#she hates lunging so this was quite the trick getting her to lunge over fences | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

minuteminx · 4 years ago

Text

Revolutionary

[NEW FIC ALERT!!]

Pairing: Preston Garvey/ Female Sole Survivor

Summary: In the aftermath of personal tragedies, Preston and Charlie both seek to make a difference in the Commonwealth and those around them. They could never anticipate the impact that they will have on eachother in the process.

[AO3 Link]

Chapter One: Paul Revere

“You cannot buy the revolution. You cannot make the revolution. You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.” ― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

Qunicy Ruins, June 2288

When Preston was a kid, he’d sit with his dad on their tattered rug as the man picked lackadaisically at the strings of an ancient guitar. He’d wax all sorts of poetic about the past, the times before the war, before the bombs fell, before everything was rads and raiders and running from bands of ferals. It was that Great Commonwealth Myth of a pre-war paradise, of big ideals, and boundless opportunity. A myth that one would hear refuted if they listened closely enough to grumbles from ghouls who’d managed to keep their sanity over the two centuries since the end of the world.

The myth was a lie, for sure, one Preston had clung to for most of his life. But he couldn’t anymore, not as he stood staring at the massive pile of ashes that used to be his comrades and the settlers they attempted to protect. The bastards who murdered all of those people were direct descendents from the monsters who made weapons with enough power to wipe entire regions off the map. There was no paradise; it was just a prettier picture.

The Quincy settlement, if he could still call it that, looked a lot different since the last time he’d seen it, surrounded by junk fences and lined with barbed wire at the top. Buildings were tagged with Gunner graffiti, and the streets were quiet as the mass grave that the settlement had turned out to be. It really didn’t make much sense. Shouldn’t it have been some sort of bustling Gunner stronghold after Clint and his buddies went to all that trouble to claim it?

“I don’t like this,” Charlie remarked suddenly, her raspy voice a quick reminder that he wasn’t alone, hadn’t been alone for over eight months now. He turned to face her, eyes flicking around the ruins to the seven other Minutemen who’d come along. Millie was the only one who noticed him, and she gave him the least reassuring smile he’d ever seen.

“Neither do I,” he agreed as he returned his gaze to Charlie. “Not one bit.”

“It wasn’t like this when I got away,” Millie added, glancing around the square, “I know that there had been mention of disagreements between Clint and the other bosses, probably because he has the leadership ability of a bloatfly.”

Preston smirked. “Now, Millie, I think that’s giving him too much credit.”

She laughed and opened her mouth to reply to him, but an explosion rang out instead as a launched projectile crashed into one of the buildings just ahead of them. She eyed the area frantically before locking onto the rooftop of the church. “Shit. It’s Baker.”

“Baker?” He snapped his gaze up to the walkway, catching a glimpse of a figure clad in power armor and wielding a goddamned fat man.

“He’s one of the other bosses… and it looks like he found himself a new toy.”

Preston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, running through the list of possible strategies in his head. “We need to fall back,” he muttered under his breath decisively, then looked up to make the suggestion to Charlie, to the general, “We need to fall b--”

She’d already taken off toward the church, a pistol in either hand, without giving a single order to him or the others. He wanted to drop everything and chase after her, to stop her from running directly into danger, just once. But someone had to give some kind of instruction before Baker launched a nuke directly on top of them. He waved his hand over his head and back toward the gates, motioning for the others to head back out of the middle of town. “Fall back. Head up to the walkways if you can. We can’t win this from the ground.”

Millie remained where she stood as the others fled to safety. “I’ll get these guys into position,” she stated, then nodded in the direction Charlie had run, “You go fetch your general.”

“But--” Another mini nuke exploded, in the distance this time, and his stomach lurched.

“Go.” She flicked her wrist in a shooing motion. “You’re not gonna be any use back here worried about her out there trying to pistol whip Baker to death.”

He snorted out a laugh despite the gravity of the situation, the image of the rail thin red-head successfully tackling him down, power armor and all, and smacking the butt of her favorite 10mm into his nose. Honestly, he’d seen her get away with wilder things. He tipped his hat at his long time friend, gave his musket a quick crank, and ran off after his wildcard general.

He faced little resistance on his way to the church, only a couple of Gunner conscripts crossed his path, and he was able to take them out easily. It looked like a lot of their efforts were focused on Millie and the others at the gates and climbing up the walkways. It was for the best, but it didn’t make him worry any less for their safety.

When he finally reached the church, it was too quiet, especially for somewhere Charlie was supposed to be. There was no gunfire, no talking, nothing. Just silence. Preston scanned the area, heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. After everything Charlie had been through, all she’d survived, she couldn’t be dead now, not while doing a favor for him, not with all that unfinished business between them. She couldn’t.

Several moments passed, and there were still no signs of life in the area. He decided to head inside the church, figure out how to get up to the roof for a better view. Just as he moved toward the door, a loud clank of metal sounded behind him and he spun on his heels, weapon readied.

It was the traitor himself that he turned to face, Clint, in his hulking suit of stolen power armor, a militia hat perched disrespectfully atop his buzz cut head. He still wore sunglasses that were so reflective that Preston could see his own furious face in the lenses. Clint let out an arrogant chuckle, and stomped up closer.

“Well, well, well,” he mocked, “What do we have here? Paul Revere himself?”

“Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to correct a man he intended to kill, but the words slipped out.

“I know who you are. Read all about you in Ol’ Ezra’s holotapes.” Clint laughed again. “And the Minutemen don’t exist anymore. I got rid of the last of ‘em, myself.

“You missed one,” Preston remarked, dryly.

“What? You? Ha!.” Clint shook his head. “And that merry band of farmers you marched in through the front gate with? Kind of a rookie move, there, son.”

“ Don’t call me son,” Preston spat, venom filling his mouth.

