of Diamond City, and the reign of terror Vic held over Good Neighbour. He told you, laughing through it as he explained how the red coat of John Hancock could speak to him, and with the courage of drugs and a take-no-bullshit attitude on his side, he and a group of fed up people stormed the town hall. He went into gruesome detail of gunning down Vic’s men, and how they tied a noose around Vic’s neck and hung him over the same balcony Hancock would give his speeches. It was then, with unanimous decision, that John Hancock became mayor of Good Neighbour. It stayed a safe haven for everyone Diamond City rejected, and the rest was history.

It was then, as you stared up at Hancock with a mixed look of disbelief and admiration, that you truly believed he was, and is, a freedom fighter.

“And you traded a life of gunning bad people down for office work?” You nudged him playfully.

“Hey, I can do both, can’t I? Good Neighbour’s full of good people. They can fend for themselves while their fearless mayor cuts his teeth on some raiders.”

You attempted to nod in agreement, but found your head heavy and comfortable against his shoulder. You let out a yawn, the last thing you remembered, before the haziness you felt finally took over your senses and dragged you to sleep.

Hancock glanced your way and lightly chuckled at your slumbering form. He gently moved your wrist in your lap to peek at the time on your Pip-Boy. It was getting well into the evening, but still it was early enough that raiders and gangsters didn’t roam quite yet.

He reached up to tip his hat down over his eyes and slouched against the wall. There was a long night ahead of you both, and if there ever was a time to nap, a dark rainy evening was certainly it.

“Sweet dreams, vault dweller.”

[thethistlegirl]

5.01 gave me the perfect chance to actually have screenshots to edit for the Riley whump I added to Wunderkind’s version of 2.22, and I couldn’t resist making one for one of my favorite scenes I’ve written in s2 and possibly the whole series...thanks @nade2308 for the screenshots!

“Hey, Mac, look!” Riley points up to the sky, and he follows her finger to where a shooting star crosses the horizon.

“I see it.”

“Did you make a wish?”

“Um…” He hasn’t done that in a long time. You kind of stop hoping on wishes when your life just falls apart. You stop dreaming, and you stop believing anything’s possible. He hasn’t wished on a star since he was six years old. I never got Mom back, so I gave up. “Did you?”

“Yeah. That we won’t get lost out here.” She laughs.

“Hey! I know where we’re going...or I did until you said that.” He’s suddenly unsure. “But...actually I think your star buddies might be able to make your wish come true.”

“Um...usually it takes people lost in the desert a lot longer to crack up.”

“I’m not losing my mind.” Mac rummages through his bag. “I’m going to make a sextant.”

“Well, hooray for you David Bowditch, but you'd still need to know the coordinates of Area 51…” 

Mac grins and rattles off the numbers he knows by heart. “37 degrees, 14 minutes and six seconds north by 115 degrees, 48 minutes…and don't look at me like that. I was a really dorky kid, I know. But so were you if you actually know who David Bowditch was.”

“My mom had a book about him and I went through a childhood phase of wanting to be the captain of an old-time sailing ship. And since you just proved you memorized the coordinates to Alien Central, you lost the right to judge.” Mac chuckles at the thought of a young Riley waving around a stick sword and wearing a tricorn hat, pretending to be the scourge of the seven seas.

He holds up his makeshift sextant to show her. “Now, all we got to do is measure the angular distance of a few well-known stars, do a little math, obviously, and we should be able to calculate our exact location. But... I need a watch.” He hasn’t worn one since he took off his dad’s.

Riley hands him hers. “You’re lucky I went old school today. It went with my boots.”

Mac loses himself in the haze of calculations for a few minutes, then looks up at Riley. “Okay, we are approximately 37 degrees, 12 minutes north by 115 degrees 47 minutes west. And if Polaris is there, that means we go…”

“That way.” Riley points. “I may not have been a big enough sailing nerd to be able to use star charts, but I know my compass directions.”

“Cool. Here you go, Captain Riley.” He hands her the sextant. “Little souvenir from our very land-bound excursion.”

She grins. “All right, let's get out of here before bad guys come and kill us.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

[carewyncromwell]

*wiggles in delight* Okay, okay, you know it’s the POTC AU again. X3

Last part is here -- whole tag is here -- Lavender’s Blue is a folk song that dates back to the 17th century, but I used a more modern version in the link because it’s honestly the prettiest one I could find -- Leave Her Johnny is a traditional sea shanty, pinpointing it as being from the 18th/19th century, even though I haven’t been able to find a concrete date of when the original version was actually written anywhere, but whatever, who cares -- the myth of Orion and Artemis has several variations, but I just used one of the most popular ones because it fits the narrative -- I love my dear @cursebreakerfarrier and her girl Jules’s relationship with my precious boi Bill so much --

And that’s it! Let’s get right to it!! Eeeee~!!! *goes off and fangirls some more*

x~x~x~x

When it comes to dividing loot, one of the central tenants of the Pirate Code set down by the pirates Morgan and Bartholomew -- as well as every other specialized code set by individual pirate captains -- was the idea of everyone getting their fair share of whatever treasure they managed to plunder, with the Captain being awarded ownership of any ships. Thus everyone in the Tower Raven’s fleet as well as the Artemis’s crew was entitled to an equal share of the treasure the Revenge’s crew had stored away on Isle de Muerta the last fifteen years. It took a while to divvy up everyone’s shares, but even with how many people there were, everyone ended up with a respectable share, all the same. Both Jacob and Orion also quickly abdicated their possible claims to the Revenge to Carewyn -- a rather generous offer to some minds, considering it was the fastest galleon on the seven seas, but Carewyn could thoroughly understood why Jacob would want no part of it. If nothing else, he already had a rather impressive fleet, and the Revenge had the same bad memories for her as it did him.

It wasn’t long after the treasure was parsed into equal shares and the Tower Raven’s fleet departed that Bill pulled Jules aside.

“It looks like our little adventure is over,” he said with a faintly wry smile.

“...So it is,” said Jules.

She wasn’t smiling. She tried, but she just couldn’t shake the feeling that Bill was worried about something. Her wary expression made Bill turn a bit more serious too.

“You know Charlie and I won’t be able to return to Port Royal,” he said softly. “Your father could likely pull some strings to keep you from being punished, especially if you claimed we forced you, but...”

“I would never claim that and you know it,” Jules cut him off, her tone very reproachful.

Bill’s brown eyes crinkled up with fondness.

“...I know. That’s why I feel a little better telling you this.”

Taking her hand, he then slowly lowered himself onto one knee. Somewhere behind him, Bill could hear a quickly suppressed gasp of delight from Carewyn, and it made him grin around his scarlet cheeks up at Jules, whose face was also alight with surprise and a darkening flush.

“Juliette Farrier -- you are, without question, the most amazing and wonderful woman I have ever met in my life. You’re braver than a lioness and you never let anything stand in your way, no matter what the squalls. In the words of Psalm 143:8, ‘show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life’ -- ”

His entire face was a brilliant ruby red by this point. He bit his lip briefly, only for his mouth to spread into an even broader smile as he tried to hold in a laugh.

“ -- so...if you could accept a pirate as your husband, over a merchant or even a man of the Church...I swear to stand by your side and love you all my days.”

Jules was visibly overwhelmed. Her face flushed and her eyes flooding with tears, she found herself starting to laugh. Then she flung herself down onto Bill, grabbing hold of him around the neck and cradling his head and shoulders.

“Yes -- yes, of course I will!”

The wedding between Juliette Farrier and William Weasley was a very informal, rushed sort of affair. Since there was no church that would’ve married them and Bill couldn’t do it himself, they held it aboard the Artemis with Orion -- being Captain -- officiating the ceremony. Charlie and Carewyn scrounged through the loot remaining in the cave at Isle de Muerta to find a handsome coat made out of brown leather, a navy blue tricorn hat, a well-shined pair of boots, a rather pretty-looking off-white dress, a gold tiara, and a translucent muslin apron. Carewyn was able to cut the apron into a make-shift veil that she then helped Jules secure in her hair with the tiara.

Orion’s version of a wedding ceremony was distinctly not traditional. Rather than quoting scripture, he made a rather bizarre analogy to beavers. To his credit, it did eventually come around to the idea that they mate for life and they build their own home out of nothing together out of whatever’s available to them, which Carewyn thought was actually rather sweet.

Once the vows were read and the bride and groom shared their first kiss as husband and wife, the crew threw a makeshift wedding party on board the Artemis, with Carewyn singing a song for Bill and Jules’s first dance.

“Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen: Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so? 'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so.”

Once the dance was over, Carewyn couldn’t stop herself from throwing her arms around both of them, hugging them both with all of her strength. Soon Charlie had thrown himself into the huddle too, and the four were all clinging to each other, crying and smiling all the while.

“Jules,” Carewyn said seriously, “I want you, Bill, and Charlie to take the Revenge.”

The three all looked taken aback.

“What?” said Charlie.

“It’s the fastest galleon in the entire ocean, and easily the most feared pirate ship as well,” she explained, her eyes trailing from Charlie to Bill to Jules. “It may need some fixing -- I daresay it’d be a good idea to actually patch up those leaks with more than just magic, and I figure you’ll want to christen it with a new name...but...”

Her blue eyes drifted down to Jules’s shoulder.

“...If you must be considered criminals, with no chance of reprieve...then I don’t want the Navy to ever, ever catch you. I want you on a vessel so strong and so fast...that I can never catch up to you again.”

Bill, Charlie and Jules all stared at Carewyn, their eyes filling up with emotion seeing how strong of a face Carewyn was trying to put on, despite the pain she no doubt felt. Then Jules secured her arm more tightly around Carewyn’s shoulders, resting her forehead beside her friend’s affectionately.

“And if you must stay behind...then I want you to know that we’ll always...always come for you, Carey.”

Charlie nodded, resting his own head on Carewyn’s shoulder as he squeezed her shoulder. “Always.”

Bill’s eyes were streaming with tears. He seemed too overcome by his emotions to speak, so instead he brought up a hand and smoothed some hair out of his best friend’s face, placing a soft kiss to the crown of her head. Carewyn trailed a hand through his hair to comfort him.

“Look...after Percy for us?” Bill murmured in her ear, his voice choked with tears.

Carewyn blinked back her tears as best she could. “Of course.”

Not long later, Captain Jules Weasley boarded the newly christened Revolution with her First Mate and husband Bill and her Quartermaster and brother-in-law Charlie, and the three set off for Tortuga. Orion and the crew of the Artemis had arranged to meet them there and help them with ship repairs, since it would likely only take a scooner like the Artemis an extra day to reach Tortuga after dropping Carewyn off on an island frequented by rum runners, rescued, and returned to the Navy.

The next few days aboard the Artemis was rather more relaxed than on the voyage to Isle de Muerta. Everyone was in pretty good spirits thanks to the significant pay-out, so the nights were spent on deck drinking lots of rum and singing old pirate favorites like Spanish Ladies and Yo Ho A Pirate’s Life for Me. (That last one Carewyn was even able to coax Orion onto his feet and dance with her for, and the rather drunk crew was absolutely beside themselves with laughter, seeing the broad smile and dark flush on their tipsy captain’s face.)

On the last night of their voyage, however, as the sun went down, Orion did not join the festivities. The crew wasn’t too perturbed by it, as he apparently often stayed off to the side rather than get as active as he had that previous night. Despite this, though, McNully still lifted himself up into the rigging and paid Orion a visit at the helm while the rest of the crew drank and sang down below.

“Penny for your thoughts, Orion?” he asked amusedly.

Orion glanced up at McNully serenely. “Oh, merely...meditating on what would’ve happened, had the Scorpion not appeared.”

“The Scorpion?” repeated McNully, as he cocked an eyebrow.

Orion nodded up at the sky, to a certain cluster of stars.

“The Scorpion -- Scorpio. I wonder what would have happened if Apollo had not sent him to sting the heel of the hunter Orion -- what might have been his fate, then.”

McNully glanced from the constellation to down at Orion, frowning slightly.

“Well...he would’ve kept hunting with Artemis, I suppose,” he said slowly, “like he did before.”

“Yes...but would he have been able to do that ad infinitum? Would they have been able to hunt together, side by side, for the rest of Orion’s life, until he’d lived to a ripe old age? Or, like it’s said happened to the goddess Calypso...would it be too difficult for a goddess and a mere man to walk the same path for more than a short while...when the paths set before them are destined to diverge?”

Orion’s voice was very detached, but McNully knew him well enough that he could hear the quiet intensity in his voice. This thought exercise of his had been more than simple meditation, this McNully was sure of.

The First Mate considered Orion for a moment, contemplating his answer.

“...Well...I suppose that’s something Artemis and Orion would’ve probably had to plot out themselves, if it’d come to that. Reckon those sorts of things are always a 50-50 thing, no matter who the players are.”

