#petrel/reader

[bluemoondust]

There was a request you did with a famous darling and the pokevillains.

Could you write the famous darling scenario with maybe Brassius, Grusha, Piers, and Petrel?

✧Famous!Darling✧

Referring to this post!

Characters: Brassius, Grusha, Piers, Petrel

Warning(s): Hints of Possessive Behavior, Hints of Violence, Stalking

✧Gym Leader Brassius✧

Oh, you bet he's one of your biggest supporters. Despite his yandere tendencies, he isn't one to restrict his darling from expressing themselves creatively. However, one thing he worries deeply about is the impact that comes with fame. He's concerned that you won't be doing this for yourself anymore; that you'll be bending over backwards to please the masses. It depresses him to think how you'll be once you come to see your passion as nothing more than a chore. He doesn't want that for you, so he makes sure it doesn't happen. Some of your fans, who don't treat or see you as a real person, make him sick to his stomach, honestly. He'll gladly ensure they won't bother you anymore and learn how to be respectful. He will gladly weed out the bad seeds from the garden. Harshly, if he has to since some weeds can be stubborn.

✧Gym Leader Grusha✧

Annoyed. That's all he feels. Grusha knows the deal when it comes to being well-known and famous. He was just like that before the accident. However, seeing your fans swarm around you while the two of you are out makes him remember that oh, yeah, that was certainly a thing. Don't people have some amount of decency? Can't they leave someone alone for a few minutes? He hates how it looks like they're treating you like some...object. He doesn't know how much he can take it. There are some genuine fans out there, but oh, he's not annoyed by them. It's the weirdos his concern and bitterness is centered towards. They make him absolutely sick. He doesn't voice any of this out, but you can sure feel his irritation at a certain distance. Just, you know...make sure he's okay since we wouldn't want an accident on the news, don't we?

✧Gym Leader Piers✧

Just like Grusha, he's also annoyed by these fans. Like yeah, there's Team Yell with Marnie but that's her hype team more than anything. These people, though, are so bothersome and he can't help but bring that up sometimes in conversation. If you're actually bothered by them, then great! He'll gladly tell them to bug off when necessary. Hell, you can even come to Spikemuth to hide for a while. Not many people come around anyways, so it's a good place for some alone time. Besides that, Piers is supportive of your career if it's something you're passionate about. Especially if you're a singer/songwriter. As someone who is one himself, he's alright with giving advice and offering a hand. Team Yell can act as bodyguards if you want. Their demeanor would drive excessive fans away and that's something he wants. A benefit to handing advice to you is that he had the opportunity to give small bouts of misinformation to scare you a little. It just helps to keep you leaning onto him for support. I mean, who else could relate? I know what you're thinking: this sounds rather okay. Because it's the way Piers wants it to be. Even as a yandere, he doesn't want unnecessary conflict or trouble. It's rather annoying. Oh, but make no mistake; he's willing to drag any creep into a dark alley to ensure they are never able to hold a paper and pen ever again.

✧Team Rocket Executive Petrel✧

Petrel is rather chill about this. Hell, he even disguises as various people who are 'fans' of yours. Example: you're at a convention with fans and it's going well. Everyone is so sweet and endearing. What you don't notice is that Petrel had approached you multiple times as different people just to see how you react with various individuals. He can never get tired of this. It's entertaining to see that adorable face of yours greet him as if you're meeting for the first time over and over. Little did you know... This man does buy some of your merch, he does but...he wants something personal. These items are more centered around your career, and that's fine and all, but he wants stuff that are closer to you as a person. Rummaging through your stuff was easy. You really need more competent bodyguards, darling. That's fine, he'll just play the part as one of them for you. He wants to chuckle at the way you don't notice anything off with him. An expert in his craft after all. Plus, why would you question anyone who's your bodyguard?

[cutoruncut]

Petrel from pokemon heartgold/soulsilver?

[ya-bug-boy]

Pls do some petrel x reader who’s also a team rocket executive ( i love this man so much and there’s almost no fanfics about him 😭😭😭)

Petrel x Team Rocket Executive Reader!

Petrel thinks highly of himself, being an executive and a master of disguise. He's an excellent actor and in his head, he thinks he does a good job. (my guy, you gave out the passwords and the key to the hero? F performance)

Though he's working for Giovanni, he certainly lives in the lavish perks that is being an executive.

When Team Rocket is trying to get itself back together (think in the events of Heart Gold/ Soul Silver) Petrel gets paired up with a new Team Rocket member, which is you with your guaranteed spot to becoming executive. But you need training, which is where he comes in.

Despite his criminal deeds and wrongdoing, Petrel considers himself to still be a nice guy and helps you adjust to the change of being an executive. But when he sees exactly how new you are, taking on a leadership role of having grunts and having to manage things, he's rather curious as to what gave you that position to begin with.

You may be a Team Rocket member, but for some reason you have a very nice demeanor? You treat everyone so kindly that the grunts argue about who gets to be in your team. Having grown a soft spot for you, due to your eagerness to do your best despite it being unlawful, he decides to stick around some more after he's done training you. He can't help but to gloat internally when he hears you call him, "Senpai!"

But what's your deal? What's your talent? What got you into Team Rocket to begin with? He can't help but to wonder. You're a nice person, you're more than decent. Team Rocket isn't exactly a place where he'd think he meet you.

But he never gets to find out your past when Team Rocket is swiftly defeated by Gold, an up and coming trainer who thwarted all of their plans. You weren't present at the Radio Tower. But it was through Petrel's broadcast that you heard that Team Rocket was defeated. Over and through.

Life after Team Rocket is rough. Petrel lost all of his power and connections. He even lost you. Grunts that tried to reassemble Team Rocket were quickly found and defeated, before being arrested. There isn't enough to reform Team Rocket.

Then one day, he's caught. The International Police had cornered him, on a day he wasn't wearing a disguise. They take him away to a location he's never heard of, a secret building.

While he's being escorted, he's left alone in a room with his hands free. He waits there for a few minutes before you open the door.

Petrel doesn't know whether to feel joy or betrayal, not really understanding why you were here. You then explain to him that you were looking for him after Team Rocket disbanded. The International Police got to you first but you were able to cut a deal with them, if you worked with them, you wouldn't be arrested.

But then they had you hunting down the Team Rocket Executives to try and bring them to justice. You explained you were trying to intercept Petrel before they did, in fact you were trying to find all of the other executives. International Police got to them before you did, to his belief. So you call in the other executives into the room and they walk in one by one. It's where you offer him a new deal as well.

Become the international Police's number one master of disguise and spy agent with you. Work together with the other executives but for a good cause this time. Petrel doesn't accept right away, but you tell him of all the good benefits, the good wages, the paid vacation times, and how he'd be able to travel. He keeps his Pokemon and becoming an agent will null him of his previous crimes working in Team Rocket.

He can't help but to laugh before taking a few days to think it over. He eventually accepts the deal and starts to live a better life with you.

The two of you are sent out on spy missions, acting as a couple. With Petrel's master of disguises, he's able to portray himself as any partner, any asset you need.

He still somewhat pines for the days you call him, "Senpai," when he thought life was easier. But now? It's getting harder and harder to look at you in the eyes when you call him the affectionate nickname, endearing ones meant for a partner. He can't help but to look at how nice a ring looks on you. The way you smile when you hold each other's hands...

Petrel was never a simple man meant for a simple life but when he's in your gaze, he feels for a moment, complete.

[calamity-queen]

I want to write a “Scotty Doesn’t Know” inspired fic with Giovanni. That being said, who should be “Scotty?”

[crapbirdphotography]

I recently fulfilled a deep desire of mine to go out to sea and pursue the sight of maritime birds. The ocean was beautiful, as soon as my ship left the embrace of False Bay and lost the sight of the Cape of Good Hope we were greeted by flocks of the beautiful Pintado Petrel with wings recalling the pattern of melting alpine snow. We saw the Southern Fulmar, who's ice-colored plumage recalls the Antarctic wildernesses where it rears it's young, the fragile storm-petrel who's wings seem far too small for the unyielding open sea, and the giant-petrel, of whom legends have been told that include the bird's predation on sailors that fall from the decks of their ships. At last, about 30 miles from land we saw a Northern Royal Albatross, a bird with a wingspan nearing 10 feet. Upon sighting the bird I raised my camera to document the near-mystical creature, however, I found myself unable to hold my hands steady in the face of the jarring waves. I was overcome with the torments of Neptune, and at last, while still gripping my camera attempting to continue following the magnificent bird- Gracious reader, I frew up.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Cult of Vagabonds MasterList

NAVIGATION

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

OVERALL WARNINGS: Familial trauma, PTSD, anxiety, trauma responses, angst, character deaths, gore & violence, kidnappings, interrogations, self-deprecating thoughts and actions, addictions, eventual smut, etc. (More specific warnings will be listed in every chapter)(18+).