Before he could react, Clint’s armored fist slammed into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying back against the rusty skeleton of an old car. Preston’s head crashed against the metal, and pain pulsed out from the point of impact throughout his whole head. His vision spun around him, creating a double of the man who towered over him. He felt sick to his stomach, and couldn’t quite figure out how to get back to his feet or where his weapon went. Darkness crept in at the corners of his vision.

“I hate mouthy punks,” Clint growled.

Preston attempted to speak, but couldn’t find words in the chaos of his head. He mumbled something even he couldn’t interpret.

“Oh man,” Clint exclaimed, smirk twisting on his face, “You’re really making this easy, Garvey. Can’t say you live up to Ezra’s praise. What in the goddamned wasteland made you think you could rebuild the Minutemen? You can’t even take a punch. Pathetic.”

As Clint spoke, Preston noticed a blur of movement behind the other man. He knew his eyes must have been playing tricks on him because it looked as if the air vibrated like it sometimes did in highly irradiated areas. Quincy wasn’t one of those places. The only other thing it could be was a--

Just as he thought the word stealth boy , the wobble in the air dissipated, and Charlie stood no more than ten feet behind Clint. She slowly raised a finger to her lips in a shushing motion, and readied her weapon to aim. Preston couldn’t keep the relief washing over his face, mouth twitching at the corners. She was alive, and not only that, she’d come to save him once again. Mama Murphy really did hit the nail on the head all those months ago.

“Why are you smiling,” Clint asked abruptly, lifting his laser rifle, locking it straight in the direction of Preston’s chest. “What’s so fucking funny, huh?”

“Nothing, man,” Preston managed, words slurring, “Nothing at all.”

At that moment, Charlie unleashed a terrifying barrage of shots into Clint’s armor, damaging the legs so severely that they locked in place, and Clint had to jump out. “What the--” he began, and turned around, to face his attacker. “You little bitch .”

He attempted to raise his weapon and aim at her, but before he could get there, she’d pulled her trigger. Preston couldn’t make out where she’d shot Clint, but the man dropped his gun and fell to his knees, before falling to his face. Charlie holstered her pistols, and stared down at the man she’d just killed, expression as flat as he’d ever seen it.

“I’m not a bitch,” she muttered, shaking her head before setting her gaze on Preston, worry knitting her brows as soon as their eyes met. She rushed over to where he sat, up against the car he’d been thrown into, and knelt down, cupping his face with a gloved hand on either side and turning his head to the left and then the right, clearly examining him for injury. She flipped a switch on her PipBoy, flashing a bright beam of light into each of his eyes. He squinted and shook his head, causing her to giggle, but he could hear the tears and sniffling between laughs.

“You’re okay,” she assured him, pressing an unexpected kiss to his forehead, “Looks like you might have a concussion, but you’re safe. I’m here.”

“You’re really scary sometimes, you know that,” he stated, words still stumbling out of his mouth clumsily.

She laughed nervously and glanced away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, I just… I’d just watched Clint knock you into this car, and he was about to kill you and I just--.”

“No,” he corrected her, grin spreading across his face, “It’s kinda hot.”

She snorted and a tear rolled down her cheek, dripping off her chin. “Jesus, you hit your head harder than I thought.”

“It’s still the truth,” he admitted weakly, vision closing in entirely. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness entirely, was her voice calling his name.

“Preston?”

#fallout 4 #preston garvey #preston garvey x f!sole survivor #female sole survivor #fanfiction #my writing #long post

25 notes · View notes

bytheangell · 5 years ago

Text

A Few Good Points

(Read on AO3) Square Filled: Sports AU for @shadowhunterbingo Pairing: Clace, and Clary & Alec friendship Rating: Gen – Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Tags: fencing, college au, Summary: Clary didn't imagine the first time she'd meet her boyfriend's brother would be standing across from him with a sword in her hand. ------------- “I’m not going to go easy on you just because you’re dating my brother,” are the first words that Alec Lightwood ever says to her.

Clary stares up at him, willing her mouth to not drop open, and gulps.

“Quit scaring her,” Jace says, elbowing Alec in the side. “How about, ‘Hey Clary, nice to meet you. Jace has told me so much about you’.”

Alec rolls his eyes. “This is a training evaluation, not family dinner,” he points out. “But I’ll make you a deal. For every point you get against me in the next twenty minutes, I’ll tell you an embarrassing childhood story about Jace. You get more than 2, I’ll throw in a photo.”

Clary doesn’t know if she should be glad he doesn’t seem to completely hate her at first sight, or upset that he doesn’t even think she’s going to get 2 hits in 20 minutes worth of evaluation. Then again, already fully dressed in his back-zip jacket, white pants, and plastron, he makes an imposing figure to stand across from.

“Deal,” she says with far more confidence than she feels as she goes to change into her own gear.

Clary met Jace when she took fencing as a physical education elective in college, just for the randomness of it all. Jace was one of the TAs since he played for the school’s fencing club. So, naturally, when the two of them seemed to hit things off during classes Clary decided to take a much more invested interest in fencing… enough to actually get half-decent at it in her attempts to spent more time with Jace under the guise of trying to join the club herself one day. It gave her plenty of excuses for some extra one-on-one time that had the end result she hoped for, and she and Jace have been dating for about two months now.

She didn’t count on actually loving the sport as much as she does, still wanting to join the club when all is said and done.

What she also didn’t count on was for Jace’s very intimidating older brother to be the Captain of Idris University’s fencing team.

Jace warned her that Alec can be a little abrasive at first but promised her it’s all for show and he’s actually very caring. She isn’t sure she believes him.

She feels the need to win Alec over just the same. What she has with Jace… it’s new, but she can already feel that it’s special. It’s different from any other relationship she’s had and she wants this to go well.

But first, she has to focus.

The good thing is that Alec is about the same height as Jace, which means she’s working with a height difference she’s used to. It isn’t much of an advantage against someone as skilled as Alec but it’s better than nothing, doing her best to remember the tips Jace gave her every time she went up against him. Attack in counter time. Build your stamina. Improve your speed.

