#nothing more terrifying than a scorned bandit

[kiruuuuu]

Smoke/Lesion oneshot in which Bandit demonstrates his superior pick-up skills :) (Rating T, humour, ~1.2k words) - written for @catfacedcryptid! 💚

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“I”, Bandit announces in a grandiose gesture and nearly knocks his beer off the counter, “am on the prowl tonight.”

Lesion lifts a brow. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He’s looking to get rejected”, Smoke replies easily and seems to be oblivious of the dark glare directed at him.

“Oh. He doesn’t have to look very hard for that.”

“Alright, alright”, Bandit rolls his eyes as the toxic duo snickers at his expense, “enough. No need to be envious just because I’m the only one here who actually can get dates.”

“Tze Long has a silver tongue”, Smoke disagrees immediately. “He could sell heaters in Spain. Don’t you remember how he talked that cop out of giving us a speeding ticket?”

“You’re right, I did do that”, Lesion feels obliged to agree.

“Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t have sucked dick to achieve the same thing.”

“I’m not. I’ll admit it freely.” Smoke grins. “Doesn’t change the fact that Tze Long could out-smooth you with his pinky.”

“Oh yeah?”

Lesion chuckles and tips his bottle towards the Brit. “He said it, not me.” He’s not going to deny it though – he’s been told his open way of communicating draws people in, especially since he’s a great listener on top. He knows he catches more flies with honey than vinegar, and it helps to have travelled the world and come into contact with a myriad of different personalities. He’s figured out what makes most people tick and easily adapts. Someone once called it opportunistic and dishonest, yet Lesion firmly believes it minimises unnecessary conflict. His job isn’t bursting people’s bubbles, his job is ensuring that everyone can get on with their lives.

And he knows Bandit will interpret Smoke’s comparison as a challenge.

The telltale German squint conveys enough. He’s too predictable. “Bullshit”, he spits. “See that brunette over there? What do I get if I manage to get her number?”

“Her number”, Smoke deadpans and makes Lesion laugh good-naturedly. The beers they’ve had so far are taking effect, as does the familial atmosphere between them – Lesion is feeling increasingly silly, smiles coming easy and more often than not reciprocated by Smoke who seems to enjoy his relaxed mood.

“Jesus Christ. You two are unbearable. Just watch a master do his work.” The two exchange a look and try not to stare after Bandit too openly as he swaggers over to the woman in question. His entire posture is already wrong, entirely too aggressive, and he’s wearing his interest on his sleeve – reeking of desperation while trying to project confidence rarely goes well in Lesion’s experience. He should’ve gone for an innocent, friendly interaction far from flirting and worked his way up.

He also missed the wedding ring on the woman’s finger.

Lesion already has to hold himself back not to start giggling before Bandit even opens his mouth, but as soon as he does, he knows it’s over anyway.

“Haven’t we seen each other before?”, Bandit purrs and oh, this one is stale.

“Yes”, comes the friendly reply, delivered with a smile, “it’s why I haven’t been there since.”

And that does it. Lesion erupts into startled laughter, full-bellied and only getting worse over Bandit’s gobsmacked expression, even louder when the woman throws him a happy smile, visibly content with her instant comeback. Breathing is swiftly becoming a luxury.

To his credit, Bandit admits defeat and slinks back to their table where Lesion is trying hard not to start hyperventilating any second. “Stop. Stop laughing. I get it. Fuck. I’m serious, stop.”

With extreme effort, Lesion manages to get himself under control long enough for Smoke to chime in: “Seems like the only way for you to get laid is to crawl up a chicken’s ass and wait.”

This time, Lesion actually starts crying after a few seconds. He just can’t, it’s too perfect, the wholly unimpressed scowl on Bandit’s face, the amused smirk on Smoke’s, the woman’s own visible entertainment.

“Can’t believe you actually went for one of the classics. They never go over well.”

“Oh yeah?” Bandit nurses his wounded pride with more alcohol, all the while ignoring Lesion who’s halfway under the table by now from cracking himself up – at this point it’s almost compulsive, he can’t stop. “Even the clever ones?”

“Try ‘em, mate. I may be rubbish at winning anyone over, but I can dish out at least.”

Another challenge. Hook, line and sinker – Bandit just can’t resist: “You look like my next boyfriend.”