DISCLAIMER: While not an OC, the Reader will be given a backstory that will be seen throughout the fic and intertwine with the plot. Taglist is full. All images found on Pinterest.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I: Landless Gull

CHAPTER II: Snail & Thrush 

CHAPTER III: Banshee Bluethroat

CHAPTER IV: Finch's Frenzy

CHAPTER V: Copper Talons

CHAPTER VI: Storm-Flying Petrels 

CHAPTER VII: Devil Birds

CHAPTER VIII: Polluted Marrow & Hollow Bones

CHAPTER IX: Talk To The Doves

CHAPTER X: A Crow's Carrion Comfort

CHAPTER XI: The Call of A Foreign Swan

CHAPTER XII: Owl-Eyes

CHAPTER XIII: Flight of the Warbler

CHAPTER XIV: Gray Grouse

CHAPTER XV: Sins of a Laughing Skylark

CHAPTER XVI: Vultures

CHAPTER XVII: Red-Wing Blackbirds And Dark Dahlias

CHAPTER XVIII:

CHAPTER XIX:

CHAPTER XX:

CHAPTER XXI:

CHAPTER XXII:

CHAPTER XXIII:

CHAPTER XXIV:

CHAPTER XXV:

[kvalenagle]

Okay, I've been summoned to Tumblr by cute Satra and Lei fan art, so I should probably introduce myself and my books. Hello! I'm Vale, and I write creature fantasy as K. Vale Nagle. If you like interesting gryphons, you're in the right place: aquatic diving petrel/fishing cat gryphons, poisonous hooded pitohui/tiger gryphons, pretty gyrfalcon/snow leopard gryphons, intimidating Haast's eagle/saber-toothed tiger gryphons, soggy sandgrouse/sand cat gryphons, and a lot more. My series are epic fantasy using mostly real (though sometimes extinct) animals, free of humans but full of queer characters, intrigue, large battles, and ecological apocalypses. My cover art is by Jeff Brown, with interior graphite pieces by Brenda Lyons and gryphon chapter headers by Kittrel (whose chibi hearts you may have seen). I also have a short story collection (best read anytime after Starling, book three) with a beak-cute lesbian gryphon love story with terror birds, a Gryphon vs. Nature blizzard apocalypse tale, a Christmas-y story, and something pretty close to zombies. I've also written a full novel set in the world of Dire by John Bailey called Coldbright which can be found in the Tales of Feathers & Flames anthology. If you like GryphIns but you want something with more mystery, almost horror, as told through the eyes of a snarky little opinicus and his dire gryphon ex-boyfriend, it's a great read this time of year. I love and appreciate all the fan mail, fan fiction, fan letters, and people reaching out about this series. I'm a little slow replying, as I started writing the series right after getting diagnosed with a catastrophic autoimmune system. The treatments are pretty intense, and it's easiest for me to spend my time and energy writing. I used to have a few pen names across several genres, but for the most part, all of my energy goes into finishing up GryphIns. I'm married to dragon author Glenn Birmingham, so if you've seen us posting pictures of our cats and thought it's strange they share a name, they're the same cats. And that's about it. Just a queer author writing gryphony books when I'm not walking my cat. A few common answers to questions: Q: There are sometimes typos in social media, why is that? A: Catastrophic APS means I've had a stroke (and associated memory loss), so when a copy editor isn't coming up behind me, there'll be doubled words and typos from time-to-time. I used to worry about them, since they don't look good if you're an author! But I'd rather reply to fan letters and kind posts. I think if you've read my author notes at the back of my books, you know to expect a few doubled words here and there. Q: When you say a queer author, what do you mean? A: Since people ask about own voices and I have a lot of lgbtqia+ characters in my books, I'm pan, demi, trans, and genderfluid. I'm lucky enough to have a lot of queer friends and first readers who make sure I don't mess up any characters. Q: When's the next GryphIns novel coming out? A: Some years, I spend a lot of my time fighting health insurance battles, and it slows me down. Pridelord (#8) is currently in line edits. It's twice as long as Eyrie and three times as long as Coldbright, so it's a pretty big book! It shouldn't be too much longer. You'll know it's just about time because you'll hear James Scott Spaid talk about narrating the audiobook. Q: How many books will there be in GryphIns? A: I'm famous for underestimating how many books it takes to finish a series. My other pen names all wrote short stories and standalone novels, so my proposal for GryphIns originally had five books. Jeff Brown is wrapping up the cover for Saberbeak (#9) and Nighthaunt (#10). If I end up needing one more book to finish, though, don't be too surprised.

[kurtmustdie]

What if I just

(Miles) Sparkflight- nightrain-wing (usually appears black like a regular nightwing, but particularly likes using his rainwing power of color change to blend into environments. He has future sight powers, but he hasn’t harnessed them very well yet.)

(Gwen) Snowdance- icerain-wing (she has Snow White scales that look water colored blue and pink in some places. usually they’re very light, easy colors in the eyes, they rarely change to anything too harsh unless she’s really emotional. She treats her scales like a canvas.)

(Hobie) Ivy- rain-wing (lets his scales change color freely, no one really knows what his base scale pattern is like because he’s not one to cover up the emotion in his scales)

(Pavitr) Petrel- skyrain-wing (similarly to Swordfish, he only has select scales that can change color, but he really likes changing them. His base scale color is a true red tone, and he usually has blue and gold highlights on the scales he can change.)

(Miguel) Swordfish- Searain-wing (like a dark, dark blue, where only his light up scales change color. Being one of the only seawing he uses that to his advantage and communicates with himself under his breath with his light up scales. He basically looks like an rgb keyboard lmao.)

(Jess) Stardrift- night-wing (a dark, violet-black scaled dragon, her star scales on her wings look like shooting stars. Mind reader.)

(Peter B.) Petalite- sky-wing (average red skywing who’s adorned with little trinkets)

(Mayday) Malachite- skywing (a bright red flamescale, Petalite made everyone gloves that they can put on their talons to hold her.)

(LYLA) Limpet- lucky for her she’s the only human (scavenger, in this case). One of swordfish’s. . . Friends. . . found her one day and decided not to eat her so she (the friend) gave her to him as company. She thinks Swordfish is her pet dragon, Swordfish thinks she’s his pet scavenger. Everyone is very confused in this scenario.

(The Spot) Polka Dot: fucked up little rainwing who somehow got his hands on an animus talisman. Oops.

(Margo) Seawhisper- nightsea-wing (she’s a dark blue, lighter than Swordfish for reference, and has very gorgeous ombré sky blue to light violet light up scales. She has mind reading powers :3)

(Kingpin) Strongwings- big fuckin nightwing. Like huge. If you think Swordfish looks big for a dragon you’re not prepared to see this guy— er— this corpse, I guess. He’s dead.

They’re all connected through being animus. Other than Strongwings and Polka Dot, of course.

See it as like.. the talons of peace but everyone is less mentally stable.

I’ll come up with their dragon names later probably, and I might draw a few of them.

[gildead]

CONTENT WARNING: THIS DRABBLE CONCERNS THE DISCUSSION OF THE GRAPHIC DEATH OF A CHILD. IT IS RECOMMENDED YOU DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU HAVE FINISHED THE RECENT ARG. ALSO VISUAL DEPICTION OF BLOOD, GORE, AND FACIAL HORROR. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

Picking up right where the thread with Petrel left off.

"You knew. You... all... knew."

Perhaps it was inevitable that this day would come. The day where they finally had to talk about what had happened to Gold on that day. Celebi just didn't think that day would be today. Evidentially, neither did Gold's Typhlosion, given the fearful stare she looked at Celebi with. Even Forever had stopped chewing on Gold's discarded shoe to listen in.

"Yes, Gold. We knew." Celebi's eye flickered to Forever, then Sable. "Most of us."

Gold went quiet, so much so that the only noise came from Hurry peeking out from behind his mother. "Did... Did Silver know too?"

"Boy... be reasonable. Why else would he have come back?" Please heaved out an uncomfortable sigh.

As soon as he received his confirmation, Gold's sleeves immediately began disintegrating. He froze in place, his expression despondent. "...Everyone knew. And you... you let me forget."

"Your friend... Lugia betrayed you. My fellow titan." Celebi gazed sympathetically. "We worried that the memory would hurt you more than you already were."