They salute and begin. Clary takes a deep breath to calm herself, hanging back. Allow the taller opponent to close the distance. Of course, Alec knows exactly what she’s doing, and isn’t about to let her do it easily. He knows she’ll waste much more energy than he would to close the gap between them and he tricks her into it time and time again, leaving himself open just long enough for her to think she can sneak in a hit, only for him to block her time and time again as well.

She can barely make out his face through the black mesh of the mask but she knows he’s smirking. In fact, she’s pretty sure she hears him laugh once or twice. Or maybe that’s just one of the onlookers watching her barely hold her own against him. Once she’s brave enough to get close she uses the infighting to her advantage, staying close enough that her shorter arms get her one point (to Alec’s 6, but she’s trying not to think about that) while she’s too close for Alec’s longer arms to get a hit on her with the tip of his sword.

Of course, the crowding technique doesn’t last forever. The distance Alec can cover with a lunge is impressive, and he keeps Clary from getting that close again for the remainder of their time. She gets one lucky hit in while Jace screams something from the sides and Alec glances over at him, momentarily distracted, which brings her up to 2 (to Alec’s 11 now, which she’s still trying not to think about) with just a minute left. Remembering the bet she made with Alec before they started, Clary moves fast in that last minute, getting in one last hit that feels way, way too easy.

“You let me get that point,” she accuses with narrowed eyes as they both remove their helmets and meet in the middle to shake hands.

“Maybe,” Alec admits with a shrug. “But it was for my own benefit. I have some great embarrassing photos to share. It’d be a shame if you didn’t get to see them”

Clary laughs. “Next time I’m earning that 3rd hit fair and square,” she insists.

“With a little more work? I think you can get more than 3 points next time. You’re really good for a beginner,” Alec says.

“Really?” Clary asks, surprised. “You’re not just saying that to be nice?”

“Really,” Alec promises, and Clary beams.

“Why do you believe him when he says it, but not me?” Comes Jace’s voice from behind her, just before he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her into him, both of them swaying slightly on the spot from the sudden shift.

“Because you do have to say that to be nice,” Clary reminds Jace, turning her head to place a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “But something tells me if I was actually awful Alec would just say so.”

“She’s a quick one,” Alec says with a slight smirk, still guarded, but friendlier now. “You might not be half-bad, Fray. I hope you stick around.”

Clary’s surprised how relieved she feels at those words even if they’re far from a ringing endorsement. It’s a start.

And later, at dinner, after a few drinks and many more than the 3 promised embarrassing stories and incriminating photos of Jace from Alec (and vice versa), she can tell that Alec meant what he said earlier.

“Hey,” Alec says during a few moments where Jace isn’t in the room. His voice is too loud to be a whisper even though by the way he cups his hand around his mouth it’s clear that’s his intention. “I really hope you two last, because this is the happiest I’ve seen Jace in a while. I think you might actually be good for him, and I don’t immediately hate you. Which is good, because I’ve immediately hated everyone else he’s ever dated. But don’t tell him I said that.”

Clary can tell he’s only admitting this because of the alcohol but that he’s sincere just the same, and she gives Alec a soft smile in return.

“Don’t tell him I said this, but I hope you’re right because Jace is good for me, too,” Clary loud-whispers back conspiratorially. “And I don’t totally hate you, either,” Clary adds with a wink, just as Jace comes back into the room.

“I leave for two seconds and you’re already teaming up against me,” Jace laments, dropping dramatically back onto the sofa. “What did Alec say about me now?”

Alec straightens up and places a finger over his lips while looking at Clary, who mimes zippering her own lips shut.

“Ridiculous. I knew I never should’ve let you two meet,” Jace huffs, but leans over to kiss Clary’s ‘zipped shut’ mouth anyway, and all three of them are laughing over it a moment later.

Clary meant what she said to Alec - she really, really hopes this lasts, because she’s already starting to feel like she might have a place here and she doesn’t plan on going anywhere any time soon.

#clary fray #jace herondale #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #shadowhunterbingo #clace #alec & clary brotp #maybe i miss fencing from college #elle writes a few deadbeat lines #long post

58 notes · View notes

perditaalottachocolate-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Oops, I Did It Again!

I can finally share this fic with you here! Or rather share the fact that this was actually my work. How many of you suspected that?

I want to thank all the people who made this event possible and took their time for it to happen! Anyway, this was fun so I hope you liked it, or you will once you read it ;) Check out other fics from the Who’s Who pt. 2 challenge as well, if you haven’t. And now without further ado:

Summary: Oops! Leaving an akuma unattended is not a good idea, especially when you’re Hawkmoth. Gabriel learns it the hard way, inadvertently saving the day in the process. He hadn’t planned to make a habit out of it, but of course when he starts playing with akumas, trying to save his assistant, his son or Adrien’s admirer (who Gabriel’s been trying to akumatize, no to avail), somehow he becomes an accidental hero of Paris. He even manages to knock some sense into his own kin and put an evil Italian girl to shame at the same time. All in a day’s work for Paris’ bravest civilian.

AO3 / fanfiction.net

***

“Adrien, duck!” Gabriel yelled at the top of his lungs.

THUD!

Oops. A boulder the size of a bus smashed to the left of where his son had been just seconds earlier . Gabriel paled at the thought of what could have been had Adrien had slower reflexes. The agility from the fencing and karate workouts apparently paid off.

THUD!

Another rumble reminded him that it was time to run, not ponder upon the various extracurriculars Adrien attended.

“Father!” he heard his son’s panicky voice. “Look o-”

Smash! He ran face first into a leathery wall.

Squish! Gigantean fingers closed over him and lifted him off the ground.

Akuma: 1; Gabriel:0.

He cursed inwardly as the giant lumbered through the streets. Each step thundered between the old walls and raised clouds of dust, making Gabriel’s eyes water.