Orion glanced at McNully out the side of his eye. “‘Those sorts of things?’”

“Yeah -- heart-related things. In the story you’re talking about, Orion was the only man Artemis ever loved, right?”

Orion’s dark eyes flickered down to the crew below. “...Aye.”

“Well, love kind of involves communication, so I’ve heard,” said McNully amusedly, “and while I’m no expert in love, I do pride myself on my communication skills. And from where I stand, I’d say that it’s up to those people to decide whether what they’ve got is more important than what ‘path’ they’re meant for or not. And unless there’s action on one or both people’s parts, there’s a 99.5% chance that both them and everyone around them will be left wondering forever what could’ve been.”

Orion didn’t answer. McNully followed his gaze down to the newly redressed Commodore Carewyn on the deck, who was leading the rest of the crew in a sea shanty.

“Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high... Leave her, Johnny, leave her! She shipped it green and none went by, And it's time for us to leave her.

Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, And it's time for us to leave her.”

Orion’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, darkening with an emotion that McNully couldn’t place -- then, rather swiftly, he turned and headed for the stairs that led down to the main deck.

“I’ll take the first watch in the crow’s nest, McNully,” he said levelly. “Please see that the crew finishes up soon, so that we can start our nightly rounds.”

“...Aye, aye, Captain.”

The crew didn’t pay mind to the Captain walking past them on his way to the crow’s nest, but Carewyn couldn’t help but notice that he avoided any of their eyes.

Not long after, the crew all started getting ready to go to sleep down below in their makeshift cots and hammocks. Carewyn, however, was too disconcerted by Orion’s behavior and couldn’t help but approach McNully. When she did, he merely shrugged and told her not to worry -- Orion liked to go up to the crow’s nest alone to meditate, and it didn’t always mean he was in a bad mood. All the same, Carewyn decided to stay on deck and take the watch with Orion.

McNully considered her for a moment, before he finally added an aside to her.

“While he’s meditating, there’s only about a 45% chance he’ll talk to you. But...keep in mind that there’s only about a 25% chance that he’d talk to me. ...I reckon those are odds worth chancing.”

And so Carewyn made her way up into the crow’s nest. She found Orion there, resting his arms on the railing of the crow’s nest with his eyes closed and head bowed.

She settled herself next to him, resting her arms on the railing beside his. At first she was reluctant to speak, considering how clearly focused he was despite his eyes being closed. Then, at last, the Commodore finally brushed her newly retied ponytail over her shoulder and settled on asking him.

“...Would you prefer me to not say anything, while we watch together?”

Orion was quiet for a moment. Then, without opening his eyes, he murmured, “...You could sing something.”

Carewyn smiled slightly. “All right. Any requests?”

“‘A Maid in Bedlam.’”

It hadn’t taken him long to come up with it. Carewyn’s smile spread a bit, before she looked out at the sea and sang it for him. 

“Just as she sat there weeping, her love, he came on land. Then, hearing she was in Bedlam, he ran straight out of hand -- He flew into her snow-white arms, and thus replied he: ‘I love my love because I know my love loves me.’

She said, ‘My love, don't frighten me, are you my love or no?’ ‘Oh yes, my dearest Nancy, I am your love, also. I have returned to make amends for all your injury... I love my love because I know my love loves me.’

So now these two are married, and happy may they be, Like turtle doves together, in love and unity.

All pretty maids, with patience wait, that have got loves at sea -- I love my love because I know...my love...loves...me."

A ghost of a smile had settled into the corners of Orion’s lips as he listened. When Carewyn finally finished, he opened his eyes and looked out at the horizon.

“Did you sing that song, while you were on the Revenge?” he murmured.

Carewyn looked at him in surprise.

“...How did you know?”

“A mermaid was singing the song around our ship one night while we were bound for Isle de Muerta. She said she’d learned the song from a maid locked in the brig of a pirate ship.”

Carewyn’s eyes softened in understanding. She looked back out at the sea too, her expression becoming a little more serious.

“...While I was on the Revenge,” she said softly, “I...well, I wasn’t myself, at points. I was scared, and angry...and that night...”

Her eyes darkened.

“...That night...was the worst of all of them. I don’t even know how I fell asleep. But I did, and...sure enough...there you were.”

Orion looked up, startled. Carewyn’s lips were spread in something of a bittersweet smile even though her gaze was still on the sea.

“I said you appeared in my dreams at random, but I don’t think that’s wholly true,” she admitted. “You wouldn’t appear whenever I felt cheerful or excited. Instead you always seemed to appear...whenever I was drowning. Whenever I was in a dark place...hopeless and useless. Whenever I most felt...like I deserved to be alone.”

It was strange saying any of this aloud. It made Carewyn feel oddly fragile and vulnerable. With a swallow, she put on the bravest smile she could as she forced herself to meet Orion’s eyes.

“...I guess...whenever I end up in that place...remembering when I was able to help you...it helps, somehow. It...orients me, like a compass. It helps me remember how much better I feel about myself, knowing that I can take care of others.”

Orion stared at Carewyn, his mouth slightly open as his eyes searched her expression. They rippled with an intense emotion, but Carewyn couldn’t quite place it -- was it empathy? Pain? Longing? Relief?

His kohl-lined eyes drifted down to his belt. Then, carefully, he detached his little black-lidded compass from his belt and held it up in both hands so she could see it.

“Would you like to hear the tale of how I first acquired this compass?” he asked.

Carewyn looked down at it curiously and nodded.

“It was a gift,” said Orion. “A gift from a king, who was captured by an enemy kingdom and then sold into slavery. He ended up on a ship owned by the East India Trading Company, bound for the Caribbean...a ship I’d joined as a cabin boy. I was fourteen, going under the name ‘Smith,’ as it was the only name I’d been given at the time, besides ‘boy.’

“Not long after the ship set sail, I overheard the king planning a slave revolt against the sailors on board -- and I had to make a choice. 1, I could report what I heard to the captain...or 2, I could say nothing. Instead I picked a third option -- I helped him. I left his manacles a little too loose that night and told him where he could safely maroon the sailors who didn’t want to stay. So when the revolt happened...the king dropped off the entire crew except me. I agreed to stay long enough to help him sail home, since he and his people didn’t have any experience sailing a British ship. The king named me his First Mate and asked me to call him by his given name...Amari.”

Carewyn's eyes widened in amazement. Orion smiled gently at the look on her face and nodded, before his expression grew much more serious again.

“It wasn’t long after, however, that Cutler Beckett -- the man who owned the slave ship -- sent pirate hunters out to retrieve his ‘stolen cargo.’ On our way back to the Ivory Coast, we were locked in a sea battle, and Amari was mortally injured. As he lay on the deck, he made me promise to take his family home...and once I did...he gave me his compass. I used it to safely sail us away from the pirate hunters and drop the crew off close to home, before I took the next ship out of Africa, which plopped me down in the Caribbean.

“When I landed in Port Royal, however, news had already reached the Navy positioned there of my ‘theft of Company property.’ I was immediately locked in irons, branded, and set to be hanged the following morning. I barely remember now how I managed to shake off the soldiers escorting me to the jail, but sure enough, I did...”

Orion’s dark eyes softened slightly -- he reached out to take both of Carewyn’s hand and place the compass gently in her hands, his own hands cupping around hers so that she’d hold it.

“...And, as fate would have it...ran straight into you.”

Carewyn’s wide blue eyes ran over his face in disbelief.

She’d heard so many bizarre tales of the infamous Orion Amari and his exploits, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember having heard anything about how he became a pirate in the first place. And to hear now that it was all because he’d helped a ship full of slaves return home...to keep a promise he’d made to someone he’d clearly respected...

She’d known Orion was a good man -- but she realized that before that moment, she’d had no concept just how good.

Her eyes softened upon the compass in their joined hands.

“...It’s no wonder you’ve kept it even after it broke, then,” she said gently. “It’s truly very special.”

Orion’s dark eyes rippled over her face. “Aye...but it’s never been broken, however much it hasn’t worked for me, recently.”

Carewyn blinked in confusion.

“My compass does not point North -- nor has it ever done so,” he explained. “Instead...it points to whatever you want most in this world. If you wished to find treasure, it would point you to it. If you wished to escape, it would point you to safety. If you wished to sail homeward ...it would point the way.”

Carewyn glanced down at the compass and then back up at Orion’s face, feeling a bit skeptical despite herself. The pirate captain’s mouth spread in an amused smile.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked.

“I didn’t say that,” said Carewyn primly. “It’s just...hard to believe...”

She once again looked down at the compass and then back up at him.

“...Is that really true?”

Orion’s eyes twinkled. “Every word.”

Carewyn considered him for a moment carefully, her eyes scanning his face as she thought this over.

“...So I suppose the reason it’s not working for you...is you don’t know what you want?”

Orion’s face grew a lot more solemn.

“On the contrary,” he said softly. “It’s more...that my heart is so focused on one thing...it’s made it so the compass, in my hands, will point nowhere else. Ever since you escaped the Artemis...it’s been locked in place.”

His hands adjusted on top of hers holding his compass, his thumbs resting on the sides of her wrists.

Carewyn’s gaze fell down to their joined hands -- then, her eyes slowly widening, she looked back up at Orion.

“...When you came to Port Royal...”

Orion inclined his head. “The compass was pointing me there.”

“And...Isle de Muerta...”

“I only found because the compass was pointing me there, too.”

Orion’s voice was still as level as ever, but he suddenly looked quite a bit paler. Something in the back of his calm, serene eyes seemed oddly tentative -- insecure.

Carewyn stared at him, hardly daring to believe it. If she was understanding Orion correctly, then...the thing his compass had been pointing toward...

...was her.

Her heart had swelled to a seemingly impossibly large size in her chest, almost painfully so. It made Carewyn unsure of what even to say or do -- she couldn’t contain her emotions, and was forced to cover her face in both hands, cutting herself off as she struggled to regain her composure.

At long last, she took a breath.

“‘She said...‘my love, don’t frighten me...are you...my love, or no?’”

Orion straightened up visibly as she slid her hands from her face, beaming up at him with perhaps the most emotional, most beautiful smile he’d ever seen on her face.

“‘...Oh yes, my dear Orion...I am your love, also.’”

[jediannsolo]

Now here's a character I haven't drawn in forever! Lyndixie, an old OC that I once really wanted to turn into a children's book (still kinda do), flying on one of her many makeshift airships. This one's made out of a tricorn hat.

[ourooboroos]

(you make me) dizzy in my head

Read on my ao3 or continue under the cut!

You make me dance like a fool Forget how to breathe Shine like gold, buzz like a bee Just the thought of you can drive me wild Oh, you make me smile

-Uncle Kracker, "Smile"

Magnus knows he should’ve put his TikTok account on private.

It’s too late now, he supposes, sitting in his car in the school parking lot, watching students file into the building. The damage is done. Thousands of people have seen the video he made in his bathroom at nearly one in the morning, too hyped up to sleep, too impatient for Catarina to text him back, and too impulsive for his own good. He had to voice his thoughts somewhere .

It wasn’t even the first time he’d made a video like this -- this one is just the most embarrassing. He remembers recording it and being so, absolutely sure of his own words.

“So I have a problem,” Magnus said, floating into the bathroom and aiming the camera at his reflection in the mirror. He spoke slowly, words drawn out. “I don’t know how to ask him out. I want to ask him out. He’s so fucking cute, guys, and he’s so kind and funny and -- well, you’ve seen my other videos. I just want him to love me!”

The worst part isn’t even that thousands of people have seen it, after it having appeared on a bunch of their front pages, apparently. It’s that, at exactly 6:45 in the morning, he woke up to a text from one Isabelle Lightwood that just said, “Fucking cute, huh?”

Fuck.

She’d seen it. She’d seen them . And she’d pieced it together.

Now he has to go to school knowing that his crush’s sister absolutely knows about his crush. And Izzy isn’t exactly the subtle, hands-off type. He wouldn’t even be surprised if she’d already told Alec. Magnus buries his head in his hands and groans.

There are three of them -- four including the new one -- and each one is a little more embarrassing.  

* The first video happens in early October. Alec is over at Magnus’s house, and they’re sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a project for Latin class. Magnus is trying to conjugate a list of words into perfect indicative, while Alec searches for something in his textbook. When Magnus lets out a grown of frustration, Alec snorts, and shuffles quickly and quietly in his seat so that his knee is pressed against Magnus. Magnus freezes for a moment before letting his knee press back, and Alec doesn’t shift again.

So of course Magnus posts soon after Alec leaves his house. Apparently he’s supposed to meet his family for dinner; his grandparents are in town. Magnus waves as Alec backs out of his driveway. He’s trying not to grin like a doofus, but he’s not sure that it’s working. When Alec’s car disappears around the block, Magnus runs to his bathroom.