Smoke lights up. “What a coincidence! And you look like the guy I’ve turned down two seconds from now!” When Lesion nearly falls off his chair, he earns a dark look from Bandit and a grin from Smoke. “You alright there, mate?” He waves off the concern and wipes some tears away.

“Nice shirt. It would look even better on the floor.”

“And it would look magnificent jammed down your windpipe.”

Lesion chokes on air and needs a moment to stop coughing, and when he does, he has no doubt most of Bandit’s pranks-to-come will be directed against him. “Okay. I’m okay. Oh my god, that was – let me breathe for a moment.”

“You sound like you got a shirt shoved down your windpipe”, Bandit grumbles, but it’s half-hearted and Lesion is too busy focusing on calming down, so it fortunately doesn’t set him off again. The way Smoke beams at him, he must look deranged, crying and giggling intermittently, rubbing his temples to prevent a headache, and much too joyous compared to Bandit who looks like someone just died.

“I don’t see you seducing anyone”, the German makes a last attempt at saving his reputation.

“And I won’t be, not like this.” Lesion takes a deep breath and ignores his aching cheeks.

“I dunno. You could at least try”, Smoke nudges him and lifts his eyebrows meaningfully.

They eye each other up for a moment and Lesion realises he’s serious. When he turns to the Brit a little, angles his body towards him, he notices Smoke mirroring him subconsciously, and it’s frightfully clear all of a sudden. Still fighting the smirk threatening to return, Lesion asks: “Porter. Wanna make out?”

Bandit opens his mouth to protest.

“Hell yeah”, Smoke replies without hesitation and leans in before Lesion can, and though it’s meant only for show, though it’s only for Bandit’s benefit who gapes at them like they grew another head, though it’s preceded by nothing, really, Lesion thinks: I could actually get used to this. The kiss lasts much longer than it should and involves more tongue than it has any business to, but since neither of them are complaining, they continue until Bandit throws a beer coaster at them.

They separate and Lesion turns to Bandit, shrugging a shoulder and taking a sip of his beverage. “That’s how you do it, mate. Did you get it or do you need another demonstration?”

And Smoke just grins into his beer.

[whirlybirdwhat]

Skyjacks fic!!!  Word count: 1.5k

a name, a name, a chance

- A name is something given, and a name is something taken.

Or: a reflection on the characters and names of the crew of the Uhuru - or at least, the Captain's and his council's.

-

A name. Did they have it before the stars fell?

Maybe. 

They aren’t sure. They have it now, two of them, one they aren’t sure when they earned, and the other chosen entirely by them. 

The first. 

Gable. Ga-Ble. God is bright, it whispers in quiet moments. God is bright. God is blinding. 

(God is dead dead dead dead dead burned and scorned and destroyed by their own blade, the blade that gable drove through their heart, the act that made the world collapse and the seas rise and they are dead - fallen - forever)

It weighs like a stone on their shoulders. God is bright. God is blinding. God is dead.

Does it mean they are now the blinding one? The bright one? They don’t feel like it, no matter how much holy fire leaps from their swords and casts glowing light over their face. They are just… Gable.

Fallen. Wandering.

(Gable.)

It’s no wonder that they are more comfortable with the name they chose for themself - the name they picked on a whim, on a moment, all by their lonesome.

Skyjack. 

A sailor. A sailor who steals from ships, who hijacks them and takes them from their own. A sailor from the skies, free and limitless, whose horizon knows no bounds but the sun and clouds.

As a Skyjack, Gable is not fallen. 

As a Skyjack, Gable is not bright.

As a Skyjack - Gable is free, from every duty but to their crew and captain, and that is more fitting than anything they could ever dare to be.

Gable Skyjack.

Perhaps, in time, they could come to like their name.

-

A name. He’s had many. Travis Mattagot, Jolly Jack, Kevin, Puck and Neville, Johnny and Connor - names that flow past his ears like water, each more unimportant than the past. 

He likes the names. He like at the constant change, the constant new assumptions, always being what he isn’t but also what he is. 

(A changeling, never the same body, never the same form, born over and over and over again. Suppose a name could be like that too.) 

Puns, lilting off the tongue. 

His Current is one of his favorites - Travis, according to some far away islands, meaning to cross. It stings in all the worst ways, reminding him of his failures, how he could cross but Margret couldn’t, and how now, he always fails to cross into the next life. A failure, is what he is, horrible and ancient and Travis. 