"More than being physically ripped apart and left to bleed out." Gold's stumps blossomed open, revealing the bone and sinew within. Black sludge began leaking from his eyes and nose. His tone was dangerously even.

"That's not what they... Gold." Please approached Gold, a paw outstretched towards his shoulder. "We wanted to make sure you'd be okay before we talked about it."

"You think I'm okay?" Gold wrenched himself away violently. "You think I-- that I was okay with any of this?!"

"Enough." Celebi's voice hardened. "She humbly requested that I save your life. I gazed into her memories, and I saw your pure heart. How you put your own safety on the line to protect your team. How you came so close to opening-"

"I DIDN'T ASK YOU TO BRING ME BACK!" Gold coughed violently after he screamed before continuing. "You think this is... that this is living? That I want to stay like this forever? That I can't see anybody I love 'cuz I'll just make them upset all over again? I'm dead! I should've stayed dead! You should've just left me alone!"

He turned to the tree and rammed his head against it repeatedly in between choked sobs, denting and splintering the wood under the sheer force. With each hit, he slowed down until he fully came to a stop, sliding to the ground. For a while, he just sat there, crying.

Hurry waddled over to him. "G-Gold-?"

Gold whipped around. His sockets had turned black, and his face contorted terribly as he rose up again. As he let out a primal screech, a cluster of Unown fanned around him, spelling out a terrible message.

S T A Y A W A Y F R O M M E

And just like that, he disappeared into the woods.

Forever's jaw dropped, along with the shoe. Hurry, sniffling, rushed back over to his mother, burying his face in her fur as he wept. As for her, she and Away watched after where Gold had fled, at complete losses for words.

Sable also watched, her tiny face scrunched in concentration. A couple of Unown from her own flock came out from behind her, and she shared glances with them. After a moment, she nodded.

And stepped forward, ready to follow her trainer. He was there for her before.

It was time to repay him.

[aonoexpat]

10-08-2023

Yesterday, I spent the morning in Kaikōura, and joined a fellow Dutchie on a boat tour to spot albatross! These majestic birds hold the record for the largest wingspan of any flying bird on earth, even beating the condor. The ones we saw maxed out at about 3 meters, and they were a spectacular sight to see. They make a lot more sounds than I had expected, and boy are they fun :) The skipper had a batch of food that she could toss into the water to attract the birds, and they were clearly familiar with the process, because they were following us from the moment we left the harbour. This also meant they were not afraid of us at all, and were happy to get up close and personal!

My favourite one was the wandering albatross, which we saw the most individuals of. They are elegant flyers, slightly less elegant during landing and takeoff, and have the friendliest little faces...

...as opposed to the black-browed albatross, who looked perpetually pissed off for being beaten to the food by its larger cousins:

Other species we saw included the great northern petrel, a whole bunch of cape petrels (the smaller black and white birds in the photos above) who were masters at soaring along with the boat, Salvin's albatross, white-capped albatross, a couple of shags and plenty of seagulls. I did get seasick unfortunately as the sea conditions were labeled 'moderate', but luckily I had had maybe two bites of bread for breakfast so I didn't make a mess, and I had come prepared with ginger candy. The skipper gave me some nice warm ginger tea as well. Both she and the other passenger took good care of me ❤

After the tour I decided to give up my plans of hiking for the rest of the day, because a warning was issued for heavy snow in the evening. The skipper told me they might even close the state highway if it got really bad, so I didn't want to take my chances with that. As Kaikōura didn't make me feel very welcome in the first place due to their strict rules about self-contained camping, I packed up my things and left, heading down the East coast to Ōtautahi. It was another long drive, and I was really tired by the time I arrived. I was happy to find a parking spot for the night close to some takeaway junk food, and got settled for the bad weather to hit here as well.

And just as was forecast, today has been a hell of a rainy day in Ōtautahi, and, in all honesty, in my mind too. I know with a blog like this it can seem like everything on my trip is sunshine and rainbows, as you, as the readers, see the highlights. The highlights are what I take photos of, what I can passionately recount to you. But I won't omit the downsides. Sure, going on hikes and seeing spectacular sights is fun. But you know what's not fun? Waking up at 3 A.M. to a noise when you know you're all alone in a parking lot off an unsealed road in the middle of the woods. Getting told off by a town council member for not having the right type of toilet. Always being on the lookout for public facilities, all of which usually feel unsafe. Not knowing when or where you'll next be able to have a shower. A leaking faucet in the back of your van and constant worries about its status, hoping the cold weather isn't causing a mould infestation in places I can't see. Wearing gloves inside because it's literally freezing outside.

And the annoying thing is, I don't feel like I have a right to complain. I've got an extremely comfortable van with soft blankets, free electricity with my solar panel, drinking water, and enough resources to live from. But I'm all alone. All the time. The moments where the highs seem worth the struggle in between are starting to dwindle in numbers. The rest of the trip feels like a challenge I've set myself that I'll be happy to have overcome. I currently don't feel very excited about it at all. I know that will change, I know in a little while I'll look back on this and it'll seem silly that I ever thought about it, but today I really just want to go home.

I've spent some time today writing to Workaway hosts in the Ōtautahi area, hoping to maybe meet up and hang out with locals. I feel like I need to find some inspiration again, and making a more long-term plan will help. I would like to have a clearer picture of where I'm going, and when I'll get there. Maybe after this week I'll be able to form that picture. Because I don't want to give up just yet. There is still so much left to see and do. But I know in order to enjoy those things, I need to be in a better head space. How I'll get there, I'm not sure yet. But I am determined to.

(^ credit to pastel-hazy-dreams)

[libidomechanica]

“And yet the rich, whose joys of all suffer herself to win”

Be there on his heart, speed there did     quickly on the front row with Thee enriches from outrage     worse than thy sweeten so

a boy of shepherd’s calling. On     which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi march’d for hid delight,     she blushes speak, they dwell

and two days until I hear her     mournful, sober-suited Night not under worse still plagues, thy     fair from God in pain, which

touches. And friends you shalt ca’ me     fornicator, an’ thy poppy throws that hang the plastic     ice chest; the second son

was immovable; until is     answer, echoes talk along the fierce men on the cursed the     hopelessly enough; hope,

in pallid moon, to Juan, followed     up to the wine, and the roses taint, and thus, a thought, the     cloud I follow not where,

but know is a juggle born of     me to me? Nor would by ill be shot its spires at every     day he should for a little

dross, was favouritism. Tempts     and beside her god day: or Diggon, I am very     wears; but doubtless fairly

dealt by thee. But that floods, and like     old saw pronounces that strangers in her face: inches from     cliff and could a cream-white

rosebuds which stiffen’d heaven     and will drink a tun to my hart since she pricked their pills like     petrel on the game short

of his whole day in the same blow     which makes it seem fair, but, as those bodies that fidgets beyond     it spry cordage of

those loss was proxy-wedded with     should intend, less forced a way their Jaws blood that he meant to     travel both and what they

had be slaine thilke same small mine’s the     quintessence and victorie, yet halfe in his Crown, and heavy     heart I set the drunken

king tobacco on a little     hour, as is false subtle snakes. And yet the rich, whose joys of     all suffer herself to

win! Spouted up and down there to     obliterate your springs to one Lady of thy would     not for all who could rhyme

in praise I name: as the sun’s     abundant issue seem’d a splendor; in the chilly nest, and     our throats. Mid-sentence, but

howsoe’er the buxome and beard thy     sweet is she goes out to drink delicious play his gentle     reader! Slain by some grosse.

[bluemoondust]

I know you're watching me, and I know you keep breaking in. You know my address and my schedule. I'm sure you know other things too. Is there something you want or is this just to scare me? If it's the latter, you've succeeded. If it's the former, please just tell me what I need to do to make you stop. - A rather hastily scrawled note, left for Petrel to find in a now empty apartment

♡My Sweetheart Event♡

Word Count: 0.3k

Recipient: Team Rocket Executive Petrel (Pokemon)

Currently Playing: One Way or Another by Blondie

After Petrel finished reading the note, he chuckled. So you were more perceptive than he thought, huh? He was sure that he was being careful with his pursuit of you. Maybe he's losing touch...oh well.

It's nothing too bad. He'll just have to look for you again. And oh, honey, he will be able to. You may have figured out that you have a stalker on your hands, but Petrel is sure you're unaware of who he is. Did the thought of a Team Rocket executive watching you ever cross your mind? Maybe it didn't, maybe it did. However, if it did, he's very sure you wouldn't leave a note like this and be more careful with running off.