“Father?” he heard Adrien’s muffled voice nearby. He squinted to the side.

His son was trapped similarly to him in an enormous fist of the monster. Only the mop of blond hair stuck out from behind the green fingers.

“I’m here!” Gabriel called and the blond mop sighed in relief.

“Any ideas how we escape?” Adrien asked.

Gabriel bit his lip as he considered their situation. He felt a bit responsible. It wasn’t entirely his fault, but seeing as he was the one who released the akuma in the first place he couldn’t claim he was not to blame. It would be much easier to say that it was Mademoiselle Rossi’s fault - and it was, to a degree...

After all she ’ d been the one to drop by the mansion uninvited and to force his bodyguard to let her in. Then she bullied Nathalie into letting her meet the boss immediately . His assistant knew perfectly well he’d been busy with his other project, but apparently Lila had been extremely persuasive.

The way Nathalie passed on her request made Hawkmoth sigh in exasperation, drop his transformation and rush to his study, the freshly released akuma left to its own devices. And why had Lila come under the pretence of “discussing her appearance” at the new collection’s premiere? To badmouth Marinette and her “uninspired creations”. Again .

Gabriel would rub the bridge of his nose in irritation, had his hands not been pressed to his sides inside the trap. He’d known for a while that Lila had been holding a significant grudge against Adrien’s pigtailed friend. Which, if you’d asked Gabriel could mean only one thing - she must have been terribly and utterly jealous. Gabriel had yet to meet a more talented, modest, polite, kind and considerate teenager, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he desperately needed a successful champion, he’d be happy to nudge Adrien in Marinette’s direction. Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng would make an excellent girlfriend, and dare Gabriel say an even finer daughter-in-law.

Maybe he was going out on a limb here, since Adrien stubbornly claimed Marinette was his friend, and a good friend only, but just one look at the gooey eyes his son was making at the mere mention of the girl told a quite different story.

But he digressed once again, pondering on how exactly had he and Adrien ended up in two of the four hands of Hawkmoth’s newest creation.

The truth was he had no idea who accepted the akuma, what were their reasons, motivation or even powers. This was Startrain all over again. Gabriel hated being helpless, a victim at the heroes’ mercy. Yet here he was, trapped, waiting for the rescue.

Although… maybe this wasn’t Startrain? After all, even if he couldn’t control the akuma, he was still here. He could act. Who needs the heroes anyway? (He did, but only because he wanted to play with their toys for a bit).

Gabriel concentrated, analyzing the villain’s size, posture and looks. He listened closely to the constant muttering of the beast he hitherto had been ignoring. He took notice of the direction they were headed. He assessed his resources, considering if Adrien would be of assistance. Finally, he crafted a plan.

Step one, bite.

“YOOOOOWL!” the villain bellowed.

He smirked. Akuma:1; Gabriel:1.

***

“How does it feel to save the day? We’re about to find out,” the reporter chirped to the microphone. “Don’t be bemused, it’s just the news.” She winked to the camera. “We’re at the Grand Palais, waiting for the newest collection from Gabriel to hit the runway, but all everyone talks about this week is the bravery and aptitude of none other than the fashion mogul, the owner and creator of the Gabriel brand, Monsieur Agreste himself.”

The cameraman turned to him and Gabriel suppressed a groan. This was so typical. You pull just one miraculous rescue before Ladybug can save your butt, and suddenly you’re a national hero. Still, you don’t look a gift horse, that is publicity, in the mouth. You just roll with it or whatever kids say nowadays.

“All in a day’s work,” he drawled, minding to keep his voice modest yet confident. This wasn’t the first interview that followed his reckless stunt and despite the fact that he’d just been reiterating the same speech, journalists didn’t seem to get nearly enough of “Paris’ bravest civilian hero”.

Nathalie, who’d been shadowing him for the time of final preparations for the show, gave him a short nod and disappeared in the crowd. It was time to launch their concurrent plan, the sole reason this new collection even got a show in the first place.

Gabriel kept the reporters properly busy so that no one would notice the little blue feather floating harmlessly towards the intended goal: the pink purse of one very stressed Marinette Dupain-Cheng, who fidgeted nervously at the edge of her seat, waiting for another of her original creations to feature in a Gabriel show. Nathalie had made sure Adrien’s friend got her fill of the Bourgeois’ finest brand of malice, which would put her in that fragile, disturbed state perfect for accepting an amok. Just a little trick to lure Ladybug and Chat Noir and hopefully to put an end to the ludicrous series of failures they’d been experiencing ever since Hawkmoth made his presence and demands known.

And then things went haywire. An unexpected wisp of air from the high window intercepted the amok and it sailed in a completely different direction, sinking into, oh great , Lila Rossi’s bracelets.

So much for carefully woven, detailed plans and handpicked victims.

“Sentimonsters!” Gabriel cried. “Everybody out!”

If he’d learned one thing working with Mademoiselle Rossi, it was that things got unpredictable and much more calamitous when she was involved. That’s why he had wanted to leave her out of his plans this time. That’s why she had been offered to actually model a piece, just to keep her occupied, even though she didn’t have even one model bone in her entire body.

Now Lila’s grin turned positively evil, as she sent the senti-snakes after… of course… Marinette. That Italian girl had some serious issues if anyone asked Gabriel. Why haven’t Nathalie called off the amok anyway?

Gabriel set out to find his assistant. Lack of control over their evil little friends was usually the source of big inconvenience. He’d learned it the hard way last time. Searching would go much faster if it wasn’t for the brainless crowds panicky sloshing inside the Grand Palais hall. Oh, for the love of-

“You must evacuate!” Gabriel yelled. “Find the nearest exit!” He squinted at the walls. Was it really that hard to actually read the signs that were there? “Here, and here, and here,” he said as he waved at the doors and people finally listened. The crowd started to file out of the building.