“Guys,” he says, out of breath, into the mirror and his phone. “Guys, the guy I like just came over to work on school stuff and he sat so close to me our knees touched on purpose and I know that sounds stupid but holy shit, he’s so wonderful. He said I was the best project partner he’s ever had. Also, he smelled really good -- like lemongrass and pine and -- I just!” He runs a hand down his face and his video runs out of time. Alight with nervous energy, he posts it, hashtag free.

* Magnus makes the second video on Halloween.

This video is recorded in Magnus’s car; he’s sitting in his driveway, mind racing even as he tries to somewhat coherently narrate what has just happened, the night he’s just had. He plays it back even as he speaks about it.

He drives to Andrew’s house, windows down and letting the crisp fall air in. His hat nearly flies off his head and he holds it on as he turns down Andrew’s road, parks down the street. His makeshift pirate costume is immaculate, he has to admit; as he walks to Andrew’s he adjusts his clothes -- tight black pants and tall boots, a ruffled white shirt, and a red sash tied around his waist. He carries a plastic cutlass, and a tricorn hat sits on his carefully tousled hair.

Andrew’s house is loud, party in full swing by the time he gets there. He lets himself in, says hi to Andrew, and grabs a drink -- a soda since he’s driving himself. He’s just settled into a corner with Cat and Dot when a tall Spider-Man appears, skin tight suit leaving little to the imagination. The costumed man gives a friendly wave to Cat and Dot but turns to Magnus. Magnus tries not to stare at the obvious planes of his chest, or the muscles of his thighs, or the way his biceps stretch the lycra of his suit, but hell, it’s hard.

“Nice hat,” Spider-Man says, voice muffled behind his mask. He points to the top of his head as if to clarify. It sounds as though he’s smiling.

Magnus raises an eyebrow, amused. He peers at the eyes of the costume, but can’t see through the dark, dense mesh. This costumed classmate will remain a mystery, apparently. “Thank you, o glorious web-slinger.”

Spider-Man laughs. “Nice sword, too. Looks like you could kill a man.”

“If only it weren’t plastic.” He thumps the sword in his hand.

Spider-Man hums in response and shifts his weight, leaning a little too far and almost falling. He places a hand on the wall to balance himself. For the first time, Magnus notices that he’s holding a near-empty cup.

“How much have you had to drink tonight, Spidey?”

“A couple cups of… whatever this is.” His head tilts down and he sloshes the liquid in the cup around. “Punch, I guess?”

“You should be careful; Andrew uses an obscene amount of vodka in his punch.”

Spider-Man makes an odd noise, then. Magnus stares at him. “I thought it tasted funny.”

“You… you didn’t know it had alcohol in it?”

“I don’t really drink.” And with that, he sets what’s his cup on a bookshelf nearby. He wrings his gloved hands. “I guess it figures though -- I needed a bit of courage to come talk to you.”

Magnus scoffs. “Why?”

He pauses, stills his movements. Magnus is about to just ask him who he is when Spider-Man says, quietly, “Because you’re stunning,” and quickly turns and walks away. Magnus watches him go, mouth parted in confusion.

It isn’t until Magnus is hugging Cat and Dot, saying goodbye, and turning to leave, that he sees it; Alec, sitting on Andrew’s couch, eyes lit up in laughter, wearing a blue and red Spider-Man suit.

* The third video comes a week into November.

Magnus is in class, his mind drifting as Mrs. Penhallow flips through a powerpoint about the Cold War. He’s nearly fallen asleep when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Frowning, he pulls it out, dims the screen, and hides it under his desk.

It’s a text from Alec. Who’s sitting just across the room. Magnus glances at him, but Alec’s staring intently at Mrs. Penhallow, though there’s a small smile threatening his concentrated expression. Magnus looks back to the text.

A: What happens to a frog’s car when it breaks down? It gets toad away!

Magnus snorts, and covers it with a cough, but luckily Mrs. Penhallow ignores him and keeps plowing through her presentation. Magnus quickly writes back.

M: Why did the team of witches lose their baseball game? Their bats flew away.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Alec subtly reads the text and grins broadly. His own phone vibrates a second later.

A: Did you know a kangaroo can jump higher than the Empire State Building? It makes sense, since the Empire State Building can’t jump.

M: Why did the can crusher quit his job? It was soda pressing.

A: Why did Adele cross the road? To sing Hello from the other side. M: Humpty Dumpty loves autumn. Every year he has a great fall.

They trade jokes back and forth for the rest of class, each of them hiding their smirks in their palms and their phones on their laps. It makes the period go by quickly, and Mrs. Penhallow has just finished her powerpoint and the bell rings when Magnus’s phone vibrates one more time:

A: If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together.

Magnus pauses as his classmates quickly throw their books in their bags and rise from their desks. He reads the text again. And again, just to make sure he’d read it right. He looks up, eyes searching for Alec, only to see that he’s already left.

He posts the new TikTok that afternoon. It ends with him just about yelling, “A stupid pick up line shouldn’t make my heart race like that!” into his mirror.

*

The fourth one, the final one, the one that apparently breaks the camel’s back, is inspired by a text. Not even a particularly riveting or important one. Magnus is laying in bed the Sunday after Thanksgiving, dreading going to school the next day. There’s something about going back to a regular schedule after holidays and breaks -- even a break as short as this one -- that fills him with anxiety. He rolls over, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, when his phone lights up.

I hope you had a good Thanksgiving, Magnus! I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’s from Alec.

And Magnus keeps reading it, over and over. He hasn’t spoken to Alec since the Tuesday before break when they had Latin together and Alec had dropped his pen. Magnus had grabbed it for him so he didn’t have to lean awkwardly over this desk to grab it, and Alec had said thank you and grinned and Magnus had nodded and tried to regulate his breathing.

But apparently Alec thought of him just now, before they went back to school, and at 12:37 at night, when he probably thought Magnus was asleep. Magnus makes a sound he would be embarrassed about if anyone was around to hear it. He knows that Cat’s asleep by now -- she always goes to bed at ten on school nights -- so he gets up and stumbles through the dark room to his bathroom mirror.

*

Magnus is still in his car, waiting until the absolute last second he can before he’ll be late to run into the school, when someone knocks on the passenger side window.

He startles and whips his head around to see Alec, leaning over to peer into Magnus’s sedan. Magnus’s eyes widen and he slowly unlocks the car.

Alec opens the door and slides into the seat, dropping his bag in the footwell. “Hey,” he says quietly. Magnus fiddles with the keychains hanging off of his keys, still in the ignition, but he can feel Alec watching him.

“Hi,” he replies, smiling weakly.

There’s quiet, and Magnus wants to bang his head into the steering wheel. He has never once felt this awkward around Alec before. But what is he supposed to say? He can’t deny making the videos, and he certainly can’t deny that they’re about Alec. For fuck’s sake, he had gone into detail about his thighs in his Spider-Man costume.

“So,” Alec says. Magnus glances at him for a second, but Alec immediately meets his eyes, and Magnus can feel the heat rising up his neck. He turns away. “So, uh.” He pauses and Magnus can hear him curse, exhale loudly. “Sorry, I don’t have any vodka this time.”

That gets a snort from Magnus, even as he focuses his gaze on the dashboard.

Alec’s voice is soft, hesitant, when he speaks. “Did you mean it?”

Magnus finally turns, shifting in his seat. Alec’s staring at his hands now, wringing them in his lap. “You think I embarrassed myself online just for some meager views?”

The corner of Alec’s mouth quirks. “Not embarrassing.” Magnus snorts again, turning back to the dashboard, but Alec stops fiddling and reaches a warm hand out. It covers Magnus’s where he toys with the keychains hanging from the ignition, and Magnus pauses. “Really. Not embarrassing.”

Magnus swallows thickly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Alec’s smile grows. He nods, one eyebrow raised. “I’d like to hear more of your opinions on my Halloween costume, actually.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Magnus’s voice is without heat, and Alec laughs. Magnus smiles back at him. “Yes. I meant it.”

And Alec’s smile is radiant. His hazel eyes crinkle at the corners and now Magnus can’t stop looking at him, can’t not look at him when he looks like actual, literal sunshine. “Good.”

* “Hey guys,” Magnus says, twisting into the bathroom and aiming the camera at the mirror. “Too many of you watched my last video, so unfortunately--” He breaks off as a cackle sounds from the doorway. “Shush, I’m making a video!”

Alec sticks his head into the room, slides into frame, grin wide on his face. Magnus thinks he’ll never get sick of that smile. “So unfortunately he has to deal with me now,” Alec says, wrapping his arm around Magnus’s waist and tugging him close.

“Okay, maybe it’s not so unfortunate.”

The sixty-seconds timer ends just as Magnus turns and pulls Alec into a kiss.

[nightingaelic]

The Fallout 4 companions help Sole decorate for the holidays

Ada: Makeshift charms made up of nuts, bolts and scrap metal

Cait: A mostly-intact Nuka-Cola promotional Santa Claus figurine she won in a game of cards against a raider boss

Codsworth: The precious few of Sole's ornaments that survived the Great War, including two red glass bulbs, some plastic icicles and a tin star

Curie: Embroidered felt versions of holly berry garlands and mistletoe that she sewed herself

Danse: Outdated Brotherhood holotags that glow green instead of blue

Deacon: Some dried-out brain fungus sloppily glued together and painted to look like a snowman

Dogmeat: A plaster cast of his paw print

Hancock: A Santa Claus hat for a tree topper- he won't say where he got it, but he used to swap out his tricorn and wear it for the whole month of December before Sole showed up

MacCready: Strings of empty bullet casings that he saved up since fall, and strings of popcorn that Duncan helped make

Valentine: A string of lights that he rewired in his spare time and tested by hooking it up to his internal power system

Piper: Paper snowflakes that she cut up with Nat out of old issues of Publick Occurrences

Preston: Aluminum can lids painted in a variety of colors and patterns, most with Minutemen stars on them

Strong: A single pine cone on a string

X6-88: Tinsel strands that he smuggled out of the Institute

BONUS!

Gage: A tree stand that very clearly used to be a mini nuke

Longfellow: Some tiny, wooden radstags he whittled in his spare time

Maxson: No ornaments, but he did requisition and donate Bing Crosby's 1945 "Merry Christmas" album from the Brotherhood archives, and it's on loop

Desdemona: Pre-war tea lights that were once used as trail markers for Railroad agents

[khadorek]

Hallow’s End Heat: Part 1

This has been written for the third week of the Weekly Writing Challenge! It has been a while since I tried a longform post like this, so excuse my rustiness.

Warning: Contains sexual innuendo, viewer’s discretion is advised.

It had been a little over a month since the duel that saw the end of the Fourth War, and despite the ominous storm clouds that loomed on the horizon, the concept of a lasting peace finally coming to the Alliance and Horde was the cause for many a great celebration; families were at long last reunited, soldiers returned to their waiting lover’s arms, and many military and paramilitary organizations celebrated a job well done, and the Brotherhood of Valor was no exception. The early evening was fairly tame; a few adults in costume strewn about the common room chatting, relaxing, having a few drinks, and all around enjoying the evening they had off while those with children had left for the major cities to take them Trick or Treating. Things only got rowdier as the evening went on, as parties with alcohol involved so often do, not helped by the return of the children not long after the sun had gone down, eager to enjoy their sugary bounty before being sent fruitlessly to bed. The adults, meanwhile, directed their attention to the makeshift stage that had been put up for the contest many of them had been waiting for; the costume contest.

Thursday, October 31st, 10:26 pm, The Hinterlands

“…and last, but certainly not least,” Sebastian announced, shifting in his Headless Horseman costume a bit, and squinting through the black fabric that covered his face as his “head” was running around and playing with the little Pandaren child with a ghostly sheet over her head. Once he got the names down, he looked back up and continued his announcement, “Khadorek Blackbyrne and Katharena Graeson!” On cue, they strode out onto the stage, waving to the crowd as they did so, much like those before them had done. To no one’s surprise, they had, of course, gotten matching costumes and both seem to have taken to it with gusto.

“They’re back from the high seas, it seems; I tried going there once, Hope and Jhulya stopped me, and now I’m not allowed to sing anymore.” Sebastian added, causing part of the audience to groan audibly. As for Katharena and Khadorek, they indeed cut quite the swashbuckling duo; Khadorek was dressed in tough deck hand attire, with heavy black boots over tight leather seaman’s trousers, paired with a loose swashbuckler’s top and a red bandanna covering the top of his head, causing his thick brown hair to fall almost entirely down over his back. His scars were highlighted to look more recent, making him look even more rugged than he naturally was, and with a black leather eye-patch to round out the look. Hefting the faux boarding axe over his shoulder, he cut quite the realistic pirate, if a bit simplistic compared to his counterpart. Katharena, meanwhile, went for a much more ornate, pirate admiral design for her costume; thigh high black boots with heels making her just that little bit more imposing in regards to her height, the tops of which were mostly hidden underneath a mid-thigh length skirt, the perfect mix of frilly and utilitarian. For a top she wore what could only be described as a mix between a low cut, button-down vest and a corset, made of brown leather and cinching her already tight waistline to even more waspish proportions, paired with a long navy blue coat to make her look even more like a captain; as if the fake parrot on her shoulder and tricorn hat upon her blazing curls didn’t already sell the look. The pair of them made sure to show off their costumes, and Kath, perhaps to seal the deal, discreetly snapped her fingers and caused a gust of sea breeze to come into being behind them, causing their last pose to look particularly dynamic. The audience applauds at the extra showmanship as they stepped down, and Sebastian carefully makes his way up on stage to close things off.