You're just leaving a trail. Like breadcrumbs for him to follow so he can get to you.

It might have not occurred to you that now there are fingerprints on this note. I mean, how do you think Petrel can manage getting around when he takes on a new face? He's always thinking ahead. Any piece of you is worth keeping, he thinks, while pocketing the note. Now he just has to gather the crumbs you left behind. Heh, he'll probably let you stay in your own comfort for a few days. Just as a headstart.

It might seem cocky of him to do this, but it really will be that easy to find you. When Team Rocket wants to find something or someone, they'll find it/them. They all have their ways and resources, after all. Even with everything he has, it wouldn't be that much fun.

Petrel won't say that he's sadistic. No, that goes to his fellow executive. It's just that he sometimes likes to have a little fun here and there. Dragging this little game a bit longer isn't too bad. He gets to work for what he wants at the end of the day. It just makes the prize all that much sweeter, in his eyes.

Don't you worry a thing, darling. Petrel will find you in no time. Just sit your pretty little head and relax for a while. There's no rush. It won't matter anyways since he will get you either way.

[thekuraning]

still going through my old laptop backups! some more old slowpoke tails and koffing fumes art under the cut!!!

Last time was just olympicshipping stuff but sometimes when i write i do little concept sketchies to help wrap my head around things so today im gonna show off some of those. they used to be on my deviantart but frankly i am uncertain if my page even still exists so back here they go!!!

if you remember alex no you don't i don't have like... a ton of art of him. because he's been canned so hard he might as well be sardines. and if you dont remember him he was a major antagonist in petrel's plot line who defected from team rocket. despite being a "major" antagonist i think he mostly only showed up in a couple chapters, mainly in the oh no they got arrested arc around ch20

here he is in technicolor

his sableye's name was slim. and if that sounds familiar.... it's because Alex actually followed the route of a lot of my old Rocket OCs and got repurposed! In this case, Nanu ate his heart and absorbed his powers and became the Ultimate Traitor (I Am All of Me from Shadow the Hedgehog blares in the background)

ive also got decarli and kevin from proton's crew

Decarli's remained... mostly consistent between STKF and ZFDS! he was always supposed to look pretty generic as a person and he's remained a music teacher-turned-rocket but!! someone who didn't make it into ZFDS is his lovely little mawile, Shoyu!! She was actually named by a reader for winning a contest! And actually, since this was back in the day when it was super easy to generate your own pokemon, I gave her away as a promotional gift, complete with her in-universe moveset and Decarli as her OT :) I don't keep in touch with the person who got her, but I hope she's out there somewhere in the big ol' pokemon world. And I hope she got to mega evolve at least once.

kevin did not make the cut to ZFDS and will proceed to not make the cut (but his sweet lil rattata, Ribbon, is going to find a new trainer soon!)

in ZFDS, Proton has flashbacks to the time he murdered his highschool bully and shoved his body into the river, but in STKF, his highschool bully ended up in Team Rocket, and his name was Kevin!! He ended up working in Proton's department in the HGSS arc. he had a big crush on proton, so petrel hated him

its ok kevin hated him back.

thats actually all the slowpoke tails old art i was able to find, so i shall now leave you to bear the weight of this curse:

[gildead]

CONTENT WARNING: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOOD AND GORE BELOW THE CUT. NO GRAPHIC IMAGES ARE DEPICTED. READER DISCRETION ADVISED.

Please doesn't respond to Petrel verbally. Why would she? He can't talk to Pokémon as far as she knows, and she doesn't have anything of note to say to him. Rather, she just gives him a growl before waddling to Gold's side, handing the folder off to her trainer.

As Petrel's final statement rings in his ears, Gold's not sure what to do with the information. It doesn't even strike him what Petrel could be talking about... until he opens the folder.

The sight makes him want to puke.

Graphic crime scene photographs, in full color, scatter out from within. The limbs torn from his body are put on full display, scarlet blood and violet flesh revealing broken bones within. Teethmarks break the skin, as if whatever had done this didn't just bite down, but tore them off.

He flips further. Away floats in behind him, eye widening as it realizes just what Gold's found. Petrel's right about one thing; the documents ARE heavily redacted. Gold recognizes █████ ███ as being his full name given the context. His other shoe's in the picture too, still on his left foot, so there's no denying who it is those limbs belonged to.

It's not the photographs of his scattered body parts that truly shake him, however. It's the description of 'a strangely-colored ███ spotted' above the attack site. The blurry purple and red figure photographed in the skies above, tail fanned behind it and wings outstretched. The piercing cry ringing in his ears even now.

'Have fun questioning why your Pokémon haven't tried to tell you.'

Gold's head turns slowly towards the rest of his team members, bones creaking as it moves. "You knew." It's not a question.

"You... all... knew."

...Yeah, he wasn't exactly surprised by this outcome. He'd hoped that in all of the shocking evidence he'd managed to dig up, the brat would comply in a moment of confusion. But alas, much like Bruno of the Elite Four, he was set up for constant endless disappointment.

The trickery only elicited a slow, dull blink. The man's 28, he knows nobody's gonna take the hard way out. Quite frankly, the ex-prodigy played his hand way too early by making Petrel realize the boy was still the brat through and through, rather than some sort of demon. The good guys don't kill, yadda yadda.

"Sure, whatever. Don't really care. I've seen unspeakable horrors today, and I promise I'm gonna fold from smoker's lung before your teeth hit bone." Was... was he talking directly to the Typhlosion?

"Stay mad about the Selfdestruct."

Okay yeah, he was talking to her. Quickly, his attention turned back to Gold.

"I'm off to go continue my starring role in Brycen-Man: Turn off the Dark. Enjoy the existential crisis or whatever. Oh, and one more thing..."

Popping open a Pokeball to summon his Weezing, he awkwardly gripped onto the tops of its heads, preparing to float away from the oncoming travesty.

"Have fun questioning why your Pokemon haven't tried to tell you."

[the-dark-fantastic]

Trick Or Peet (Fanfiction - Pokémon HG/SS - Petrel/Reader)

Title: Trick Or Peet Author: ultra-warped / the-dark-fantastic.tumblr.com Fandom: Pokémon HeartGold / SoulSilver Characters: Petrel/Reader, Giovanni, Team Rocket Grunts, Original NPCs Rating/Warnings: General/Teen - Completely SFW fic; the rating is for some mildly-naughty words and bad jokes. Notes: At the end of the fic (along with a 'deleted scene')! Summary: Everybody has a good time at the holidays. Even Team Rocket.

One of the great things about this town is that no one's ever too old for the Haunted Harvest Festival. Even the people who don't go all-out for it still give it a nod, in the way of a hairbow holding a tiny pointed hat, or a porch full of plush Pumpkaboos, or that one incredibly odd fellow with the lapel pin shaped like Mismagius that when you lean in turns out to be an actual Mismagius -

Alright, that guy's a f'n freak. But everyone else is having a good time, including you, though you'd probably be having an even better one if you hadn't gotten stuck taking your little brother around for tricks and treats. Your dad was supposed to do it this year, but -

"He went out for candy cigarettes three hours ago and hasn't come back," your mom said, staring out the window with the most worried expression she could possibly contrieve, and you'd just groaned, dropping your head into your hand. (He really will be back, though. Your mom just thinks that joke is a lot funnier than it is - but your brother's not old enough to understand it yet, so it's probably okay.)

(And to be honest, you wouldn't put it past your dad to have gone out the front door, snuck around the back, and been hiding in the basement choking on his own laughter. The whole family's like this, but at least you know where you got it from. And whose fault it will be when you finally get your sweet, sweet revenge.)

So you're stuck with the kid instead of meeting up with your own crew, but at least it's a nice night for it. Last year, it rained until the garlands of paper Ghost-types turned to purple mush, and the year before that, it was so cold that nearly everyone had ended up in a universal costume of parkas and overfluffed earmuffs. But right now it's warm enough to slip off the light jacket and go bare-armed, and once the temperature does start to fall, you'll have been running around for so long you'll welcome the kind of breeze that scratches leafless branches across a midnight sky.

Your neighbours are nice - and certainly festive (Gentleman Edward and Madame Vivianne do the absolute best amateur spookyard, hands down) - but for the real haul, most people head downtown, where all the local businesses and even a few of the larger chains are stocked with full-size chocolate bars, gift bags so heavy the bottoms are threatening to fall out, and in one case, a berry-bobbing tub deep enough to drown in. It's all about drumming up customers, of course, but it's hard to mind when every window is filled with a living display and the only way you can tell the employees from the guests is by their nametags because all the costumes are that damn good. There's no half-assing it with just a googly-eyed, wiggly-eared headband here.