(He likes it. The way it gives itself to snarls of rage only spoken by close friends, personal and horrible and wonderful. Travis. To cross. To traverse. All he couldn’t and could do at once. Wonderfully confusing.)

And, of course, who could forget Mattagot, the name of a beast, a spirit, helpful and hindrance, one that brings fortune and agony and in the same. A warning. A threat. All cursed by his enemies as they shouted Mattagot and prepared to kill but never quite succeeded. 

Obvious, like a bent card in a deck, but only if you were looking for it. 

Perfection, in a name.

(Of course, though, it isn’t real. A pretend, a fake, a mirage, smothering and covering up the name William that only was spoken when there were gambles to be made. He likes who Travis is - the skyjack, with friends and crew and triumphs.

William is… William is supposed to mean warrior. Protector. Strong willed. 

Travis isn’t William. He could never be. William could never be William.

Travis is just a fraud. A fake. Lasting one more day on a gamble and a debt and oh, if it doesn’t sting sometimes.)

He wants to be Travis. He wants to make Travis real.

He just hopes he can. 

-

A name. Jonnit is a name without a meaning, and it’s just the way Jonnit likes it. A black slate, a way to grow, room to grow, destiny forgotten in the face of something new. With nothing telling him who he is, or who he could be, just a chance to be Jonnit.

Whoever Jonnit would be. 

His parents liked to tell the story sometimes, of how they kept scratching out the names of their firstborn, looking for something fitting, something perfect for their child, their son their AnikBasrDrishSim-unnamed child. 

Then, like magic, they had asked - 

Asked…

Well, Jonnit didn’t know who they asked, probably unimportant, he’s forgotten about, but they came up with Jonnit on the spot.

Like magic, they say, and suddenly Jonnit has a name without a fate,

A chance to be who he wants.

And that’s really the trouble isn’t it? He wants to be so many things - feels like he should be so many kings, so many fates, that it’s hard to choose. Stowaway, cabin boy, apprentice, lookout, star watcher, seer, bird racer, Captain’s council, Jonnit, Jonnit, Jonnit - 

It’s so much sometimes. So, so much, when compared to Gable, who’s gentle smile seems to shine when they’re happy for once, and Travis’ seems so confident spouting what he’s not.

They know who they are. 

Jonnit wishes he knows who he was. 

(Except, he does, doesn’t he? He just isn’t him yet. Right now, he’s Jonnit, the cabin boy. He’s Jonnit, the star watcher. But someday - 

Someday he’ll be Jonnit, star in the sky, captain of a fleet of golden sails that shine like angel fire. He’ll be Jonnit the Starcatcher, Jonnit the Captain, Jonnit, the greatest Skyjack since Orimar Vale, stronger even, freer even, so strong as to help the Jonnit of the past rather than just the present.

He’s not him yet. It’s pressure, so much pressure to live up to him when he’s just Jonnit now, small and young and just starting to know what he’s doing but -

He just wishes he was.)

He will, soon.

He knows this, like how he knows the name Jonnit spreads throughout Burza Nyth and the Liquid Swords and Nordia and N’Goni, back home and through the sky. 

He’ll get there.

He just can’t wait.

-

A name. Dref Wormwood is an odd name, but a comforting one. It’s soft and able to be spoken without a stutter, and gains looks of oh, odd name, rather than oh, I know that name.

It is a comfort, because it is not him, or who he was. It is not Alistair Youngblood, heir to a red-ridden name. It is not Alister Youngblood, born to cruelty.

It is not who he was. 

(Alistair, his family calls, and it is mocking, it is horrible, Alistair Youngblood – Dref could go a hundred years without hearing it and be happy.

But yet, like all things out in the open air, it isn’t to be.)

It is not who he was, but it is who he will be. Dref Wormwood, doctor of the Uhuru. Dref Wormwood, necromancer of Orimar Vale. 

Dref Wormwood friend.

It makes him smile to hear it said, ever since Orimar sounded it out that first time. A blessing. A chance. A name.

His name.

Who he is.

It’s an odd name, but a comfort, because Dref means nothing at all, unlike the regal defender or repeller of Alistair, and Wormwood is a star and a plant and a remedy and a poison, while Youngblood is just a legacy. It’s his name. His choice. His comfort.

(When he dies, his crew does not say Alistair Youngblood. They say Dref Wormwood, friend and crewmate.

Even in the afterlife, the beyond, it makes Dref smile.) 