“Now those were some really great costumes, I think,” he begins, still wearing his face cover, “we’ll be giving out the prizes once the votes are counted, so be sure to get your votes in now!” He states, beginning to make his way back to his seat as the votes began to come in. Having submitted theirs before they went on ‘stage,’ Khadorek and Katharena made their way to their spot by the bar to get away from the small crowd near the stage.

“Well, that went pretty good!” Khadorek remarks, ordering his usual and easing back into his seat, “nice touch with the wind there; you have that planned?” He asks.

“Nope, spur of the moment.” Katharena replies, awkwardly hopping up into the seat next to him and letting out a heavy sigh of relief as she gets off of her feet. “Ah, damn these heels.”

“You alright?” Khadorek asks, taking his drink and offering to help her up into the stool, something he was used to doing by now, but was waved off; she did that a lot, her independent streak not fettered in the slightest even with him. He always liked that about her; that spunky, tough, farm girl competitive nature appealed to him in ways he never thought it would.

“I’m fine,” she assures him as she finally settles into the seat, crossing her legs and ordering herself a daquiri. “Just these damn boots, I know they’re supposed to be authentic, but I just can’t see a sailor, even a pirate wearing heels like these on duty.”

“Well, the one that was helping you seemed pretty insistent that her old captain wore something like that.” Khadorek retorts.

“These people kidnapped you, remember; new leaf or not, I’d be hesitant to be to trust them.” Katharena counters as she gets her drink, mixing the crush ice in the glass with the straw before taking a sip. “Also, I’m convinced that she was checking me out throughout that whole thing; I mean, look at my outfit,” she gestures to herself, “You don’t think it’s too showy, do you?”

“In hindsight, you do have a point,” Khadorek admits, “and yeah, she absolutely was, but you gotta admit, it gave her an edge; you look even more amazing than normal.” He purrs, doing his best to keep his eyes from lingering on her figure for too long.

“I know you like it, dirty boy,” she teases with an eye roll, seeing through his attempt at hiding his gaze almost immediately, pushing her biceps together on either side of her chest and subtly bouncing her ample bosom while fluttering her eyelashes, causing him to look away flustered and red cheeked, “don’t act like you haven’t been just as bad tonight. If you can think about it with the head on your shoulders for a moment, I want to know if this was too much for a company party.” She asks again, her soft lips curled into a teasing smirk. Khadorek shifts uncomfortably in his seat as his dirty mind is punished in a most ironic way, but he can’t help but smile at how playful she was being.

“You want me to be honest? If Keaye,” he begins, gesturing to the incredibly plush Pandaren woman who had since stumbled back to and began leaning heavily on the bar, skimpy ninja costume straining perhaps a bit more than it should as she downs yet another flaming shot of alcohol, “isn’t getting any trouble, you’re more than in the clear. And maybe so, but you’re hardly innocent either, nor as slick as you think, unless you have been making sure I haven’t sat in something.” He teases right back. “Besides, I’m fairly certain I’ve got more cleavage in this shirt than you do in yours.” He adds, pushing his pecs together in much the same way a woman would do with her chest. Katharena, in the process of going a touch red in the cheeks herself and taking a drink to steady herself, sees this and immediately snorts and nearly chokes as she begins laughing.

“Shut up, you!” She giggles, giving him a playful push and causing him to chuckle as he nearly falls off. “I think we both know who has the best tits here.” She quips right back as she goes back to her drink. Khad’s eyes widen into an expression of amused disbelief at what she just said.

“How many drinks have you had?” He asks her, setting his whiskey down as she sips away at her daiquiri, happily shifting side to side in her seat to the music playing throughout the bar. When she finally stops and turns to Khadorek, there is barely a splash left of liquid and flavored ice in her glass, and he doesn’t need to hear what she says next to know she’s pretty much hit her limit.

“I’ve gone drink for drink with you, handsome,” she states proudly, leaning forward with a coy grin on her face. Khadorek is floored; it was rare she ever drank like this at all, let alone match him. Thankfully, it had been a short evening, but regardless, she was not known for her constitution; he had to step in.

“Okay, I think you’ve had enough.” He affirms, going to put the drink out of reach before his hand was pushed aside.

“Oh, come on now, I was pacing myself!” She complains, turning more towards him, “I was only drinking these things,” she gestures to the daquiri, “they’re no where near the stuff you drink. Besides, I feel fine.”

“You say that now, but come the morning…” Khadorek tells her, knowing all too well what it was like the morning after. “You finish that drink, then your cut off, okay? Don’t want you to ruin your morning tomorrow.” He states. Katharena pouts, but capitulates. Khad smiles and was about to thank her, when he felt something tugging at his leg. Looking down, he sees a little Draenei girl dressed as a Jack-o-lantern; it was little Hope, Sebastian’s daughter.

“Daddy wanted me to bring this to hyoo.” She says in her Draenei accent, holding up a basket of assorted teas and various edible sundries, all of which bore the mark of Loshu. “Congratulations on weening cutest couple, he says!” Naturally, the couple smile and graciously accept their prize.

“Thank you Hope, and you look adorable in your costume.” Katharena says sweetly, mostly managing to feign sobriety in front of the little one, who giggles and does a cute little courtesy before running back to play with Zhaemia and the others. Katharena leaned back into the chair with a sigh, and Khadorek lets out a soft chuckle.

“The children sure are having a good time tonight, don’t you think?” Khadorek remarks, watching the little ones play their game of tag; darting between the tables, chairs and patrons with ease. Katharena, however, does not remark on this. “Kath? Did you hear me?” He asks again, and again no response. Khad turns to face her, and sees her going for his drink. “What are you doing?” He asks in obvious confusion, and she snaps her gaze to him and withdrew her hand. He was about to ask what had gotten into her, but then he saw the look on her face; that look, and his mood softened to one of pity. “C word, right?” He asks, and she nods sullenly; Khadorek raises his arm and almost immediately, she snuggles into his side, letting him rest his hand on her back. “I’m sorry honey, sometimes I forget how much that bothers you.” He consoles her, and she nuzzles her head into his shoulder with a sigh. He knew how much she wanted children of her own, and seeing others with thriving families always exacerbated those feelings; he couldn’t imagine how rough it felt with liquor bringing all those feeling and unhappy thoughts she normally kept hidden bubbling to the surface, aside from that it must hurt, a lot. “Don’t worry, love, we’ll get there eventually, I promise.”

“I know, I know…” she replies, nuzzling into his shoulder even more, “it’s just hard sometimes… they all have their families, and all I can think is that I came so close and then…”

“If that hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be here right now, would we? We would never have met.” Khadorek counters, hoping to stop the tears before they even started, “Kath, honey, I love you, and I am going to give you everything that you want; everything that was taken from you will be yours again, and I’m going to give it to you, just like you’ve done for me.” He says in the most assuring tone he can muster. Katharena is quiet for a while, and Khadorek was nervous he hadn’t calmed her enough. Eventually, a smile, albeit a sad one, comes to her face, and Khad lets out a gentle sigh as he begins to soothingly rub her back.

“Thank you, my love,” she replies softly, scooting her barstool towards him and moving to kiss his cheek. “I think I need to just get my mind off all of this for a while,” she adds, eyes locking with his, “and I know exactly what I need for that…”

“And what is…” Khadorek begins to say before he notices her smile becoming much more playful, AND where her hand was now resting; most anyone would have just figured she just had her hand on his thigh, but they both knew that was far from the case. “Honey, are you sure, you’re pretty drunk right now…”

“And we both know how I get when I’m drunk…” She purrs as she cuts him off, biting her lip as she felt the fruits of her earlier teasing. Khadorek swallowed and blushed a bit at how forward she was being; he DID know that she got affectionate when she drinks, and around him, affection very swiftly turned to her getting very, very amorous. She KNEW he loved it when she acted so brazen, and such a play to his desires was swiftly breaking down his resolve. She used her other hand to lift his free hand to her cheek, fluttering her eyes in such a way that made his stomach do backflips. “Khad, my love, I want you; I need you,” she purrs, lifting her head from his shoulder and getting right up to his face, “the night is still young; let’s go upstairs and have some fun.” That was all it took, and they both pulled each other into a deep, strawberry flavored kiss; Khad’s other arm pulled her yet closer to him, practically into his lap, and Katharena looped both her arms around him, taking hold of his broad, muscular back, though this did not prevent her from subtly teasing him, as sitting in his lap provided her a whole host of options in that regard. When the kiss finally broke, he had fully fallen under her metaphorical spell, and a devious grin spread across his face.

“Well, if that’s what Katharena wants, that’s what she’s gonna get.” He growls softly, and Katharena’s grinning cheeks redden to hear him so eager; such plays seemed to work on both of them in equal measure. “Lead the way, beautiful.” He added, and that was all that needed to be said before she was hopping down to the ground with a soft click of her heels, taking his hand and leading him towards the stairs.

To be continued...

@quipsbykath @weekly-writing-challenge @ogrimskar (for reference to his character Loshu)

[sassy-cat-demon]

A girl with a makeshift tricorner hat made of paper scraps crawls over to mora "Pssst! Hey! New girl!"

She looks “ hello uh so uh do you know why I’m here” she asks

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Poor Choice

A small fire in the fog. A guiding light in the misty labyrinth of ramshackle and makeshift homes and permanently-pitched tents. A pair of boots crunched on frozen gravel and dirt. The cobblestone roads of Crimsonport would have been just beyond a mighty wall nearby, yet they couldn’t feel farther away.

Someone coughed and and hacked and wretched, sounding like his lungs wanted to escape his own body. He looked miserable, standing out in the cold by a small fireplace, wrapped in layers upon layers of ragged clothing.

As Johnn approached that lonesome old man, he pulled his scarf up to cover the lower half of his face. The last thing he could use now was catching some disease—and the likelihood of that was high in the ghetto outside the city walls.

Johnn’s hands burned with the sensation of biting cold, and he buried them in his sullied long coat’s pockets. He wished for a bath and a warm hearth to rest by and reminisced about the recent days he had spent at the cozy hut of good witch Agnes, well outside of Crimsonport.

The miserable looking fellow by the fire looked up at Johnn once he had wandered close enough and nodded in silent greeting to the new arrival. Johnn returned the gesture and tipped his tricorne hat. Then he caught a whiff of foul-smelling air from the man and cringed from the stench.

“Can I help ya?”

Johnn shrugged, “Depends on what you can tell me.”

“Oy, aren’t you—“

“I get that a lot, but I am of no import myself,” Johnn cut him off before he could utter his name out loud. He smiled with a disarming honesty. Though the scarf covered his mouth, the smile reached his eyes. It only faded when he asked, “Tell me, what is this I’ve been hearing about the children of the Outwall going missing?”

The other man’s filthy forehead creased to the point of looking like a roadmap. He shot Johnn a grim glance.

“So it is you,” he said.

Johnn remained silent and waited. The man by the fire sighed and cast a glance around himself before spitting into the flames.

“After the first few disappeared, it became a spooky story that parents told the rascals to keep ‘em from going out by night.”

The man stared into the fire during the long pause that followed.

“O’ course, some o’ the kids started going out on dares or went on thinking it was just a load o’ hogwash. Until after another ten’r so went missing. Then—“

He waved a hand around himself.

“This is how it is outside the walls now.”

Johnn knew exactly what he meant. He had never seen the outer city so deserted, not even by the time of early dusk. People huddled inside their homes, nervously peering out, shuttering their windows shut at the sound of every passersby. Like the Blight had returned.

After a few breaths-long of silence between the two men, Johnn asked, “And nobody has ever seen or heard anything specific?”

“Nothing that makes any sense,” the man said. He groaned, “You’ll think I’ve lost it if I give you Crazy Carl’s account in all earnest.”

“Humor me, please.” Johnn sighed, and his breath condensed into a small cloud in front of him.

The man nodded and gears grinded behind his forehead. When he spoke again, his words spilled out slowly, with a great deal of reverence in his tone. Or fear. Either way, it sounded honest.

“A swarm of creepy crawlers that towers in the shape o’ one, hiding underneath a robe. A colony o’ insect-critters that pass as a person. It looks like a lone wanderer until y’get too close, then ya see the vermin jittering about, and then it’s too late. Snatches people right up and whisks ‘em away.”