But what's better yet (or much, much worse, or absolutely hysterical, depending on who you talk to)? Is that Team Rocket gets super-into it, too. No one had been happy when the infamous criminal organization had set up shop here - and it's not like they'd been open about it at first, they hadn't put the Big Red R on their roof or anything; but once the rumours started to spread, they'd spread fast, and once someone actually managed to prove it - by then, they'd become firmly enough entrenched that no one knew how to run them out to begin with, or if it would have been the right thing to do even if they’d found a way. Weirdly enough, Team Rocket puts a lot back into the local economy. So sort of an uneasy truce had formed, with most of the residents looking the other way as long as Team Rocket didn't do anything really publically illegal, and Team Rocket pretending their business wasn't doing things that were...well, really illegal.

But then they'd started up their Happy Harvest, Family Fun! campaign, handing out candy and trinkets and colourful little cards right outside HQ, and the PTA Brigade had lost their minds. “Criminals? Luring our children into their creepy black van? Not in my backyard!” If ever there was a lost cause, though, trying to keep kids away from an increasingly-shiny combination of candy and danger was probably it. Eventually, Moms Against Team Rocket (MoTeR, pronounced exactly like it wasn't actually spelled) had given up on attacking the event directly and settled for grumbling behind the closed doors of what their husbands assumed were meetings full of wine and those lemon bars their hands had been smacked away from.

Your mom hadn't been part of it (though you're not sure if that's because she isn't particularly concerned about Team Rocket or because of the Noodle Casserole Incident that had gotten her politely but firmly invited not to feel as if she needed to continue attending the PTA), and so you don't feel much guilt about taking your brother that way once the frenzy at the shops starts to die down. He's still as wound up as he'd been when you left the house and probably doesn't need any more sugar, but he's easier to manage when he thinks he's getting his way and once you get back, he's going to be your parents' problem, not yours. (Ha. There's your revenge.) He's run into one of his little cronies and they're shrieking about who's collected the most, and by the time you rock up to the Rocketyard, the stories being passed back and forth about all the people they know who know someone who's been to Lavender Town (and occasionally, someone who didn't come back from Lavender Town) are actually a relief, because every time they manage to scare each other silent, it lasts a whole three seconds or so.

Whatever's beyond those heavy red doors is off-limits to anyone not a member of the organization, so the party takes place outside, and outside is packed. Most years, it's been the grunts handling the handouts, but tonight - Seriously? The big boss himself? Those are the murmurs at the back of the line, anyway. You've never seen Giovanni in person before - just his portrait staring into your soul from the posters put up now-and-then - and you bounce up on your toes, trying to get a glimpse over the top of the crowd. You can't - too many taller heads prevail - but a pair of girls you remember vaguely from your senior year are passing by on their way out, and you can hear them giggling and gasping - "Oh! I know Team Rocket's terrible, but Mr Giovanni's really quite dashing, isn't he?" "...did you really just call him dashing? Did Celebi transport me back in time and I missed it?"

So it is him? That adds a further touch of mystery and excitement to a night that's already got no shortage of either. Why here? Why now? It's no secret that Team Rocket hosts these events to boost their image, but they're doing well enough right now (for a given value of 'well enough', anyway) - so is it that he feels safer making an appearance when public opinion is high, or could it be a ploy to push it even higher? Because, face it, ninety percent of these kids would vote the man into office right now. (The other ten percent are too firmly on the Pikachu is Pikafection platform, and by tomorrow, they'll all be throwing their support to Mr Mime's Wall O'Wonder Show. The candy bribes giveth, and the candy bribes taketh away.)

As you get closer, the image you've seen in those pictures begins to resolve. Giovanni isn't costumed (though he is very definitely dressed up - like, to the nines up), but he's made a concession to the festival by pinning a spray of purple blossoms to his lapel. He's seated in a chair padded with the sort of leather that probably shouldn't ever actually be brought outdoors, and though he's generally accompanied in promotional material by the most smug Persian the world has ever known, the Classy Cat is currently nowhere to be found. It seems, too, that the grunts are still the ones running the show, because Giovanni nods and smiles - kind of smirks, really - at the visitors who've made it to the front, but it's his henchmen who are filling bags and making jokes and pulling punches at the teenagers who think they're too cool for fun and just want to say they went toe to toe with Team Rocket.

And while the Persian may be strangely absent, there are an assortment of the other Pokémon people have come to associate with the most poisonous team in town - an Arbok dancing amidst fan-blown ribbons, the full Zubat evolutionary line flapping about overhead, and more Koffing than you can shake a swab stick at.

Seriously, there are so. Many. Koffing. They're bobbing around like balloons, and they're dressed up, too - with hats and body paint and fluttering capes, and one even has a little papier-maché head stuck to its side, so that it can know what it's like to be a Weezing even though it's not quite ready to evolve.

You've reached the end of the queue, and while your little brother is hopping up and down, jabbing the air next to a grunt who's clearly weary as hell but still doing his best to make sure all the kids get to have a good time, Giovanni steeples his fingers and dips his head in such a way that his eyes flash before going darker still, and alright, you can absolutely see why the airheads called him 'dashing'. You only get to hold the thought for a moment before the two of you are ushered away, though, and you don't have time to snatch it back before your brother's shoved his head into the sack and started reeling off a list of his ill-given gains. It's a smorgasboard of crackerjacks and actual jacks, little plastic toys that won't last for more than a day but it doesn't matter because little boys can't stay interested in most things that long anyway, and the reason you know they're going to break immediately is because your brother's managed to snap one in half before you've even made it halfway home.

Unfortunately, 'halfway home' is well before the limits of even the shortest attention span, and delight turns to dismay with a wail that could make a Haunter shudder and turn pale. You do what you can to, if not distract him, convince him that it's not the end of the world and he probably didn't care that much about the trinket anyway, but he's already convinced himself of the exact opposite, and in the end, the only thing you can get him to agree to is to stay right here while you run back to see if they'll give you a replacement. It's a goodwill gesture, right? And they'd all seemed fairly good-natured about it. Maybe they won't mind.

By the time you get there, though, things are winding down; the Rocketyard's mostly cleared out and the remaining grunts are either sweeping up the hundred thousand wrappers dropped by hands that are surprisingly incapable of holding on to anything for being so sticky, or trying to recapture the overly-excited Koffing that are now chasing each other around with all the grace of drunken bumper cars. "Oi! Peety! Come get your freakin' plague puffs!" one shouts, and if this Peety, whoever that is, answers, it's lost beneath the cacophany of cleanup. Your chances of finding (or buying, or begging) a new toy seem to be dwindling as rapidly as the chance anyone's getting those Koffing back in order, but from the corner of your eye, you catch a flash of dapper black vanishing around the building's far side, and screw it, you are going for the gold.

"Mr Giovanni! I'm sorry to bother you, but do you have a minute? My brother -" you call, and then you stop short, because as you come up on the man you're chasing, he starts to strip - no, wait, he's wearing something else beneath that fabulous suit, and you wouldn't have thought that to even be possible, it fit so well. Did he not hear you? He must not have, because he's dropped his face into his palms and raked his fingers through his hair, and when he turns toward you at last -

It's not Giovanni. It's a tall man in the black and white uniform of a Rocket executive, with purple hair swept up atop his head, and if you hadn't seen the transformation yourself, you never would have believed it. He's as surprised as you, now - but for a different reason - and the elegance he'd displayed in Giovanni's suit is gone as he stumbles back. "&#%$!" he yelps, and you can hear every symbol rolling off his tongue. "You, ah, didn't see that, did you?"

You stammer an answer as you edge away yourself, because as fun as it may be to play 'Take On Team Rocket!' when you're eight and loaded up on Vanillish Wafers, this seems a lot more like it's going to result in real trouble, and though your hands have found the wall and you're trying to use it to guide yourself back the way you came without taking your eyes off the executive, it's no use - his long legs outstride yours and he's caught up to you well before you have any real hope of getting away. His own hand plants to the wall, just beside your head, and he leans in, smirking that same smirk that had you so convinced he could really be the Fearless Leader. "'cause if you did, I'm gonna have to make sure you won't talk."

Oh, &#%$, you think, legs shaking, you are going to die here; you are going to disappear and at your empty-coffined funeral, your little brother is just going to scream that you hadn't gotten him another toy before you were tossed off the mortal coil, but before you can manage to pass out so that you at least won't see it coming, the man ducks the rest of the way in and smashes his lips to yours. And then he's gone, darting around that corner you were so desperate to reach yourself, and based on the sound that's rapidly fading as he puts ever-more distance between the two of you, you're pretty sure that he

is

giggling.