A comfort, yes. 

-

A name. The name Orimar is a good name. A strong name. A name that means a thousand things across a thousand islands, but a good name nonetheless. 

(It’s a remnant of a culture forgotten, a culture lost, but Orimar clings tight and does not let it go, because he more than a man, more than a Skyjack. 

He is a corsair, and corsairs are as greedy as they are free. He keeps his name and he keeps his home, because he will take the skies and home alike if it means keeping what he holds dear. He will be King. He will be Orimar, boy of something long ago.

Of this, he is certain.)

But Orimar Vale is a feared name, a terrifying name, one that strikes horror into his enemies’ hearts and makes knees and arms and everything shake. 

Orimar Vale, captain of the Uhuru - freedom, sailing in the air. Orimar Vale, the man who will be king. Orimar Vale, lover of the Bandit Queen.

Orimar Vale, immortal in legacy and now in body.

Orimar Vale is a name that will not be stopped. 

(Even if there are moments where he shakes, where he reaches out, where he takes a pause on his steps to power to shelter orphans young and old, people lost and alone, gathering them on his piece of freedom and helping them Take Flight.

He will pause, because he wants o be King, because he wants Power, but also because he wants to protect what is his. 

And he cannot do that without being human to.)

It is name, a legend, that will echo across the skies, even when people say there are no kings, because Orimar Vale is more than a king.

He is a captain. 

And that, perhaps, place in front of Orimar Vale, is the best name of all. 

[flavoroptimizer]