Johnn nodded and asked, “Did he see where the insect-man came from or where he went?”

“Said he saw him—it—dragging a lad into the city, to the harbor district. Followed them because some part o’ him wanted to do the right thing. Said they disappeared into a large warehouse. Said he heard soft singing.”

Johnn nodded again. He dug around in one of his coat’s inner pockets and produced five copper coins. Approaching the man by the fire, he dropped the meager handful of money into the man’s open palm. The man gave him a smile revealing a number of missing teeth. The smile did not reach his eyes.

“I could show ya which place Carl meant,” he said.

Johnn shook his head and turned to leave.

“Not even askin’ for money, Johnn von Brandt.”

Hearing his name spoken out loud caused the benevolent bandit to freeze in his tracks. He peered back over his shoulder to look at the old vagrant before dismissing him, “Wouldn’t want to put you in harm’s way, you old fogy. This is going to be dangerous.”

The old man reached into his coat and pulled out a filthy old meat cleaver.

“Can take care o’ meself, I can.” He waved the cleaver twice and then hid it again.

“Alright, but stay behind me at all times, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Johnn left with swift steps, and the old man followed. In these foggy wintry evenings, dusk soon turned into night. The darkness enveloped them while they marched through the large arch of the city’s gate and walked along the cobblestone roads. At least the city retained more livelihood. If only they knew what monsters haunted the region come nightfall, they would never leave their homes. Johnn belonged to the few who knew better.

“I heard you used to help out the common folk with the riches you stole from the king,” the old man said. Johnn heard the criticism hidden in the man’s use of past tense. “Lotta people going hungry these days. Lotta people could use yer charity.”

Johnn remained silent.

“Somethin’ change?”

“Not really, but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The old man chuckled, “Humor me, mister von Brandt.”

“After a botched job trying to plunder the king’s coffers, a fair folk queen killed all my merry compatriots, and I was put under her spell. She cursed me to sleep for almost a year until good witch Agnes ended her and rescued me. I only recently returned to Crimsonport.”

Now was the old man’s turn to remain silent.

“I thought so,” Johnn said.

“There’s a first time fer everythin’,” the old man muttered.

They remained silent for the rest of the way. By the time two bells rang, Johnn and the old man had reached the harbor district. A fog had draped itself over the streets and drowned out the light shed by street lamps. The mists rendered the sprawling port area as claustrophobic as the narrowest alleyways. Torches and lights on docked boats and ships bobbed up and down due to the sea’s waves. Despite the darkness deepening as evening turned to night, the city still bustled with life. The cold made Johnn’s eyes water. He squinted and looked out for anything unusual as they walked.

The old man took the lead and Johnn let himself be guided.

A group of singing drunks wobbled down one street. Some watchmen encircled a crook who shouted obscenities at the top of his lungs till they beat him senseless.

Only after turning a few corners into more narrow streets did they arrive in a quieter part of the harbor area. There, the old man stopped. A tall warehouse loomed above them like a dark tower. No lights shone inside of it, weather and time made it look completely dead and abandoned. Freight from neighboring storage buildings had been stacked around it and obstructed most of its possible entrances.

If some creature of the night was hiding out in the district, this place would make an ideal lair. Easily overlooked, large interior, and ideally situated for people to not hear any noise—or not care if they did.

Although Johnn had never found the time to read through Nora’s entire collection of journals and bestiaries, he did not recall a single entity that even remotely sounded like a swarm of insects mimicking humans and abducting people.

Nora. Oh, Nora. She had been so despondent when he visited her. Barely said a word to him, just sitting there in those prison rags with matted hair and grime all over. She had stared at a wall the entire time and not once did she deign to look at him through the bars that separated them. He had promised to find a way to get her out, but it rang hollow and haunted him—short of a suicidal assault on the prison tower, there was nothing he could do about it. Knowing she was rotting away for a crime she did not deserve punishment for, knowing that this happened in his absence while he had been gallivanting about and playing noble bandit—the guilt ate away at him.

He must have been lost in thought for too long while he stared at the door on the side of the building, for the old man nudged him with an elbow.

Johnn snapped out of it and approached the door. Within an arm’s length of its handle, he had to fight the urge to suddenly throw up. Even through the scarf over his face, a horrible stench from beyond that door hit his nose. It stank like a fishmonger’s market stand mixed with rotten meat. Johnn gasped and suppressed the urge to cough.

Then the voice of a little girl shushed him. It came from the shadows to his right. When he looked, it took him a moment to register that he knew her. He asked, “Magdalene?”

The girl of fourteen winters looked at him through her large sorrowful eyes. Her hands were folded and wrapped in a dark purple scarf to stay warm, and her garb was unfamiliar to Johnn—all parts of a dress mostly comprised of black and dark blue tones, with a laced veil and brimmed casting a long shadow over her face. Her attire looked like she had just attended a funeral. The black rings under her eyes and her complexion being more pale than unusual unsettled Johnn. The girl looked like she was sick.

Like the Blight was taking her.

“What are you doing here?” Then the disbelief in his voice made way for concern. “You shouldn’t be out at night. You should be at home.”

The old man asked, “Y’alright?”

Johnn glared at him, but when he turned to look at Magdalene again, she was gone. Johnn blinked.

“Losin’ yer mind’r somethin’?”

Johnn said nothing. He shook his head and focused on the door again. Without facing the old man, he said, “Alright. This is your last chance to back out of this unscathed. No hard feelings if you let me go at this alone.”

The old man chortled. “Nah, I’ll take me chances and follow you in.”

Johnn’s shoulders tensed up, and he took a deep breath. The awful stench remained, and there was no getting used to it. Whatever was behind that door was likely to be awful. He opened the door and entered, making each step he took a careful and silent one. He heard nothing but the shuffling of the old man following him inside.

The horrible stench got worse. It made Johnn sick to his stomach.

He scraped up every last ounce of strength to brave the smell. He advanced through a dark hallway, passed through a large open double door, and reached a huge open space. Remnants of light from street lamps outside entered through cracks in the walls and a few windows that had not been boarded up.

That was when he spotted other people. They noticed the intruders and sprung into motion, shuffling away from Johnn in fear.

“Please, do not hurt us,” an elderly man’s voice whimpered.

“Hide. Hide!”

“We will leave if you want,” someone else said, while moving towards Johnn with cautious steps.

The figure knelt down in front of Johnn with hands clasped together and raised before him as if in prayer or pleading.

Ragged. Filthy. It was not easy to see in the dim light here, but Johnn could see enough in the outlines. His mind filled in the blanks.

He swept his gaze over a group of homeless vagrants squatting in the warehouse.

What in the blazes did this mean? And where for heaven’s sake was that awful stench emanating from? He had imagined all manner of horrifying creatures like the ones Nora had documented in her stacks of journals—demons, vampires, were-creatures—but not this. The weight of his loaded crossbow hanging from his shoulder and the sheathed daggers distributed across his body felt out of place now.

He started to pinpoint where the stench was coming from. A barrel in the center of the room, just in front of some strange construction.

Johnn brought out the old steel lighter Nora’s father had given him a few years ago. His thumb flicked it open and struck the flint to produce its tiny flame. The squatters cringed and ducked away from the light as if they were allergic to it.

When he turned and guided the burning flame around, it flickered. Yet the people gathered there recoiled from its warm orange glow.

“Please, put that out.”

“My eyes—they hurt.”

“Oh, by Yoggoth, no light, you might start a fire.”

It would take Johnn some time till the name he just heard truly sank in. For now, it swam in his subconscious mind, and the stinking barrel absorbed all his attention.

Uncaring of the ragged vagrants dispersing and shuffling away from him, he approached the barrel with cautious steps. His heart raced, fueled by dread. Somehow, he knew what to expect.

As he leaned over the edge of the barrel and lowered the lighter, a murky reflection of his own terrified visage greeted him. Some soup sloshed around inside the round wooden vessel, disturbed by the impact of his footsteps shaking the floorboards when he had approached the waist-high container.

Then he saw a child’s hand surface. And a human eyeball that rose to the top of the brackish sludge. Only now did he realize that bowls and wooden spoons were stacked on the floor by a bizarre altar, standing just beyond the barrel. The altar, a pile of driftwood stacked up, showed stains of dried blood. A strange totem of sorts loomed high above the makeshift altar. The dim light cast weird reflections upon the totem-statue and made it impossible to discern the material it had been shaped from. Neither stone nor metal nor wood, it looked like it did not belong in this world. And whatever had been carved into it, it did not look like it depicted any human or creature Johnn had ever seen—neither real nor from any imaginable nightmares. Just eyes, dozens of spider-like legs, tentacles—

“Thank you so much for caring enough to investigate,” said the old man. Even before turning around to see the dirty face that belonged to it, Johnn knew what the old man would say next. “We’re so hungry.”

Johnn finally turned and steeled himself, ready to sling out his crossbow and shoot the old man. The other vagrants had crept up on him, but recoiled once more from the tiny flame that his lighter emitted.

Now Johnn saw the hunger in their eyes.

“Woulda never’ve expected a haul like you,” the old vagrant said, then breaking out into a high-pitched snigger. “Yer a bit sinewy but there’s more meat to ya than a li'l lad or lassie. Yoggoth must be pleased!”

Unlike the others, he did not shy away from the light in Johnn’s hand. Instead, a reflection of the flame danced in his eyes, an eerie glint that only added to the madness Johnn saw in them. The old madman took a step forward and ran a thumb across the the cleaver’s edge, which looked to be either rusty or caked in dried blood—or both.

The old man’s wrapped foot almost set down for another step towards Johnn when the lighter went flying at his chest. He instinctively swatted the small object away as if to not catch fire. Instead, he caught a silvered crossbow bolt in the chest and pawed at it—with a look of incredulity in his saucer-wide eyes. Falling to the ground, the lighter’s flame extinguished.

With feeble motions, the old man launched multiple feeble attempts at pulling the bolt out, but the hooks in its razor-sharp tip kept it lodged in place while he stumbled backwards from the altar. The old man collapsed and writhed on the floor while he began coughing up blood.

Johnn furiously reloaded his crossbow, but now that the light had gone out, he heard the human growls and howls and hisses from the other homeless people encircling him.

There was no way he could do anything if they attacked all at once. He would have to resort to the knives. Never before had he hesitated to fight for his life, or against the monsters that had beset his homelands. But even should these vagrants be eating human flesh, some part of him wished there had been some way to help them. To avoid what bloodshed was bound to follow. Some part of him wondered if this was all his fault.

However, they all hesitated, looking upon Johnn with a mixture of anger and fear in their pale faces. They all kept their distance and shot glances at the reloaded crossbow as he swiveled and pointed it at each of them. They were not attacking, unlike what he had expected. Then again, their victims probably never fought back.

At first, he turned on his heel while swerving the crossbow around to point it at each of them. Then he noticed that they looked not upon him with fear, but through him. Or past him. To something behind him.

Johnn dared not turn to see for himself. Whatever it was, its presence was something he had felt earlier, but not seen. Something old.

Something dark.

When he finally mustered the courage to look over his shoulder, he froze with fear once more. There stood Magdalene. And someone else next to her. A figure, at least a head taller than Johnn. Neither the shadowy apparition nor Magdalene had been there before, and at the same time, they had been there all along. The giant wore black armor from a bygone era. It looked at Johnn from underneath a hood—or past him, or through him—he could not say, for an impenetrable darkness pooled underneath the hood instead of revealing any features.

Then Johnn saw the sickles the figure held. Two farming sickles jutted out of the steely vice of blackened iron gauntlets, resting by the stranger’s sides.

The figure looked around, and the vagrants stared back at him with unspeakable dread spreading across their faces.

“Yoggoth help us,” an elderly woman whimpered. She was so emaciated that a gust of wind could have snapped her in two. She crawled away from the altar—away from the dreadful hooded being.

The old man gurgled from where he lied on the ground, suffocating on his own blood. While the crossbow bolt slowly tore him up from the inside the more he struggled to pull it out, it dawned on Johnn that he had killed a man, not some unholy creature. A crazy man who probably deserved to die for murders he had committed, but a man nonetheless.

Whatever stood behind him and next to Magdalene was no man. It stood upright and wore things like humans would, but it emanated a deathly cold and air from another world. Colder than the wintry air outside.

Magdalene uttered words in a tongue Johnn had never heard before. Speech that should not be heard, guttural sounds that did not fit the cadence and melody that one would expect to flow from a young girl’s lips. Something so deeply wrong that it made Johnn shiver. The blood drained from his face.

“Take them,” Magdalene whispered once the unspeakable had been spoken.

With deep baritone thumps caused by its weight, each followed by a jingling sound stemming from its suit of medieval armor, the creature carrying sickles strode forth from Magdalene’s side. A chorus of ominous and unintelligible whispers emanated from it while it walked past Johnn and raised its sickles.