“Please stay calm,” Gabriel continued to shout over the heads of the evacuating viewers. “There’s no need to trample each other. The sentimonsters are busy.”

He risked a glance at the snakes. Indeed they were kept busy. Marinette was doing exceptionally well at keeping one at bay. Sadly the other two weren’t engaged with her, but went off to attack someone else. A cold sweat covered Gabriel when he saw whom.

Adrien batted at the two remaining senti-snakes with a clothes rack, while shielding an unconscious Nathalie, curled in a corner. She must have been knocked out cold.

The older Agreste cursed under his breath. Where the hell was Ladybug and Chat Noir when one needed them? This was supposed to be a perfect trap.

At that moment the rack Adrien had been fending the snakes off with snapped in two and the first monster launched itself at the boy.

Red flooded Gabriel’s vision. He pushed, leaped, ran, slid. He acquired a wrench somehow. He hit, thwacked, walloped and smacked until the sentimonsters scuttled away and huddled in the opposite end of the hall.

Ladybug arrived just as he and Adrien helped Nathalie to her feet. His assistant sported a nasty bruise on her forehead. Adrien’s clothes, the showcase items, hung in tatters from his shoulders. His trousers looked as if they were made of sieves.

“It’s the bracelets,” Gabriel muttered, motioning towards backstage, where Lila’s maniacal laughter could be heard. He gritted his teeth.

“Got it,” Ladybug nodded.

One throw of a yoyo later, the heroine had the crazy Italian girl tightly gift wrapped as she went for the amok.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

Gabriel actually sighed in relief as the swarms of butterflies cleared the hall. Thank goodness it was over.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a familiar voice cut into his ease, “you’ve all seen this here, live, in TVi! Paris’ bravest civilian hero in action! Wasn’t he amazing?”

Oh, that was the one thing he’d forgotten about. Why had he thought the reporter would have enough brains to run away? Of course she’d been broadcasting the whole thing live - what would get her a bigger audience than a fashion show turned heroic rescue mission?

“Oh no,’ he groaned, “not again .”

“Monsieur Agreste,” Madame Chamack shoved her microphone right under his nose and asked hopefully, “a few words of comment?”

Gabriel looked around helplessly. Adrien was searching for Marinette, Ladybug was trying to free herself from Lila’s hug of fake gratitude, and Nathalie took a sudden interest in the ceiling. A shadow of a smirk danced on her lips and he knew she’d never let him live this down. He might have to give her a raise just to keep her quiet.

“Sure,” he took a deep breath and turned to the reporter. “Why not?”

***

Gabriel swore this would be the last time. Either the plan works and he gets the most cunning, powerful and brilliant akuma ever, or he declares Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng off limits. Some gut feeling told him she was really special. If anyone could get him those miraculouses, it would be her.

This was attempt number too-many even by his standards, but he was grasping at straws here. So when Lila offered to prove Marinette was a false friend, a liar and a bad influence, if not a threat to Adrien, Gabriel got tempted. One last time. If the Italian Job, as he started to think of it, didn’t work, he’d stop trying to akumatize Marinette whatsoever. As for Mademoiselle Rossi herself, he was still on the fence. On one hand, she had displayed incredible talent at riling people up. Chloe Bourgeois had nothing on her. On the other hand, Lila’s presence near Adrien, her more or less veiled suggestions that she wanted to be his girlfriend, her nosiness and conceit, the way she seemed to believe she got Gabriel himself wrapped around her finger, that he was actually buying her bull, well, suffice to say it was starting to get on his nerves.

And he was quite fond of his nerves, thank you very much.

Gabriel wasn’t even sure how exactly Lila wanted to provide proof of her claims, but it surely wasn’t anything legal. Even better. If it worked and he’d get the akuma it wouldn’t matter. If it didn’t work, he’d have a substantial leverage in case she’d decide to go after him one day.

His tablet chimed and a notification from Lila’s instagram account popped up on the screen. She started a live stream. A public live stream.

“A dangerous game you play, Mademoiselle Rossi,” Gabriel muttered under his breath. He clicked on the notification and transformed into Hawkmoth not taking his eyes off the feed.

Somehow Lila had managed to corner Marinette in an empty dressing room. Despite the buzz of a photoshoot in progress and tens of people milling around the two of them were alone.

“What do you want, Lila?” Marinette’s tone was confident, even a bit exasperated. “Out of the two of us I am actually interested in learning a few things by taking part in a photo shoot.”

“I told you to leave Adrien alone!” Lila ignored her classmate’s jab, getting to her own agenda.

“What’s it to you? You don’t own him.”

“I don’t,” Lila admitted, the unspoken “yet” implied in her smirk. “But I am his close friend and I know bad acting when I see it.”

“Bad acting? What are you getting at?”

“You know, Marinette,” Lila murmured, adjusting the phone so that the other girl’s face would be seen. “You know very well. We’ve talked about it before. Might as well admit it now.”

Marinette, bless her heart, stammered something incoherently. Poor girl , Gabriel thought. If even he was aware of her gigantic crush on his son, then probably everyone and their dog knew (bar one oblivious teen in denial). But it was one thing to know people knew, and quite another to be forced to voice such a personal, intimate detail. And yet it turned out Lila had more tricks up her sleeve.

“We all saw the posters in your room,’ the Italian girl tsked. “ And Alya told me about the Athanase gift….” She raised a brow.

Marinette’s eyes got bigger. All her bravado seemed to evaporate under Lila’s insinuations.

“Nino mentioned an all boys party…” Lila drawled, pausing for effect.

Marinette gulped. “There’s nothing wrong-”

“In being a fan? I agree.” Lila smiled sweetly. “But considering the, ahem , scale and detail, wouldn’t you say it’s more than that?”

“More?”