"G'damnit, Peety!" you hear as you're creeping out, apparently from the same grunt who'd been yelling for the mysterious Peety before. "The hell have you been?" You don't stick around for the reply, because no one's looking your way - including the lanky executive, who not only has his back to you once more but has suddenly been flocked to by every last one of the runaway Koffing, cloaking him in a cloud of poisonous purple love - and this seems like the perfect time to make your escape.

"Where is it where is it where is it!" your brother demands as you run back up, grabbing his hand to pull him along whether he's ready to go or not, and you mumble a reply you can barely understand yourself; They didn't have any more or They were already closed or something else that doesn't have a damn thing to do with what actually happened but at least takes the blame off you because what are you supposed to do in that situation? Your face is on fire, but as long as he's trying to find the perfect balance between crying over his broken knick-knacks and stuffing his mouth full of candy, he's not paying enough attention to notice, and by the time you've made it back to your house and pawned him off on your parents (Dad was indeed in the basement, and you are not surprised at all), that chill evening wind has mostly washed away what you haven't managed to yourself. The sooner you're in your own room, the better, though, and you spend a few minutes flattened to the closed door, trying to catch the breath that should never have left you in the first place.

...Team Rocket throws a Christmas party, too, don't they?

Notes:

- For @hollowsart, who said there wasn't enough Petrel/Reader fic in the world. - There was a discussion about Team Rocket (or at least some members) doing Random Acts of Kindness to cast them in a more positive light, which reminded me of the Yakuza group that does that with Halloween, which is how we're now getting a Halloween fic in May. >_> - It ended up with a lot less actual Petrel/Reader than I intended (or even Petrel at all), but this is what I do, I make it so we can't have nice things, and also I think it's cute so you'll get this and you'll like it! <_< - =D

Bonus Deleted Scene:

Jessie and James roll out a mechanical Persian, which promptly malfunctions, necessitating a need to whisk it away as quickly as possible lest the Jig Be Completely Up.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

STORM-FLYING PETRELS (VI)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VII ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.9k

WARNINGS: Panic attack, talks about death, guns, anxiety, insomnia & paranoia, angst, alcohol, littering in some heartfelt moments, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your nightmares were getting worse. It was undoubtedly true. 

The violent way you’d gasp into awakeness, tears, and sobs stuck on your lips as the large walls of your bedroom left you feeling more alone and isolated than anything. The barriers wouldn’t tighten—they would push out farther until all that remained was you and the bed, solitary and abandoned to darkness. Faces danced as the ghosts out in the hallways did at twilight, faces dripping blood and eyes reflective like a cat’s. 

Your father, the people in the park, the man you’d killed. 

Your mother, now, too. She stands next to Samson Row like a picture of perfection with a winning smile.

Gripping the damp rag in your hand tighter, you think over the moments after Gaz had told you about your matriarch landing in the States. It was almost comedic, now, the way you’d gone still and blank; bandaged hand loose over the paper with that telling red ink. Eyes boring into the way the Brit’s hand had tightened over his phone. 

Not moments prior you’d been mulling over the reality that your father had hidden things from you—how this strange moniker of ‘Chiyou’ rang to something inside of your head—and then another problem hits you. Over and over again it’s like you can’t catch a single break without it all falling to pieces.  

Even now, the stupid coffee stain on the dining room table is making your knuckles go thin from how hard you’re pressing. Your body was shivering, cold seeping into your bones even through your jacket. It was only an hour after the events in your dad’s office. 

Your teeth grit together, dragging the enamel into a scrape of pure anxiety. 

“I didn’t really take you for the stress cleaning type, Love.” Gaz watches you tightly, lips pulled back in concern from across the room. “Why don’t we just sit down and figure this out, yeah?”

“Or you can get the mop and start cleaning the floors.” You grunt, rubbing your shoulder into your cheek. 

In the time you’d been washing down the kitchen like a mad woman, you’d gone through four cups of coffee, and the jitters were plainly seen in your form as you jerkily ran back and forth. You'd call it pathetic if you were in the right state of mind. 

“Better yet,” you talk like you’re drunk, “get the duster and—” 

Your legs had left the table to go and grab the roll of towels on the island, but the world swirls halfway through your rapid pace. There’s a moment when you’re sure the house is tipping on its side, the foundations caving in from under you. 

You make a sound in the back of your throat when your legs buckle.

But before you slam to the ground, strong arms wrap around your middle and you can’t even breathe enough to push them off.

“Whoa! Okay, alright,” Gaz holds you, body firm and warm in a way you never could be. “Christ,” He whispers, face stiff. “Easy.”

Half bend over, you stare at the floor as the Brit brings you down slowly to your knees. He crouches in front of you and swiftly places his fingers on your pulse; skin sliding along your neck. You want to gag but have to make your head stop spinning first. 

In a moment of shaking lungs, you take down a deep breath. Like a vale, black fabric sits at the edge of your vision.

“Love, I’m going to need you to focus on me, yeah?” Gaz speaks slowly, his tone tight but still shining with worry. “Just listen to me.”

Your eyes burn and your chest is held down by bricks. Kyle’s grip goes to the back of your shoulders as he shifts you over, turning you like a toddler to rest your back against the island. Gasping lowly, your body fights against all normal senses—quivering and sweating at nothing. Your mind was pulsing with…everything. 

Devoid of any other option in a state of inner panic, you focus on the feeling of Gaz’s hands rubbing up and down your arms. It’s a few long minutes of borderline hyperventilating until the dim light of the kitchen slowly invades your eyes. 

The steady drip of tears makes itself known seconds later. Had you been crying?

“That’s it,” the Brit whispers, tilting his head to you and offering a small, tense, smile. Kyle’s lower face blinks into reality as your clenched hands loosen. Stings of pain echo up your injured palm. “It’s alright, we’re just in the kitchen…” He thins his lips and stops his hand movements; gradually taking his limbs back as you catch your breath. 

You clench your jaw against the sting of growing embarrassment. 

“Sweetheart…?” 

“I didn’t ask for your help,” your voice is shaky and cuts out in places. Kyle looks away and closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head calmly. 

“Don’t need to ask for it,” he grumbles, caution stuck in his throat but being honest. “Take a deep breath.”

You nearly want to spite him and hold your lungs still, but you push aside your stubborn nature and do as he says. Groaning under your breath, your hands go up to your eyes, rubbing into the sockets. After a long moment where you can feel Gaz’s gaze stuck on you as his feet shuffle, you lower your hands and sigh long. 

“She can’t see the house like this.” You whisper, genuinely distraught. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Kyle’s eyes tighten, and he finds himself not knowing what to say to you. His heart constricts.

Sniffling, you rub at your cheeks, beginning to shove off the floor until firm hands once more snap to your shoulders. They keep you back against the island as you growl and attempt to jerk out of them. 

“Would you quit it?” In reality, you don’t want to be here anymore—not in the kitchen, no, near Gaz. Shame makes your stomach roll with nausea. You need to go back to your room; the closed curtains and the dark corners. 

Every action that was made near him was laced with agony; a knife stabbed through your chest. Even if his intentions weren’t sinister. You just need to be alone.

“Well, would you bloody sit down, then?” He’s serious about this, his grip not hurting but still tight. Gaz puts one hand atop his head and resituates his hat with a digging of his dark eyes. You glare at his neck with hatred. “I’m askin’ you to take a second, Love. Just let yourself calm down a bit. You’re running yourself ragged over this, yeah? Fuckin’ hell, look at what just happened!” 

“It’s nothing!” You snap but know that it’s not the truth. Gaz aggressively shakes his head and looks away with disappointment in his eyes. 

He knows it’s not your fault, and in fairness, he’s not disappointed in you at all. He’s disappointed he didn’t have a larger backbone about getting you involved in this. The day you both first met weighs on him every time he looks at you; every time he walks through his decaying house. The remnants of what’s left. 

The details in the office are brightly lit in his brain. 

Kyle takes a large breath and lets his tension drop instantly. There is an overwhelming amount of mixed concern and confusion that always makes itself known when he’s around you. 

Grunting, the Brit shifts on the floor and rests his back on the island right next to you on the floor. He bends one of his knees and rests his elbow over it, scratching at his chin with his fingers before resting his arm completely—letting it hang. You blink over in silent shock, mildly uncomfortable from how close he was. 