The screams of the vagrants grew to a volume that drowned out the unholy whispers. Johnn could only watch, paralyzed with fear, as this harbinger of doom cut and sliced through the cult of old vagrants without pausing, without displaying any semblance of human remorse.

Those that tried to flee screamed the loudest for help. The door they sought to escape through slammed shut in their faces, moved by some unseen, ghostly hand while the reaper calmly walked after them until it silenced their shrieks. Blood sprayed, the inhuman force wielding those sickles severed limbs, and some victims even died of fright when the reaper got too close to them. They did not even try to put up a fight.

One by one, the agent of death slew these people, and the cries for mercy stopped, for no one remaining lived to emit them. Within little over a minute, the hooded figure had turned this deranged shrine into a slaughterhouse. It had butchered every last one of the crazed cannibals.

It now approached Magdalene and Johnn and crossed its sickles in front of itself, as if performing a gesture of sacred reverence.

Acting on instinct, Johnn readied a knife hidden in his coat’s sleeve, but he had seen this thing move. It was not human and possessed the strength of a giant.

He had no chance against it.

The figure stopped just in front of him, just within arm’s reach. As Johnn stared into the unfathomable darkness of the hood, it stared back at him. It stared through him once more. A burning sensation filled Johnn—an overwhelming feeling of some alien power gazing into the depths of his very soul.

“That is all,” Magdalene said, following up with unintelligible sounds—or words in a language so foreign to Johnn’s ears that it might as well have hailed from another world. He shot her a glance, refusing to believe that she had authored this massacre and controlled this thing.

When he dared to look at it again, it had vanished. Dizziness overcame Johnn and he stumbled.

A brief shock jolted through his body when he was grabbed. To his surprise, Magdalene braced him, holding his hand. The cold, clammy touch of her slender fingers centered him and shook him at the same time, for it was colder than icicles caressing his skin.

“You—“

“Yes,” she replied before he could even finish thinking out loud.

“You summoned that—that thing,” he muttered. Her eyes carried an inexplicable sadness. They always did, but it felt different to Johnn now. Deeper.

“Why? Why kill all th—“

“They did not deserve to live any longer. Did you not see what they had in that barrel?”

He had no answer. He had seen very well. Deep down, he knew that their deaths marked the end of something terrible. Something at least as sinister as whatever Magdalene had conjured into this world.

She stared at him all the while, unperturbed by the awkward silence. Blood dripped from mutilated bodies and splatters on the walls all around them. Finally, the fog in Johnn’s mind cleared.

“How,” he asked without the inclining tone of a question. More as if making a statement.

She did not respond, but the strange statue behind the altar caught fire out of nowhere. It burned brightly, shedding light and revealing the full extent of the carnage Magdalene and her reaper had wrought.

Squinting and raising a hand to shield his eyes from the bright light flaring up, he pushed Magdalene behind himself to protect her. His mind reeled, still trying to fathom what exactly the statue depicted.

“Sometimes, some of us choose to pay tribute to old ones, and those gods of past eons sometimes shower us with their favor in return,” she whispered behind him.

The whole situation overwhelmed Johnn and rendered him speechless, and the fire fully engulfing the statue made it even harder to discern what it might represent.

“They chose poorly,” Magdalene said. The words sent chills down Johnn’s spine.

He swiveled to look at her, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, and get straight answers. But she too had vanished.

“Go home and rest, Johnn,” her whispers circled around him, and he spun around to see where they came from. Nowhere to be found, they continued in his thoughts, “You will need to be prepared for what comes next.”

Johnn shouted out in despair, “What have you done?”

The fire from the burning statue began to spread. The whispers had ceased. The flames roared and the wood crackled as it turned to coal and embers in the growing inferno. There was something strangely pleasant about the fire’s warmth, dispelling the cold that had seeped into his bones.

He cursed and left. He ran from the warehouse, from the harbor district. Not only for fear of being caught by the city’s constables, but to reach Magdalene’s home.

He would have none of this, he thought. He would have answers, he swore.

And about it all, he would be wrong.

—Submitted by Wratts

[dailyironfamily]

day 14 - pirate au

Day fourteen of the November Fic Challenge is pirate AU! I could only keep thinking up convoluted backstories for everyone because I’m in the middle of watching Black Sails, so this is just a snippet of a larger idea.

The last thing Tony remembers is water, deep and dark and stormy. Then, nothingness. So it’s something of a surprise to open his eyes to sunlight streaming through dirty glass onto his face. He groans and lifts a hand to block the light, his whole body feeling sluggish, like it doesn’t know how to move anymore.

“Ah, you’re awake. We were worried for a while there.”

A man’s voice, from faraway. Or maybe Tony’s hearing is all messed up too. It feels like it. He tries to sit up, but it just makes him dizzy.

“Careful,” the voice says, closer this time. “You’ve been out for a few days.”

That would explain it. Tony rubs a hand over his face, taking in the motion of the room around him, the gentle rocking indicating the presence of a boat. Odd, when the last thing he remembers is witnessing his own ship sinking into the ocean.

“Did you save me?” he asks, his voice raspy from disuse. “Is anyone else...”

“We found you adrift, clinging to a barrel,” the same voice answers. “It’s a miracle you survived.”

Tony finally opens his eyes, head turned away from the sunlight in his face. Beside his makeshift bed sits a man with dark skin and a gold embroidered blue coat, his hair sheared short. Tony recognizes him.

“Pirate,” he accuses, hand going to his belt as he tries to get up, but he gets tangled in the blanket draped over his legs, and he’s not wearing his belt at all.

“Lieutenant Stark,” the man replies with a slight nod. “Captain Rhodes at your service. Welcome aboard the Patriot.”

“An ironic name for a bunch of traitors,” Tony spits out.

“It was already named when we got it,” Rhodes says dryly.

“Stole it, more likely.” Tony stops trying to grasp around for a weapon, realizing Rhodes is likely not stupid enough to leave one near him. “You saved me just to ransom me, then? I’ll save you some time―my father will never lower himself to bargain with pirates.”

“We’re not going to ransom you to anyone, lieutenant. Do you remember what happened?”

Tony falls silent, images of his broken, burning ship overtaking his thoughts. “There was a storm. Caught us by surprise,” he answers, quiet. They’d done their best, but lightning had hit one of the sails and it had all gone up in flames far too fast.

Rhodes nods, as if confirming his suspicions. “We found the wreckage after the storm. Salvaged what we could. No one else was alive, except you.”

“You should’ve just left me to die with the rest of them,” Tony says bitterly, frowning.

Rhodes looks unperturbed, saying calmly, “You don’t mean that.”

“Better than being captured by pirates.”

A knock sounds at the door, and Rhodes stands to answer it. Tony takes the opportunity to look around the cabin―the Captain’s quarters, now that he’s registering things properly―for anything he can use to make his escape. When Rhodes returns, a pale, redheaded woman wearing a ragged tricorne hat is at his side, looking down at Tony curiously.

“Wait. I know you,” he says, still frowning, as he looks at them standing together. “You’re those pirates who, who steal from ships of a similar nature.”

“You can say we steal from pirates, Mister Stark,” the woman says, setting a tray down in his lap. There’s a plate of food and some water, and he squints at it suspiciously.

“We didn’t save you just to poison you,” Rhodes points out, and Tony’s too hungry to argue just on principle. “Miss Potts, my quartermaster.”

She nods at him, and Tony nods back, wary.

“So what do you plan to do with me, if you’re not going to kill me?” he asks, breaking a small loaf of dry bread into pieces for easier eating.

“We’re a few days out from Port Royal. Once we get there, you’re free to go,” Rhodes answers.

Tony looks up incredulously from his meal. “Port Royal? You’re just going to throw me to the wolves?”

Tony has no illusions as to his reputation―it certainly doesn’t precede him all the way to Port Royal―but his father’s is another matter. Lord Howard Stark has never shown an ounce of leniency in his crusade to rid the Americas of piracy, and everyone out here knows it.

“What would you have us do?” Potts says, unconcerned. “I didn’t think you’d accept help from pirates.”

Lieutenant Anthony Stark may not have. But Tony has nothing left, his ship and his crew at the bottom of the bloody ocean.

The put him to work for the next couple days, cleaning the ship and helping in the kitchen. The Patriot’s crew won’t be winning any accolades for politeness, but they mostly leave him alone and don’t complain when Rhodes or Potts sets him to work with them. Rhodes lets him take supper and sleep in his quarters, and it’s there he finds himself the following evening. Potts is there too, comfortable, like this is a common occurrence.

“This crew’s been giving the Navy a right hard time,” Tony says once the meal’s finished, sitting back in his chair. “Some say we should leave you alone, that you’re doing our job for us. Most argue that a pirate’s a pirate, and you should be wiped out with the rest of them.”

“And what do you say, Mister Stark?” Potts asks, pouring herself another cup of rum. She never calls him by his rank or title, though as he has no ship, no crew, a father who won’t pay ransom for his return, and any explanation of how he alone survived the destruction of his ship is highly suspect, Tony supposes she’s as correct as anyone else.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I’d always been enamored of Robin Hood as a boy, but Robin Hood never stole to keep for himself.”

Potts laughs around the rim of her mug. “No way Robin didn’t keep a little for himself, don’t you think? An outlaw’s an outlaw.”

“Forgive my quartermaster, she’s a bit of a cynic,” Rhodes says, shaking his head. “But I’ve never heard the tale of this Robin Hood.”

Tony lights up at that, offering before he thinks better of it, “Now that is a tale I’m excellent at telling. If you’d like to hear it.”

Potts rolls her eyes, but Rhodes ignores her and motions for Tony to proceed. Tony pours himself another drink, then leans forward and sets into the story of Robin Hood, sparing no detail. By the end, even Potts is paying close attention, her drink forgotten on the table. Tony goes to bed that night feeling an odd camaraderie he hadn’t expected.

They reach Port Royal on the third day as promised, but the sight doesn’t bring any joy to Tony upon seeing its buildings in the distance. He’s never been to Port Royal himself, only heard stories of its loose morals and unconstrained vices, and he’s glad Rhodes gave him new, nondescript clothes to replace his ruined Navy uniform.

And, as promised, once they make port, Rhodes lets him off the ship without any trouble. He knows he should be grateful, at the very least relieved, but he only feels dread. What was he supposed to do now?

He finds an inn, rents a room with the money Potts handed him before he departed. He finds, as he sits there nursing a drink, contemplating his life, that he doesn’t want to go back. Not back to his father, nor to the Navy. That had never been his life. Not the one he wanted, anyway.

He thinks of Rhodes, with his kind eyes, far too kind for a pirate. Potts always behind him, watching everyone and everything carefully, ready to step in.

There’s no way he can be a pirate. That’s just absurd.

They spend two days in Port Royal, resting up and restocking. James had never meant to come here, but picking up Anthony Stark had meant a slight delay in their original plans. No one could complain about the extra shore leave, at least, so there’d been minimal fuss at the detour. Now, however, it was time to get back on route.

Pepper leans against the railing, watching him. “Last of the supplies’ve been picked up, Captain. Just waiting on orders from you.”

James tears his gaze away from the city, stepping back from the side of the ship. “Hm? Oh, good. Tell the men to get ready to ship out.”

“Distracted?” she asks quietly.

“Of course not.” She gives him a look, and he shrugs. “Just curious, is all. About what he’ll do.”

“I’m sure we’ll find out once he’s chasing us down with the Navy once more,” Pepper says, patting him on the shoulder. “Come on, I decided to spoil you and found some of that expensive pastry you like, let’s eat it before it goes stale.”

James turns to follow her, but one of the crew cries out a moment later,

“Cap’n! Ain’t that the Stark fellow?”

He and Pepper fall back to peer over the side, and sure enough, Anthony Stark is waving up at them from a rowboat down below.

“I was wondering,” he calls up at them, “if you could spare room for one more on your crew? I’ve recently found myself at a bit of a crossroads.”

Pepper groans, but James motions to the crew to bring up Stark’s boat. Once Stark is on board, holding a bag and looking sheepish, James claps him on the shoulder and grins.

“It’s hard work, what we do. You sure you’re up to the task?”

Stark looks between him and Pepper, and nods. “I’ll try my damndest, sir.”

“Then welcome aboard the Patriot,” he says, shaking Stark’s hand, as Pepper mutters,

“You’re so predictable, James.” She takes Stark’s hand and shakes it, however, saying louder, “Hope you’re ready to be put to work, sailor.”

Stark just grins and says, “I expect nothing less.”

[mpmwrites]

:o I did two? Idk I feel like it’s very ooc, but I tried my best. Harry is smol, and she’s got that half shaved half long hairstyle that they do. Uma is tall and built, and has the same hair but just past his shoulders.