“You’re not just a fan of fashion, Marinette. You’re obsessed. My question is - is it just fashion? Or maybe you’re Adrien’s crazed fangirl?” Lila circled her classmate, minding to keep the camera fixed on her. “Or maybe…” she suspended her voice, before going in for the kill, “maybe you’re trying to make a break in the industry on the backs of Adrien and his father? Connections are everything after all.”

A wave of pure, white hot hatred rammed into Hawkmoth. On the screen he saw Marinette seething, her lips pressed tightly together, her fists clenched and eyes narrowed to slits. He dropped the tablet and summoned the akuma.

“Go, go, go!” He rushed the butterfly.

When he returned to the device, the stream had already ended. He had no idea what had happened, but at that moment Lila posted a new picture - of herself with Adrien with the make-up artist in the background. An innocent smile and a V gesture had been paired with a few cringeworthy emojis and hashtags: #truefriends #friends4ever #friendshipgoals and so on.

There was no sign of Marinette, but Hawkmoth already felt the strong emotions ebbing away. No hatred meant no target for his akuma. He remembered himself before he broke the tablet in half. He sighed, calming himself down. At this rate he’d become the next champion.

And then the sirens started to wail. Fire alarms blared from every corner of the facility.

“What on Earth-,” Hawkmoth scowled at the flashing red lights. It couldn’t have been an akuma. It was still somewhere out there, searching for its target. So the alarm must have been caused by something else.

Footsteps outside told him something must have happened. He sniffed. The unmistakable stink of smoke filled his nostrils. For a second he considered his options, but ultimately he dropped his transformation and left his hideout.

Around him people headed for emergency exits, but Gabriel felt a sudden urge to look for Adrien. He broke into a run. The boy had an awful knack of getting himself engaged in dangerous situations, and if Lila was nearby, it was probably a good idea to keep an eye on his son.

Sure enough he found Adrien tucked in a corner, checking his phone instead of running to safety. Gabriel set his course to intercept. Without slowing down he grabbed the boy by his shirt and dragged him outside. On his son’s phone the last seconds of Lila’s Instagram story unraveled. Adrien’s brow furrowed in indignation.

“Where’s Lila,” he growled, before remembering himself. He swallowed the bile that was probably up in his throat. “Have you seen Lila, Father?” he asked.

Gabriel was actually impressed. As an empath he could appreciate both - the extremely strong emotions and keeping them in check.

Adrien climbed to his toes and inspected the crowd that fled the building. “Where’s Marinette?” This time his voice wavered.

He spotted his Italian classmate nearby, talking to a reporter, a studied concern marring her face.

“...of course I had to do something,” she said with emphasis. “All my friends are very dear to me. One of the things Dalai Lama has taught me-”

“Lila!” Adrien cut in, ignoring her ramblings and the audience. “Where’s Marinette?”

BOOM! Something blew inside the building. Glass shattered on one of the roof windows and plumes of smoke poured outside.

Lila paled and stammered something. For the first time her face seemed to be honest. She was genuinely scared as her eyes set upon the building’s entrance.

“What did you do?!” Adrien cried.

Gabriel’s stomach clenched as it dawned on him.

“She can’t get out?” he hissed, grabbing Lila’s elbow.

The girl gulped, shaking her head slightly. Then the terror disappeared from her face, replaced with well-practiced innocence. “The door locked behind me. I was going to get help but the alarm-”

Adrien beelined for the building. Gabriel cursed under his breath and dove after him. He briefly considered a quick transformation once he got inside. But it would rouse too many difficult questions if not only Gabriel Agreste but also Hawkmoth suddenly started rescuing people, so he dismissed this idea. He had enough brains to grab an extinguisher on his way.

“Adrien! Wait!” he yelled. He was about to jump into smoke when a string wrapped around him and he was yanked back.

“Monsieur Agreste, what’s going on?” Ladybug released her hold on him. “Is Adrien there?”

Gabriel tried to keep the scowl off his face. He wasn’t used to being treated like a toy.

“His friend is trapped in that building,” he explained. “We need to-”

Ladybug’s yoyo beeped.

Chat’s face appeared on the screen. “Could you lend me a helping paw, my Lady?” Thick clouds surrounded him. “I have an akuma and a fire source here,” he said.

Ladybug shot an anxious look at Gabriel. “Any civilians?”

“Still looking,” Chat grunted. The screen blurred and a creak sounded when he forced a door open. “Ouch,” he hissed as the sprinklers started to work. “This cat doesn’t like to get wet,” he complained.

“Coming, Chat!” Ladybug shut her phone. “Please, stay here, Monsieur. This is not a job for civilian heroes,” she added with a faint smile and ran into the building.

Gabriel waited a whole minute, which said a lot about his self-restraint. When the swarms of ladybugs buzzed out of the roof window, fixing the damage and taking the rest of the smoke with them, he broke into run.

Adrien was wrestling with a door to the only closed dressing room.

“It’s stuck,” he shot out as a way of explanation. The corridor was too narrow for him to get a good running start, but he was doing his best to force his way in.

“No Ladybug or Chat Noir to help?” Gabriel scowled. Maybe this was below their paygrade.

“They put out the fire, but they had to leave,” Adrien mumbled. “They were each down to their last marker.”

Gabriel pushed the boy aside and grabbed the knob. It wouldn’t budge. “Marinette’s in there?”

“Yes, sir,” came a faint reply from behind the wood.

“Please get away from the door,” he instructed. He swung the extinguisher and smashed it into the lock. It did the trick much better than Adrien’s shoulder.

His son burst inside as soon as the door swung on the hinges. Gabriel tactfully turned away when the boy pulled Marinette into tight embrace. He was wondering if the accident finally knocked some sense into Adrien, or if his son was still on the adrenaline high. Either way Gabriel made a mental note to finally address the “good friend” issue. For now he settled for averting his eyes and leisurely swinging the extinguisher he’d still been holding only to get a flash in his face.

Click. Click. Click.

At least three reporters decided to capture this moment for posterity.