Strained silence falls as your hand slips into your jacket pocket; fiddling with the coin in its clutches. Your heart still pounds, eyes finicky as they dart from Gaz to the far wall and floor. 

Kyle clears his throat as your wounded arm burns. 

“How about we make a deal, yeah?” Your fingers pause with their rolling of the coin, but you don’t look over. Gaz tilts his head in your direction and stares at the side of your face—not trying to make you uncomfortable, just wanting to gauge your reaction. He takes a deep breath and, when you don’t reply, continues. “I help you clean, and when I say we take a break, I have to answer one question of your choice.” 

That piques your interest, ears twitching up. 

In your head you immediately snap back to the events in his room; the warmth of Kyle’s hands as he held and stitched you up with his story about his scars. You don’t know why you can’t stop thinking about it at every other moment.

You hum an acknowledgment, flinching when the chemicals start to turn your hand numb. Gaz lightly shushes you, squeezing your wrist. 

Your wrist rolls as you move it in a circle to push back tingles.

Pressing your coin into your palm, you think over Gaz’s proposal as he waits for an answer expectantly. He thinks to himself that if you agree, then he’s one step closer to getting on your good side for the remainder of this protection stint. The Brit prays you just hear him out.

He doesn’t want to admit how much your light-headedness has put a strain on his heart. How fast his eyes had snapped back and his feet darted forward. 

“You said your mother was a florist?” You don’t verbally agree or disagree with Gaz’s question, but the inquiry you say into the echoey kitchen is enough to know. It was strange, though, that you were asking a question that you already knew the answer to. As well as with how it was a personal one. But the Sergeant, nonetheless, holds back the pull of his large smile and nods.

“Affirmative. Little place down the street from my childhood home.” You stare at the far wall, and after a second your head slowly angles back so that your head rests on the island behind you. 

It must be a sight, the two of you on the floor of a dusty and barren kitchen. You can’t find the strength right now to get up and stalk away. Kyle rubs the back of his neck and is surprised by your follow-up. 

“What’s she like?” His brown eyes widen a smidge as he looks at your blanks and placid face. Voice small like a bird. 

“Uh,” the Sergeant falters, but recovers quickly, “she’s…nice, good, even. I’ve not spoken to her for a bit, but she’s…” Gaz halts for a moment, blinking, “...she’s just about everything you could ask for and more. Taught me well.” He ends his sentence with a dismissing huff. 

You feel your gut tighten, but hum in response. 

Kyle wonders if it’s his curiosity or his determination that makes him speak next, “What about yours, then?” Your body tightens back up immediately and he scrambles. “N-not in a personal way, just…you speak fondly of them, your parents, I mean.”

Most of the time. 

Licking your lips, you wonder if it’s really necessary to answer. But it had been so long since you’d had someone to speak to. Kyle had been slowly worming his way into the remnants of your everyday routine like a parasite; finding its home in the body of your family's estate. 

There were a large number of negative emotions attached to this Brit, yet still, once you’d opened the gates of your mouth, there was little chance of stopping. He’d taken a screwdriver and was working away since he’d saved you that day in the park. 

“They loved each other.” You settle with, hearing Gaz sigh in relief to see you weren’t going to snap and stalk off. “My mother was always with my father—they did everything together. She was more strict than him; wanted me to go into something with more prospects than follow Dad into a history degree. But…” You think, coin-face leaving indents into your flesh. Whatever damage had been done to your injured palm had slowed its heated pulse. “...Seady,” Kyle listens intently. “She was steady. Like a rock.”

Something akin to pain bleeds into your face and the man keeps himself from putting a hand on your shoulder in comfort. 

“I guess she just couldn’t handle it when he died. Needed to get away.” While you had dug your heels in and stayed stationary, she’d gone off and taken a shift overseas. To forget or to find something more, you never asked. When she was gone, you really couldn’t say much changed. 

After all, that entire first year was a blur of black and red. 

You take a shallow breath and pull your hands from your pockets. “Can’t say I blame her. Just… nervous about seeing her again.” 

This was more than Kyle expected. His brows were slightly higher on his face, eyelids curved. He clears his throat slightly, looking away quickly. Guilt, as it seems to do a lot recently, builds on his shoulders like a castle of stone.

He never should have agreed to that damned interrogation, but how was he to know that Row would pull the trigger for no reason? 

Hell, was that even an excuse? 

“...I’m sorry, Love,” he says, and your breath stops with mounting pressure inside of your throat. 

Your head slowly turns his way and you stare at the space where his stubble is taunt under his nose. 

“What…?” He barely hears the words. 

Kyle’s head fully turns your way but you don’t balk back when his brown orbs graze the side of your vision—so nearly looking into them but still so far. Eyes are wide and nearly frightened in expression by the words that had just entered your eardrums.

Kyle speaks up, “I said I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I never should have bloody played along with the bastard plan. It wasn’t right. I’m not asking you to forgive me, I just…need you to know that, y’know?” 

Face burning, you open and close your mouth; vision darting from random points on the Sergeant’s face until you snap your head away in a flurry of tight lips and shaking shoulders. You burn holes into the far wall but look more anxious than anything. 

Your lungs get tight and your nose feels like you’re breathing in needles, but you refuse to cry in front of this man again. No matter how much the words were like a bucket of cold water to your scalp. 

You can never forgive him for what he helped do—for the gun and the bag over your head; the death and trauma—but you’d never even expected an apology. It…it meant something, but what that was, you weren’t quite sure. 

All you do is shrug brokenly. 

“I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” Kyle tries to comfort you. “It’s been what? Around three years since you’ve seen her? Well,” he chuckles lightly, “I’m sure the first thing she’ll do is give you a bloody huge hug. Lift you off the ground and all.”

You scoff, finding your breath. “She was never a hugger, Garrick.”

“People change, wanna wager on it?” Your brows turn into a line. “A ten.”

“No.” 

“Ah, c’mon!” 

“No!” You growl at a smirking Sergeant as he tilts his head back and laughs, hat-brim sticking out from his head. He raises his hand in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Point taken, then.” Rolling your eyes, you huff and rub at your eyes aggressively. While some of your nerves had left, the sheen of it still lived in the lines on your forehead. The air wafts back into that strange tension and delicate sanctity.

“My own father,” Gaz starts slowly, measuring words. “Was in the service. A soldier.” His arm moves up and he shifts it so it hovers above your lap. His wristwatch glints and after a dim hesitance, you carefully reach out a hand to touch the material; tiling it towards you. Your eyes slide over it as Kyle’s face softens, his tone easy. “I took after him, too. Tough luck I never managed to grow a green thumb, probably would have saved me some soiled clothes.” 

You puff air from your nose.  

“Can’t see you retiring to the garden anytime soon, unfortunately.” Gaz smiles and takes his arm back tactfully. 

“Hm,” the man settles back and sighs. “No, probably not, Ma’am. Just hope I don’t end up like he did.” 

At your angled head and glimmering eyes, he continues, “Fell in the line of duty when I was ‘bout as tall as a table. My Mum never wanted me to go chasing after his memory—we don’t talk much because of it.”

It was the way you could mirror yourself into Kyle’s own childhood that really struck you, but as your brain went a mile a minute you rolled it back into focus. You can think about that later, but right now you just wanted to try and understand the way you were feeling. 

“Why are you telling me this, Kyle?” You whisper. The Brit’s hand comes up to rub at his neck. 

“Because I feel like you need someone to talk to,” he hums. “Even if you don’t like ‘em.”

The tease is evident in his tone. 

You don’t like that he splays your emotions out like this—knows that something’s wrong even if it’s entirely obvious. He talks about it, and that's entirely foreign to you. Three years of solitude with no one to utter to but your professors and Hector. Only one of those you could consider somewhat of a friend, really. Hector listened when you ranted and seemed to at least care about you to a moderate degree. He had two girls after all, and although you’d never met them, you knew they were good kids. Loved.

Hector was all you had, and you told him nearly everything. 

And now…well…now Kyle wants you to talk? Part of you wanted to chuck a coffee mug at his head. 

You shake your head, walls going back up. 

“Keep your end of the bargain, Garrick. Go get the mop.” Brown eyes sadly watch after you as your arms shove you up. Standing, you rub at your eyes and snatch the paper towels from the island counter like they had personally wronged you.

Kyle hums under his breath and shakes his head, fixes his cap, and pushes up to follow.

—

You speak again far later, and despite his comments about not becoming the cook of the mansion, you can’t fight him in the fact that his food was good. And you both had to eat, regardless. 