----------------------

"Please, Uma!" Harry begged, reaching for her captain's arm. He evaded her easily, "Uma, it's not worth it!" Harry looked so distressed, her heart shattering as Uma held up the defaced spellbook,

"Harry, you have to trust me!" He barked, staring after the black limousine, "This is our only chance!" he stepped closer to her, "Harry I'm not going to leave you here forever, I'll be back soon." The tears were falling down Harry's cheeks, her free hand coming up to wipe them away and smearing her eyeliner,

"I do trust you." She said, quieter now that Uma was standing so close. "And I believe that you can do anything, but what if--"

"There's no what if, I'm going to spell Queen Ben and make her bring down the barrier, and then I'll be back and you, Gil and I can finally be rid of this prison. You two are all that really matter to me, and I will save you from this life. Gil finally spoke up, tucking a long blonde strand behind her ear,

"We're running out of time, Harry, you have to let him go." She reasoned, a gentle hand holding Harry back. Uma locked gazes with the teller of the girls and tried a half smile,

"I'll see you soon." He nodded,

"I'm in love with you!" Harry barked as he made to turn away. He froze,

"And I'll be back because I love you too, but I have to go, now." he sighed, triggering the shell necklace that dangled low on his chest. Purple smoke enveloped him as he plunged to the dark sea.

--------------------------

Harry ran  a quick hand through her short hair, pushing it away from her face before leaning back on her chair, waiting for Uma to find time to shirk his shop duties and hang out with her and the crew. Next to her, Gil was braiding an errant lock of hair in her own little world.

"Cards." Jonas offered, dropping the battered deck (with more than a few makeshift replacement cards) onto the wooden bar. Harry  sat back upright and Gil did the same. For lack of better occupation the crew engaged themselves in a game of pocket-poker; an isle card game that basically bet whatever you had in your pockets at the time in a completely arbitrary value system. Several rounds in, Harry was actually coming out ahead, but had a bad hand. She was frowning at her cards when Uma's slow footsteps approached.

He leaned over her shoulder, dropped a few coin in front of her, and muttered with a  shrug "All in." Harry didn't react, but dropped her cards face down on the table in acceptance, "Come with me." Uma offered, and as always Harry obliged.

Uma led Harry outside, dropping his dingy white apron on an empty table,  "Got you something." He grinned with enthusiasm. No wonder he had sought privacy, Harry thought. He didn't like to show his favoritism around the crew, though Gil had called them out several times saying it was obvious. Uma dug something out of a crate near the shop front, and from it produced the beaten black tricorne. ON it was one of the handful of small pins that Uma had found one day in the marketplace, the skull octopus. Harry grinned at the accessory,

"Mine?"

"Well, a first mate should have a hat too, to show she outranks the crew." He beamed with pride and swept back the tangle of loose curls and placed it on her head it suited her and she knew it.

"S'fantastic." She  gushed, tilting it to the side slightly, then straightening it. She stood on her toes to kiss Uma, and his large hands snuck around her waist beneath her red coat. From inside the shop a calamity of voices rose, "Y'can't go all in on a bad hand with them." Harry rolled her eyes, stepping away and back into the shop. Before she was all the way through the doors, she flashed a flirty wink at the captain. Uma sighed, then straightened and corrected his face to a placid glare, following in her wake.

[its-a-side-blog]

Meeting the Mayor

Summary: Hancock meets a scrawny young scavver boy and unknowingly takes on the role of father figure, despite his denial that he’s going to look after the kid. No romance, just Hancock setting himself up to be an unofficial Dad for a lost boy. 

Boston was a cutthroat city. Raiders looted anything useful and took great pleasure in making their victims’ deaths as brutal as possible. Gunners scoured the most in-tact buildings and preferred to shoot first and ask questions later, if at all. Then there were the mutants, the ferals, the mongrels…who’d tear anything apart with no thought save blood lust. Entire areas of the city were considered deathtraps, like the Common, which was most assuredly a place only the ignorant, foolish, or suicidal went. Needless to say, it required someone with a lot of knowledge (or a lot of firepower) to survive out here alone. Or, perhaps, someone with a lot of luck.

A lone boy, face covered in a mixture of freckles, grime, and fear, picked through a pile of rubbish. He did this all day, every day, except for days when the sky turned green and the air crackled with malicious energy. But most days he scoured Boston for anything that would help him survive. He’d gotten used to the scavenging life- it was a new adventure every day! But it wasn’t like how he’d imagined a great adventure. Most days he managed to find something edible, though it was rarely healthy. On the whole, he was surviving because of the immense amount of pre-war “stuff”: food, water, clothing. If he was lucky, he found a gun with ammo still in it. On extremely lucky days, he managed to find caps and food AND ammo on the body of some unlucky person, and it would tide him over for the next few days. It was a day-to-day endeavor, and the boy constantly found himself saying “I just need to survive today”, with no thought given to the future. He’d survived “today” long enough for him to forget what his face looked like, and he had nearly forgotten his own name.

It started out as a normal day. Sneaking around, taking back alleys, hiding whenever he heard a noise. The usual routine that had worked for forever. The boy had moved on to a trash bin and was reaching in, half of his body inside the bin in order to reach the stuff at the bottom. Score! A discarded canteen of water! He wriggled out of the bin and opened the lid, letting it fall to the ground as he drank the contents. Sure, it wasn’t pure, but water was water. And water wasn’t easy to get when you couldn’t walk freely through the city. He almost didn’t hear the strangers talking nearby. “Hey… is that a kid?” The boy’s head snapped up, and he looked around, seeing nobody but remaining positive that he had heard a voice. “Yeah… think he’s alone?” “I dunno. Go see.” The boy finally saw two people clad in mismatched armor approach him. They were armed, but they weren’t caravan hands. Dropping the canteen, he dashed in the opposite direction. “Hey! Kid! Get back here!” One of the raiders shouted, giving chase. The kid didn’t listen, not even daring to look back as he ran, terrified of the consequences of slowing down. Not knowing where exactly he was going, he ran right past a small Gunner hideout. A few guards saw him, and didn’t take any chances, firing at him immediately. It was a miracle he didn’t get hit by any of the bullets, but the Gunners had lost interest by the time the boy was out of their line of sight. To the boy, he still thought he could hear the sound of gunfire and feel the bullets whizzing past his face so he kept running until he could no longer stand.

He didn’t remember where he collapsed, but he remembered where he woke up- in a pile of rubble, within arms reach of still-warm corpses, carelessly piled up in a heap just underneath a neon sign pointing to a small metal door. If only the boy could read; he’d know exactly where he was.

The door opened and two men in patched suits carried out yet another body, tossing it just to the left of the boy. He yelped and squirmed a little, forgetting to be still. He’d seen countless dead bodies before, but never so many at once… and never had they been… warm. “Hey, whaddya doin’ in there? Get outta there, kid.” One of the men said, watching the boy with a disgusted look on his face. “Sor- sorry…” The boy’s voice was a barely a squeak- never being near people meant never having to talk. The most interaction he’d had since he was left alone was with the caravans, and all he really had to say was “food?” or “my parents are over there”. He hadn’t had a proper conversation in… how long was he alone? He didn’t know.

“Where are your parents, kid?” The man asked. “O-over there…” The boy pointed in a random direction. “That’s the way ya take to see the muties. You sure they’re over there?” “Over there…” The boy repeated. “C’mon,” The other man spoke up, “The kid’s alone. Parents probably bit the dust and he hid out here.” “No… my parents are over… over there…” “C’mon kid. We aren’t raiders. We ain’t gonna hurt ya.” “...ok…” The boy looked down, trying to hide even though he was standing right in front of the men. “You think we should just let him go?” “He’s a kid for Christ’s sakes. His parents probably just died. He’ll be dead in a few hours if we let ‘em go.” “I ain’t no caretaker. Tough life’s what I say.” “How ‘bout we let the mayor decide? He’d probably have somethin’ to say about this.” “Fine, but keep that kid away from me. He smells like a wet shambler.”  

The kid was ushered through the metal door, and he expected it to be a horrible place, filled with cruel raiders, or monsters, or… But he didn’t see that at all. He saw a couple of people hanging around, and they all looked fairly normal. Some were wearing armor, but the boy had learned to tell the difference between the fairly nice caravan hand or mercenary armor, and the makeshift raider armor. Most of the people looked armed, and he felt a little on edge because of it, but as he walked by, no one pulled their gun on him. They did, however, stare at him with confused or disgusted faces. He wasn’t aware of how weird it was to see a kid all by himself in this town. The two men led him into a run down old building and up some winding steps.

“Mayor Hancock,” one of the men said. The boy saw a man in a red coat and tricorn hat turn around. He looked at the man with wide eyes. Curly, blond hair tied into a low ponytail, dark eyes, and a certain knowing smile. The mayor, however, looked at the kid in confusion. The boy was covered in dirt and dust- was his hair brown, or was it just so full of muck that it was impossible to tell what the actual color was? What color were his eyes? The mayor didn’t want to get too close- the kid looked like a biter. “We found this boy right outside the city, by the body pile.” “He’s not one of mine,” Hancock pointed to himself, “At least, I don’t think so…” “I think his parents were killed, and he hid out where we found him.” Hancock looked at the kid, putting on a small smile, “Hey there. Where are your folks, kid?” “Over there…” The kid pointed in the opposite direction, which was just at the other side of the house. “He says that every time you ask about his parents. I’m pretty sure they’re dead.” “Huh…” Hancock looked the boy over again, feeling a little bit of pity. “What should we do?” Hancock squatted down so he was eye level with the boy, “What’s your name, kid?” The kid had to think for a while, before he stuttered out, “R-Russell…” “Well, Russell, don���t you worry. You can stay in Goodneighbor. If anyone messes with ya, tell ‘em you’re with me- Hancock.” He held out a hand. Russell didn’t understand what he was doing, and he shied away. Hancock decided not to press it, and stood back up, “Everyone’s welcome here in Goodneighbor- just don’t go ‘round causing trouble and you’ll fit right in, ok?” “Ok.” Russell ducked his head. “Now, first things first… I think you need a bath. Or three.” ---

“You’re not really thinking about taking care of the kid, are ya?” One of the watchmen asked after Russell had left to wait for Hancock. “I’m not gonna play babysitter, if that’s what you’re askin’. But just because I’m a ruthless bastard doesn’t mean I gotta kick a kid out to his certain death.” “Yeah, but... a kid? In Goodneighbor? He’s gonna be killed or kidnapped within the week.” “Hey-” Hancock’s eyes grew darker, “This town may be filled with outcasts, but ain’t nobody here a murderer, or a slave driver. I don’t tolerate anyone who takes away other people’s freedom.” His voice was low, almost threatening, as if daring the watchman to disagree. “It sounds like you’re gonna be keepin’ an eye out for the kid.” “What’s so bad about that? I keep an eye on a lotta people. Besides, the kid don’t really seem like the type to cause trouble. He’ll probably just keep to himself.”  “Alright, Hancock. You’re the boss. So long as you don’t drag me into Kid Care, I don’t really care what you do.” The watchman turned and headed down the steps, and Hancock went off to figure out how to get that much dirt out of a kid’s hair. ---

It took at least a full day of scrubbing, brushing, and trimming to clean Russell up to standard (which wasn’t incredibly high), but by the time he was clean, he looked almost like an entirely different person. His hair had to be trimmed because of how much muck there was in it, but he turned out to look like a fairly respectable boy. “You clean up pretty nice,” Hancock said, his hands on his hips as he looked down at Russell, “Feel any better?” Russell nodded, running his hands through his clean hair. “Now we just gotta find you somewhere to stay. Do you mind sleeping up in the attic?” Russell shook his head. He was used to sleeping in attics. “Good. We’ll find a way to give you some privacy. Don’t want any drifters lookin’ at ya while you sleep, right?” Hancock smiled down at the kid. Russell smiled a little. He looked at Hancock with newly found admiration. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all. The mayor ruffled the kid’s hair, “Come on. Let’s get you situated in your new home. Welcome to Goodneighbor, by the way.”

[almostafantasia]

sail with me to someplace new

clexa pirate au | chapter 3/13

Summary: When Clarke learns that her father’s trading ship has been attacked by pirates, she sets out on a daring rescue mission. The only problems – Jake could be being held prisoner anywhere in the Caribbean and Clarke has never sailed a ship before. To help save her father’s life, Clarke attempts to enlist the help of the notorious Captain Lexa Woods, a fearsome pirate who is just as broody and mysterious as she is unwilling to offer her assistance.

Read on AO3.

Clarke stares out at the ship on the horizon, gradually getting bigger as it approaches the port. Even with her limited knowledge of ships, Clarke can tell that it’s a majestic vessel, white sails billowing in the wind and huge bow cutting through the water with ease. It’s an unmarked ship, but a ship of that size without a flag can only belong to pirates.