“Ah, and once again our local star, Gabriel Agreste, saves the day, or rather a member of his crew-” a journalist for TVi entered the scene, the microphone at the ready. “Can we get a comment on the latest video one of your young models posted shortly before this dangerous incident? I believe it featured the girl you just rescued,” he pointed towards the teens behind Gabriel’s back.

Thankfully Marinette managed to free herself from Adrien’s bear hug, but her face was a battlefield between blissful blush and whitewash mortification.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “No comment,” he stated.

“But the conflict might affect the performance of your staff-”

“I value Mademoiselle Dupain Cheng’s talent and skill in design. I appreciate Mademoiselle Rossi’s hard work on the set,” he admitted. “But I refuse to be dragged into any personal conflicts. Now please, leave the set. We’ve already wasted enough time and money. No further comments,” he gestured towards the exit.

“-oh I’m sure she was just trying to make a victim out of herself. You know, to gain pity or instant fame-”

That was Lila whispering in hush tone somewhere nearby, already spreading rumors. Gabriel’s fists clenched. He’d had enough.

“-Jagged Stone, who wrote a song about me, you know, he once said that fame-”

Gabriel flinched. He watched Adrien’s back as the boy led Marinette to the bathroom, steering clear off any prying journalists, keeping close to her, as if he would never leave her side again.

Fame, Gabriel thought. That’s a dangerous game. I’ll show you instant fame, Mademoiselle Rossi.

***

“We’re at Le Grand Paris, with Paris’ bravest civilian hero, Gabriel Agreste, although I imagine he needs no introduction!” Nadja Chamack exclaimed, starting her interview. “Monsieur Agreste has proved that you don’t need a miraculous to beat akuma after akuma. Ladybug and Chat Noir must be big fans of yours,” she grinned.

“As I am theirs,” Gabriel bowed, suppressing a flinch, and he went into monologue mode, providing the meat every reporter was after these days. From the time he slid across the table to thwack the akuma that threatened his fashion show, to the time he unloaded a bucket of hot coffee on another villain’s head to save Adrien, to numerous occasions he had managed to outwit his akumas (which wasn’t really as difficult as people seemed to think) before Ladybug and Chat Noir managed to get to the scene, he slowly but surely established his image as the civilian hero.

“Can you tell us more about today’s event?” Nadja asked. “You’ve been very secretive about it so far.”

That was the plan. His newest collection, the spotlight of the event, was only an excuse, as he had a particular fox to fry.

“All I can say is a night of quality fashion awaits us,” he said with a smile. “Our dear guests are going to be models as well!”

Nadja took the bait, and Gabriel was proud to say she hadn’t been the only one.

“Ah, guests as models!” The woman leaned in. “Does this mean we won’t see your regular models?”

“On the contrary, the show is going to feature many familiar faces,” Gabriel replied cryptically.

“I already see one - is that Lila Rossi?” Nadja zeroed in on the girl who just arrived at the red carpet.

“Indeed.”

“And her companion for the event?” the reporter asked, eyeing the crowds curiously.

Lila waved at the photographers and came to a halt next to Nadja, undoubtedly expecting a few questions. She was looking around, very much interested in her partner herself. Gabriel nodded to Nathalie, who led the boy fresh out of the dressing room.

“Your son, Adrien-” Nadja regarded him.

Lila’s lips stretched into a sly smile. The boy shot her with a toothy grin so unlike Adrien, that she recoiled in surprise.

Gabriel suppressed a smirk as he shook his head. “May I present Felix Graham de Vanily, my nephew and Adrien’s cousin.”

Felix bent in a deep, respectable bow. If he wanted, his manners were impeccable.

“Remarkable,” Nadja marveled. “They easily could have been taken for-”

“Twins?” Gabriel interjected. “Yes, they even managed to fool us a few times,” he let out an amiable chuckle, he’d been practicing in front of his mirror. “Felix is going to be Lila’s partner for tonight. I think I can let you in on a little secret: Adrien is going to accompany his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?!” Nadja and Lila shrieked in unison.

Gabriel allowed himself just a little smile. He put a hand to his chest. “A development that warms my heart,” he declared. “A very talented designer, who’s behind a few accessories for this collection. But I’m sure you already know her-, “ he gestured to the red carpet, where a new pair of guests appeared.

“ Marinette ,” Lila growled under her breath.

“I must leave now,” Gabriel nodded to the reporter. “I need to see to a few last minute details. Let me show you around, Felix. And Lila,” he added looking at her above the rim of his glasses.

Felix offered the Italian girl an elbow. She shot one last look at Adrien and Marinette, but she had no choice but to make room for them as she was led to the building.

“Mademoiselle Lila Rossi!” Felix chirped in delight. He was giving the girl a smile worthy of a shark straight from a dentist appointment. “We meet at last! Adrien has told me so much about you!” His grin widened, a feat Gabriel never thought possible. “So many celebrities are going to be here tonight. I can’t wait for you to introduce me to them, since you know so many famous people.”

Up to this point Lila was giving him a sour smile, but now fear flashed in her eyes. “Ce-celebrities?” she stammered. “S-sure, I know a few,” she added, anxiously looking around. “What the-?!”

That last exclamation was at the burst of flash in her eyes.

Felix just shot the two of them in a selfie. “Great! This goes straight to my Insta! I’m tagging you of course,” he added in theatrical whisper. “I hope many more pics with all those celebs are going to follow!”

Gabriel trailed after them at a distance. He was very pleased with himself, humming in content at placing the right boy at the right place. Nathalie appeared at his side.

“Excellent job with Felix,” he praised. “I see you even managed to brief him, despite the short notice.”

His assistant’s smile was positively sinister. “I haven’t,” she said. “Apparently he’s been keeping in touch with Adrien and he kind of took the initiative himself.”

“Even better,” Gabriel nodded in approval. There were few things he appreciated more than champions with drive.