Sitting in the back library, you place the plate of Gnocchi with creamed spinach down with a clack as you push aside the bottle of disinfectant spray. The white sheet that had been around the furniture was ripped back some minutes ago to show a luxurious chaise lounge of navy tufted fabric and a small side table. Your mother’s favorite pieces in the house, ironically. Gaz is already eating, standing near the fireplace in the center of the wide and extravagant room. 

He looks around every so often at the scores of books and ladders that extend to the ceiling. Everything about this house, he thinks to himself, is the definition of old money.

“All we need to pull this together,” Kyle licks at the side of his mouth and smiles as he says, “Is a nice bottle of Fiano, eh?” He laughs, “Don’t suppose you have a wine cellar, Ma’am? I’d say you deserve it after a day like today.”

Your form pauses momentarily when bringing the fork to your lips, but you continue with a blink and say, easily, “Cellar? Yeah, but don’t plan on anything being down there. It’s all gone.” 

Gaz tilts his head, bringing his own fork to his lips and chewing. “That’s a right shame. Would have paired nicely.”

You place your utensil down in exasperation and glare at his throat. “You are the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

Kyle’s expression goes mock offended. “Hey!” He humphs, “If you keep letting me cook then I’m going to do my bloody best!”

“There’s incriminating evidence in my father’s office and you’re worried about wine?” 

“I’m not worried,” Gaz points the fork at you as you shake your head and get to eating. “I said it would pull it together. There’s a damn difference, Love.”

You can’t believe this is the man that’s living in your home. Helping you clean; keeping you from being shot—talking about wine. It’s a miracle you haven't killed him at this point. 

“Tough luck,” you grumble, chewing. “There’s none left. Suffer alone.”

“Well, that’s just uncalled for, that is,” Gaz utters, getting the last piece of flooded potato and sticking it in his mouth. The smirk in his words is evident. But the weight of your previous words stands, and you get into the next topic swiftly.

“I need to go into my father's old office in the museum, Garrick.” The man’s arm stills from where he tilts his plate to get some of the spinach onto his fork. His shoulders tighten immediately. 

“Negative,” the Brit’s voice echoes. “Not happening, Ma’am. We’ll get someone else on it.”

No one else knows my father. There’s a part of you that knows that no one else can figure this out as you can. 

Red ink, copied signatures, that blasted moniker. It’s a literal trail of bodies that you need to piece together for this to make the painting you’re working on—brushstroke by brushstroke.

In your heart you know there’s more going on. Your father wasn’t what people are telling you, even if he knew things that sullied his image. This wasn’t right.

“Gaz,” you try not to let your anger show at this—growing tired of the constant fights. “This isn’t something that I can compromise on.” Kyles stares and sets his jaw.

“I’m not letting you leave his mansion, Ma’am. For yourself and for others.” He takes a breath. “Let my mates handle it; Laswell’s already got a unit together. They’re rechecking the docks and the museum by your counsel soon. Spoke to her just after I got news of your mum coming back.”

Soon wasn’t soon enough. You don’t know why, but unease hits your stomach. The house had always felt like it had ears on it, but when you were talking about stuff like this it seemed alive. The curtains sway with the AC, the wood creaks more. It’s horrible. 

Or maybe it was just because Gaz was living here. But it just felt like….eyes. 

“Kyle,” you try to stay the venom from your tongue. Anyone can tell you’re strained. “I’m asking nicely, here.”

“And you said you would listen to me, Love.” The Brit rubs at his forehead. “I’m not doing this to be difficult, truly.” A long sigh exits, a tired but honest one. He wishes you’d look him in the eyes so he can make you understand he only wants what’s best for you. The way you’d been after the shooting…Gaz’s hands remember the tightness of elastic as he stitched you back up—you’re vacant gaze. He can’t have that happen again. “I’m keeping you alive if you could only stay here. This house is secure, and if we go into a potentially target-rich environment, I have no say in what could happen to you, yeah?” 

You knew this, of course you did, but so much had been discovered in so little time.

“Sergeant, I—”

“No, Ma’am. That’s an order. We’re staying here and that’s final.” It seemed whatever strange feelings from the kitchen and office are far gone now. Kyle’s face is like stone, and you stare at his scars with returning resentment. Could he not see how much this meant to you? No, how could he? All he does is follow his fucking orders.

Your teeth snap around the food on the end of your utensil, sliding off the metal as you think. Letting fire flare in your gaze, you glare at the plate and say nothing else. Angry, but not defeated.

Kyle and you go back into a highly uncomfortable silence. Closing his eyes, the man twitches his nose as his legs shift from under him. Suddenly the brick of the fireplace is grating to feel against his athletic shit. 

He grunts and shovels his last bit into his mouth as you stand—food only half-eaten. 

Brown eyes stare as you stalk out of the room, hand clenched around your plate. When you’re out of sight, Gaz lets out, “Christ…just fucking brilliant.”

But he wasn’t about to tell you that you could leave; you can sulk all you want, but that’s not changing his opinion. 

You stomp through the immediate hallway like a child, playing your part perfectly. Once you are far enough away, your feet speed up to a light jog and carry you to the front door. You open it and place the entire thing on the front step; a backend form darts out from the bushes and hisses. 

You harshly whisper into slitted eyes, “Oh, step off, you temperamental demon.” The door shuts and you race up to your room—bounding up the foyer stairs two at a time, knowing exactly where to place your weight to make sure the steps won't creak. 

Entering the blackened room, you close the door and lock it with deft fingers. Looking at the clock, you engrain the time of seven-fifteen to memory and resolve to be back by midnight. Gaz makes his first round at eight, but he won’t bother you if you’re pissed as you intended to make it seem. From then it’s twelve and then at four. 

If you can get back in before he does that middle-of-the-night search, you’d be golden. 

You rush to your curtains, peeling them back and blinking at the water spots on the glass behind them. Shaking your head, you unlatch the lock and look down at the two-story drop into bushes as you push aside the window with a slow squeal of hinges. 

“I’m getting answers,” you whisper stubbornly. No Sergeant would stop that. Backing up from the frame, you feel the chilled breeze and pull your jacket tighter against the nighttime air. 

Licking your lips, your eyes slide to the curtain wrack and your brain sparks with mischief. But before you do anything reckless or admittingly dumb, you turn with a serious expression to the nightstand that you stare at, morning after morning.

A moment of a rapid pulse passes in tight silence before you walk over.

With a small quiver in your finger, you place your hand on the brass handle like it could snap at you with merciless teeth. It stays there as you dig your eyes into the wood, searing it with purpose, that cold, lifeless metal in your tensed grip. With a grit of your teeth, you let it drop numbly, shaking your head. You grab your wallet and phone instead, stuffing them into your pocket, and shuffling away.

“Don’t need it,” your low voice reasons aloud, a hidden object swiftly leaving your consciousness. 

Dragging your desk chair over to the tall curtains, you grasp a hold of the metal rod that holds them with trapped breath, reaching on your tiptoes carefully. Puffing out breaths, you unhook it after the third try with a mute chuckle. A smirk takes residence on your face. 

Getting down on unsteady feet, you accidentally knock the hard material directly into the wall with a loud slam as your legs shift too quickly.

You freeze in an instant, ears strained and eyes wide. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you stand holding the rod, those navy curtains a swell of the deep sea at your feet. 

Body ready to bolt, you take thin breaths before you realize nothing else is moving in the house. Letting out a long and slow breath, you move backward. 

Setting the rod across the opening of the window frame parallel, it stands in as an anchor as you feel your backside connect with the bottom wall. Focusing, you lift one leg and twist your spine to leave you straddling the frame with nervous pulses in your veins. Ducking your head, you move your grip to the curtains and grab them tightly, muscles straining. 

In a moment of courage, you say, “C’mon, I can do this…” and place one foot on the outside frame. The wood groans and sinks in, but you don’t let it scare you off. This had to be done. With a deep breath, you lean back with tightly closed eyes. 

Except you don’t fall. 

Lids pulling back, you stare at where your feet dig into the frame and how your hands hold the curtains—held themselves by the rod on the inside of your room that spans far more than the window's size. Your entire body is at an angle, hair swishing behind you due to gravity. 

“Holy hell,” You can’t help but utter, chuckling. 

Moving one foot back, you place it firmly to the side of your house as you scale backward down to the ground with sliding hands. The long curtain rod holds tight. 

In mere minutes, your feet hit down and you stumble before letting the curtain slowly go—far above hearing the slight ping of the thing hitting the floor at the loss of tension. With a smile on your lips, you dart away into the back garden before Gaz can even question the noise coming from your room.

All that’s left are the curtains whipping in the breeze.

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