“They call her the Commander?”

Lincoln nods once, his impassive gaze not moving from where it rests on the approaching ship.

“You’re suggesting we go after pirates with the help of more pirates?” Clarke asks sceptically, and it is only through saying the words aloud that she realises what a ridiculous plan this is. If her father has taught her anything, it’s that a pirate can never be trusted.

“I know who has taken your father and there is nobody better to help than Lexa.”

“Lexa?” Clarke tests the name out and decides that she doesn’t like the bitter taste that it leaves on her lips.

“The Commander,” Lincoln clarifies.

Clarke hesitates for a few seconds, the contents of her stomach twisting and churning uneasily at the thought of trusting a pirate with the rescue of her father. Particularly a pirate with a ship that size of the one that approaches the port right now and with the nickname of the Commander.

She’s heard of this Commander, little snippets from sailors across the town, but never quite enough to be able to form an expectation in her head. Some people speak of her with fear in their voices, others with a sense of awe, but nobody ever divulges enough for Clarke to actually know anything about the Commander. Clarke can hardly even begin to imagine how fearsome this particular pirate is going to be.

The Commander is a compete enigma and Clarke is simultaneously curious as to how she has deserved such a reputation and petrified of finding that out.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says uncertainly, teeth digging into her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

“What other options do you have?”

Clarke opens her mouth to answer, then promptly shuts it again. The only other idea she has relies on Lincoln being willing to let them sail his little fishing boat blindly out into the ocean. Which, frankly, is a ridiculous idea considering the fact that they would have a crew of four, if Raven and Lincoln are willing to join the two girls on their quest to rescue their kidnapped family members, and no idea where they are heading.

“None,” Clarke concedes glumly.

“Then let me speak to her,” Lincolns pleads. “The Commander is a reasonable woman. She’ll at least be willing to listen.”

Clarke frowns at the ship, deep in thought about the mysterious woman at its helm, before giving Lincoln a single nod of her head.

“Fine.”

Clarke cannot believe that barely a day after the warning from her mother to stay away from the taverns in the town that are frequented by pirates, she finds herself standing in the entrance to one such establishment. And dressed as a boy, no less.

Her makeshift costume is most ill-fitting – the britches are a little too tight and the shirt is a little too loose – and the hat upon her head does a poor job of concealing the long blonde tresses that she’s messily pinned into place beneath it, but the lighting in the pub is dim enough (and the customers are drunk enough) that nobody pays any attention to Clarke and her rather hastily put together disguise.

The bar is far rowdier than any that Clarke has ever visited before. A trio of musicians plays a raucous hornpipe on the far side of the tavern, though the music itself can hardly be heard over the sheer volume of noise coming from everybody else. Clarke can hear at least two different sea shanties being sung drunkenly from those closest to her, people shout to be heard over the sounds of general chatter and tankards clinking against each other, and nobody seems to playing the slightest bit of attention as one man punches another in the face over by the bar, as if it is such a regular occurrence that it demands no special focus.

Pushing her way through the crowd of drunk sailors, Clarke pushes herself up onto a stool and orders an ale from the maid behind the bar. Her attempt to deepen her voice is futile, as is the way that she keeps her head bowed so that her face stays in the shadow of the brim of her hat, when the woman places a frothing tankard down on the counter with a, “Here you go, sweetie.”

Sliding a single gold coin across the bar (which, Clarke notes with wide eyes, the barmaid accepts and then stores in her bosom), Clarke drops off the stool and makes her way back into the crowd. Her eyes fall on the broad back of a familiar figure, alone at a table nursing his own drink, and Clarke takes up an empty seat where she can see Lincoln but he won’t be able to see her unless he turns around in his chair.

Nothing happens for a while. Clarke sips her drink and Lincoln finishes his, and when he goes back up to the bar to order a second, Clarke is left wondering if maybe dressing up as a boy to blend in and spy on Lincoln is all going to be for nothing.

But then it happens.

Clarke doesn’t piece it together at first - she doesn’t even think to make the connection between this ‘Commander’ woman that Lincoln is supposed to be meeting and the absolute goddess that walks into the tavern the that exact moment.

Because she definitely can’t be anything less than a goddess, looking as jaw-droppingly majestic she does.

She’s dressed like everybody else in this tavern, but holy shit does she stand out from the crowd. She wears a long, dark coat over her clothes, just a simple white shirt and brown britches the same as Clarke and every other sailor in this room, but the cuffs hang loose, leaving just a tantalising glimpse of muscled forearm on show. Her long fingers are decorated with gold rings embellished with twinkling jewels, a pair of slim but deadly looking swords hang from scabbards attached to the belt around her waist, and a leather tricorne hat sits perched atop of mane of braided chocolate brown hair.

But it is her face that is what has Clarke choking on her ale, the bitter liquid getting caught at the back of her throat and then dribbling unattractively down her chin and onto the white fabric of her shirt. Her face is unblemished apart from a tiny faded scar on one of her rosy cheeks and her expression is unreadably pure, almost too innocent for somebody who has two lethal weapons strapped to her hips and who knows how many others concealed beneath the heavy fabric of her coat.

Done making an embarrassment of herself, Clarke tilts her hat up to take a better look at the new arrival, only to have the greenest eyes she has ever seen meet her gaze as the woman scans the room and notices Clarke staring at her.

Clarke turns away immediately, raising a hand to tip her hat back down over her eyes, her cheeks flushing a deep red colour. She might be here to keep an eye on Lincoln’s mysterious meeting but that doesn’t mean that she can’t have a bit of fun afterwards, and it’s just Clarke’s luck that the prettiest lady in the room lays eyes on her when she has fucking beer dripping down her chin.

Pushing all thought of the attractive sailor to the back of her mind for later, because it is at the very least an amusing tale that she can recount to Raven in the morning, no doubt to much glee from her best friend, Clarke turns her attention back to Lincoln.

Only to find that the woman, the exact same woman that has just reduced Clarke into a dribbling mess, is greeting Lincoln with a handshake and taking a seat opposite him.

No way.

No fucking way.

Clarke almost refuses to believe that the two women can be one and the same, that this fine specimen of a human being can be the terrifying pirate commander that the whole of Nassau speaks of so mysteriously. Since watching that ship sail into the port, Clarke has spent the whole day picturing the Commander in her head; every version brought images of a brutish woman to mind, butch and tattooed and twice as fearsome as any other pirate she’s ever laid eyes on, but the reality is so different that Clarke could almost laugh. Nothing about this woman, with her slight build and wide eyes, barely older than Clarke herself, suggests that she could be a commander of the seas.

And there is absolutely nothing about this woman that implies that she could be capable of leading a mission to rescue Jake.

As Lincoln and the Commander enter into a deep discussion, the rowdiness of the bar is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because with so much activity going on around them, Clarke is fairly confident that Lincoln isn’t going to turn around and spot her any time soon, but also curse because she really wishes that she could actually hear what the pair are talking about, instead of only being able to watch them from a distance.

Clarke stays where she is, lurking in the shadows but perched on the edge of her seat. Her hands cradle the tankard of ale on the table in front of her but the drink remains forgotten, her attention fixed on nothing except the conversation taking place across the room.

Her focus elsewhere, Clarke doesn’t even notice the quarrel that breaks out nearby until one of the men barrels into her table, sending her drink flying and a cold wash of beer splashing into her lap.

“Hey, watch it!” she yells, jumping to her feet and glaring at the drunk man.

“Sorry, love,” he leers at her, a thick Cockney accent curling around his words. “Let me buy you another one.”

With quite a bit of effort and much protesting, Clarke turns down his offer, knowing from experience that in letting him buy a drink, she’s sending the wrong kind of signals his way. Disaster averted, Clarke returns her attention to Lincoln and his companion.

Only to find the same green eyes from before staring at her from across the bar.

A small crease forms between the pirate’s furrowed eyebrows, and even though she nods along and says something in response to Lincoln, her gaze remains on Clarke, as if nobody else in the room exists.

The woman finally turns her attention back to Lincoln, leaving Clarke sitting alone in the corner covered in beer and full of regret for a wasted evening.

Clarke leaves the tavern pretty soon after that, early enough that she won’t get caught up in any particularly violent drunken brawls but late enough that she knows her mother probably won’t be awake when she gets home to smell that ale that soaks into her clothing.

It’s completely dark now, the street lit by the light of the moon on a clear Caribbean night and the occasional oil lamp hanging from a fixture on the side of buildings. Fully aware that she’s a young woman alone in a part of town that is frequented by pirates, Clarke crosses the road in a hurry and ducks into a dark alleyway, using her knowledge of all the side streets to plot the quickest way home that will avoid some of the wilder areas of town.

She barely makes it a few paces before she becomes aware of a dark figure in the shadows at the other end of the alley and realises that her plan has already failed. The stranger is much quicker than her, and before Clarke gets the chance to turn on her feet and race back towards the inn, the air gets knocked out of her lungs and her hat tumbles from her head to the floor as the figure grabs Clarke by the thin fabric of her shirt, pressing her roughly against the wall with a strong forearm across her chest and the blade of a small knife pressed close to her throat.

“What are you after?”

The words are enough for Clarke to establish that her assailant is a woman, and when Clarke peers up at her face, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom, her eyes widen as she recognises Lincoln’s associate from the bar.

The Commander.

Clarke has no idea how the woman managed to leave the tavern and make her way around to accost Clarke at the other end of the alley, because she had definitely still been seated beside Lincoln when Clarke made her hasty exit, but with the sharp blade against her neck stopping her from making any sudden movements to escape, she starts to realise that maybe she underestimated this woman and her capabilities.

“I…” Clarke gasps, struggling within the Commander’s grasp as much as she can without letting the knife actually cut into her skin. “I don’t want anything!”

“Lies!” the Commander spits into Clarke’s face, strengthening her hold and making it even harder for Clarke to breathe. “I saw you watching me back there. Who are you working for? Who set you up to this?”

“Nobody,” Clarke pleads for her life. “I swear!”

Clarke’s heartbeat quickens in her chest as the Commander leans even closer to her, the fearsome scowl on her face making Clarke absolutely certain that she’s about to lose her life.

This is it, Clarke thinks. Barely even eighteen measly years of life and she’s going to meet her end in an alleyway to the pirate’s blade.

“Lexa. She’s with me.”

Clarke lets out a long breath of relief when she hears Lincoln’s deep voice from somewhere in the shadows, and were the Commander’s arm not still firmly pressing her shoulders against the wall, her legs would probably give out beneath her and send her sliding down to the floor.

Releasing her grip on Clarke and roughly shoving her to the side, the Commander turns to glower at Lincoln.

“You?” she demands, tilting her chin up so that she is almost looking down on Lincoln, despite the extra few inches of height that he has on her. “You put her up to this? You trust me so little that you asked somebody to watch our meeting from a distance.”

The Commander’s tone is scornful and when Lincoln, to his credit, does not even flinch, Clarke remembers that Lincoln knows this Commander, which means he knows which limits he can test. One look at the two of them facing each other in the alleyway, like two alphas of the pack standing off against each other, is enough for Clarke to realise that Lincoln’s hulking figure has twice the muscle and that he can most likely handle himself against the Commander.

In a truly inspired moment of bravery, knowing that Lincoln is there to come to her aid, Clarke swallows thickly and makes the decision to stand up to the Commander.

“It was my idea,” Clarke speaks up, taking a step forward to stand between the Commander and Lincoln, though she knows from experience that the Commander would be able to overpower her and cast her aside in an instant if she wanted to get to him. “Lincoln didn’t know I was here. He told me that you could help me save my father.”

The Commander tilts her head to the side, considering Clarke’s words for just a moment, then replies coldly, “Then he was wrong. I’m not saving your father or anybody else.”

Panic rising like bile in her throat as she tries not to imagine any of the terrible gruesome ends that her father could meet if she doesn’t get to him in time, Clarke tries to protest.

“But…”

“No.” The Commander’s voice is authoritative and condescending, and though Clarke wants to stand strong and put up a fight, she can’t help but tremble under the intimidating glare. Her words laced with disgust, the Commander continues, “I make a point of staying far away from Captain Nia and nobody will persuade me to do otherwise. Not my crew, not Lincoln, and especially not an eavesdropping island girl with no idea how things work in the real world beyond her own front door.”

The Commander turns, her long coat swishing around her calves as she does so in what somehow manages to be a display of power. She stops in front of Lincoln, looking at him in complete disdain.

“And you,” she snarls. “Stay away from me.”

She sweeps out of the alley, draining all hope from their air as she goes, leaving Clarke rooted to the spot in a state of complete shock at the fast and unexpected turn her evening has taken in the last few minutes.

“I’m sorry,” Lincoln says gruffly, his expression unreadable in the darkness, before he too makes his exit, leaving Clarke alone in the dingy alleyway, heart racing and her eyes prickling with the beginning of tears.