Part 7

He'd borne his punishment with as muvh pride as he was able, knowing the children who made his life difficult were spemding their time in recuperation knowing he could easily harm them if they pushed him past tolerance. Even with his claws reduced to mere stubs, his peers had been alot more careful around him after that. Most of them, anyway. The garderner's son, a Golden Jackal by the name of Tabaqui, had taken to following him around when the pup was not working on tasks for his parents. Unlike the othwr children his little display of violence had apparently interested the older boy wherw it left others terrified. The most dramatic thing that the pup could recall happening before the fight had been an outbreak of the Bubonic plague following a particularly heavy rainy season(which had then been followed by a drought of all things vecause the weather in Bombay was nothing if not contradictory) but that that had been different. The bodies dropping A tiger cub enacting vengence upon those who had treated him poorly was far more predictable than a deadlt disease that struck without warning and had been responaible for takung the lives of four servant abs one of thw master's children. So, feeling he hed wanted to be associated with the tiger cub. He was not offering friendship. Instead he seemed content to be his talkative shadow. Lungri had no idea what to make about the strange vhange of evwbts, but as long as the pup left him undisturbed, he let him be. Following that incident he had started to pick fights of his own just to remind them of his prowess. He was no one's victim and if they wanted to scarw him thet would learn he wasnt one to be trifled with. In these moments he liked to pretend he was a deadly warrior king visting his revenge upon a clan of unruly bandits tht had invaded gis home. When he visited his wrath upon them he made it abundantly clear that if they nade any attempts on him again they knew he would not hesitate to show them exactly what had made his ancestors so deadly. In doing so he was giving up on the chance of friendship but it had always been an impossible goal anyway. He was better than them anyway, or so ge tried to convince himself. A part of him had briefly hoped things would change when his mom married a man who was outside the caste system. Tigers didnt usually form bonds outside of what they had with a parent. So, in the absence of the one that would normally form between a cub and their mother, he had hoped he could build one with his stepfather. As usual, he did not get what he wanted. The man had been friendly but he had gently informed the child that he wasnt qualifiwd to be anyone's father. The child in him wanted to tell him that in marrying his mother he had volunteered to be fathet by default. But you couldnt force someone to genuinely think of you as family. He would have already done so with his mother just in case she didnt feel for him what he felt for her. But his mother was not one incluned to abide by neediness. Demanding love and attention from her had never gotten him anything but cold anger and imposed silence. Why would the cook be any different? And if the behavior would only alienate gim further there was no point in seeking to begin with. It was logical to put it bwhind him. He was intelligent enough to recognize the futility in demanding something if the action did not earn him the desieef respomse. but beneathw the grudging acceptancw he seethed in anger. Adults were all the same. They diaplayed perfectly painted puctures of domesticity snd scorned hin when he wanted a piece of that to call his own. He may have solmnly accepted rhat the man would be father in name only, but in the aafty of his own thoyghts he cuesed the man for the rejection. He could have pretended to accept him as a son. Lungri was no mind readet. Instead he knew the man hadnt thought of him as sych at all and hed mentallu added yet another item to his bullet list of impossible dreams. But by saying he hadnt wanted to be "anyone's fathwr" in general instead of stating he hadnt wanted to be his father specifically he had unknoeingly presented himself as a target. It wasny his fault his stepfather hadnt wanted him so the blame lay instwad on the personal failings of the man who had married his mother. And he was more than happy to blame the adult rayher than himself for having done something to make the man dislike him. He prefered raging at othets in his head to rhw senseless repetitive wishes he had if he dwelt too long on hos lot on lifw. If he didnr aim those feelinga at external forces he would be thw ine subjectwd to them instead. And if he was the one to recieve all his bittwrness and anger he felt he would surely drown in the black morass of his emotions. His mother's status within the household had risen with her marriage(and lowered within society proper) but Lungri's position had not been affected. The man was not his biological father nor was he adopting him, which meant his caste remained the same. He was a herder, just as his grandfather had been beforw him. He had darkly observed that it was almost as if nothong had changed. He still recieved hust as little of the attention he wanted as he had always lacked. He had still been bren born handicapped, even something as relativelt small as a lame paw meant hr would be prevented from inheriting money or land by law. So upon learnibg he would not be forming any familial bonds with his step father, he chise to ignore the marriage and the cook himself outside work. It was a surprisingly easy thing to do. Perhaps the years he had spent maintaining a professional distance from his mothet made ignoring someone who shared no relation to him simple by comparison, or maybe he was kust givibg the man yge cold shouldet for denying him a familial tie hed always thought hed needed but thats how things were between himself and the man who was his stepfather. The cook was friendly but distant in returm. Strangly, the samr coulf be said of the relationship between the man and his mother. They worked together but they did not have the same sense of intimacy hed witnessed between ths gardener and his wife, the grass clipper. To his knowledge, neither his mother or the man she'd married had even seemed to sharw a bed. He tried not to question the arrangement out loud, but it was odd to say the least. When hed seen the cook embrace the man who tended the master's horse a suspicion had grown in his mind but he had opted not to ask hin outright, once his mother who had been with him ordered him to drop the subject. If he was right it had explained some things about his mother and stepfather that hadnt sat well witj him, but it also left him questions hed wanted answeting. Foremost in his mind was what kept them together if neorher party cared for the other in marriagable ways and what prompted their decision to get togethwr in the first place. Hed needed to talk to someone about it. Having no friends of his own and knowing his mother well enough to realize she would not answer any of his questions, hed brrn forced by necessity(all these secrets had left him fit to burst) to corner Tabaqui about it during dinner. The other boy was an entire year older than him and he had felt the disparity when those amber had looked at him increfulously, surprisef to learn the cub had honestly never heard of storied kf men who slept with men and wete caught by the authorities. Lungri hadnt anf had bitten yhe insi his hims. Out of all the sexual talk hed heard, it had been the British who had instigated it. His fellow wervants had never seen fit to discuss such subjects frankly without the master or one of his gueat's prompting them ob the matter. That wasnt to say rhe subject wasnt discussed. Or even that it wasn't broufht up somewhat frequently. The real difference was that moat seemed content to skirt around the acrua detaila, relying on euphimisms to get the point across while yhw English wetw generally quirw drynk ehen thwy brought it up and sometimes had a language barrier . Tabaqui hd onlu snorted at that, anf stolen a bit of the bread off his plare. The boy was hobestlt the most irrevalent person he knew, dismissive of cultural norms and people in general. Je chose to follow thr young tiger around when hr wasn't workinh because he found it amusing. Hw had settled down stealing a bit of his audience's rice and in a soft whisper casially spoke of the punishment q people, those of every religion he knew, were keen on leveling against those seen as sexually abnormal. He had found himself disturbed. Both by what had been described and how easily the boy spikr of such horrors, like an elderly woman discussing a friend's trouble with a rebellious daughter, he was simply too cheerful about the suffering of others to be entirely comfortable in his presence. Tabaqui hsd then topped it off with a casual memtion og men who married womwn to hide their identity like a performer might wear a mask. Lungri had decided from that point on he would not discuss matters with any especially dark answers with the other boy. He seemed to like it a little too much to be entirely comfortable.