He kept close to Felix and Lila, as his nephew led the girl from one cluster of guests to another, snapping pictures, and crying in disappointment whenever someone wouldn’t recognize Lila. He spent a significant amount of time in each group introducing her, and explaining how she knew so many people, alas no one in particular. At one point Gabriel thought he saw the boy pocketing Lila’s phone, but he might have been wrong.

He checked the social media. Felix’s Instagram feed was full of pictures with their guests and Lila, who’s frown deepened with every photo. Jagged Stone and Penny Rolling, Prince Ali, Clara Nightingale and Audrey Bourgeois. Name after name, face after face, and not even a sparkle of recognition, which of course hadn’t escaped Felix’s attention. Two hashtags #sheknowsthemALL #thoughNOTthisONE accompanied every post. Not so subtle, but infinitely less brutal than what he initially had in mind. It might not destroy her reputation, excuse his pun - instantly, but a gradual decline was fine by Gabriel. Everything done in white gloves. Why didn’t he think about it earlier?

Felix and Lila stood by André the ice cream maker, who’d been appointed as a sort of celebrity catering novelty. He was shaking his head at the girl and Gabriel knew that meant he had no idea who she was. Felix feigned a moan of disappointment. The boy’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“That looks like some just desserts,” came a comment from behind Gabriel’s back. It was Adrien hand in hand with Marinette.

Gabriel hadn’t been lying to Madame Chamack. Marinette’s petite hand was tightly and tenderly wrapped in his son’s palm. The gooey eyes look was really good on him. The older Agreste made a mental note to use that for their next shoot.

“Astonishing. It’s a miracle she hasn’t been akumatized yet,” Adrien reflected, observing the scene with André.

Marinette elbowed him, but she was smiling.

Not really a miracle, Gabriel pondered, just your everyday Agreste hero miraculously restraining himself. Oops, he thought, did I do it again and save the day?

#gabriel agreste #miraculous ladybug #adrinette #lila rossi #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #Who's Who pt 2 #ml fic rec #crack #definitely

52 notes · View notes

withoutmonsters · 5 years ago

Text

Freedom from the Day

Ask and you shall receive! @okayshitbird, you wanted to read a fic about Max and Billy sneaking out Billy’s window to explore San Diego, so here it is! You said you wanted to hear about them exploring some restaurants, I hope a food truck counts. Read on ao3

“Max,” Billy hisses, holding his arms out and gesturing for her.

She crouches by the window, biting her lip with wide eyes. “Are you sure?” she breathes, glancing back to Billy’s door.

Billy rolls his eyes. “Yes, Max, I’m sure. Now get going. Hand me the skateboard.”

Max passes it through the open window. It’s smaller than Billy’s, made for a child instead of a young teenager. When Max and her mother had first moved in with the Hargroves, she had been enchanted with Billy’s skateboard, bugging him for weeks and weeks until he had finally let her ride it. Billy would never let Max knows this, but he thought that Max was a natural on the skateboard. He had been considering buying her one as a sort of welcome gift. But Susan had scolded her for it, saying that it wasn’t ladylike for a girl to ride a skateboard. It was obviously something that was meant to discourage both of them from letting Max ride in the future, but all that had done was cement it for Billy. He’d gone out, using the money that he’d earned mowing the neighbor’s lawn, to buy her a smaller one, since his was much too unwieldy for a nine-year-old.

“Come on,” Billy snaps, gesturing again. “We don’t have all night, Max. We need to go.”

Max casts one more glance into the house and then fits herself through the window, slight shoulders ducking through, followed by her torso. Billy catches her arms, grunting as she gives him all her weight. He grabs her waist and bodily hauls the rest of her through the window, clumsily setting her down once her feet are out.

She’s smiling, blue eyes bright bright in the night and a gap-toothed grin wide on her freckled face. Billy raises an eyebrow. “You weren’t this excited about a minute ago.”

Max raises her chin regally. “What do you mean? Of course, I’m excited! We get to go skate! With Tomas and Domingo!”

Billy tries to hold back a smile at that and fails. He had been prepared to hate Maxine forever when his father had first introduced them. Billy had been mean to her the first week, but every sneer was met with one of her own, each pinch and prod met with an answering slap and hit until he learned not to pick on her. But somehow, Max had wormed her way into his good graces, with every wide-eyed stare and enthusiastic cheer for every skateboard trick that he’d learned. He’d even let her go out on his surfboard, red hair fire against the waves and little body surprisingly strong against the movement of the board. She was a natural, just like she was at skating.

Billy snorts. “Tomas and Domingo think you’re a little pest.”

That isn’t true at all. Tomas particularly had taken quite the shine to Max, promising to teach her how to make tamales when Christmas rolled around and murmuring quiet endearments of, “Shhh, mija, it’ll be fine,” when Neil was loud with Billy.

Tomas always joked that he wanted a nice little sister instead of a demon of a twin while cuddling Max, and then Domingo would give that devilish grin and jump on them and start a tickle fight for the ages. Billy would make sure to pull Max out before the brothers got too rough, but then would dive in enthusiastically, laughing and shouting and roughhousing until they were a sweaty, breathless heap on the beach, sand in places where sand shouldn’t be, hair mussed and smiles so bright they rivaled the sun. And if Billy got a little too breathless when he felt Domingo’s hands on him, well, no one had to know.

Max turns her chin up. “That’s a lie, Billy. You’re a filthy liar. I’m telling Mom.”

“Oh?” Billy scoffs. “So you’re gonna tell her that we snuck out in the middle of the night to go skate with Domingo and Tomas? Good luck with that.”

Max pouts. Billy laughs softly, ruffling her hair, before he scoops up his skateboard. “Come on.”

Max picks up her own board and follows Billy through the patchy grass and goat heads to the sidewalk. He places his skateboard down and pushes off, checking over his shoulder to make sure she does the same, and then they’re off. The boards make a ticking noise as they go over each crack in the sidewalk, invisible weeds brushing Billy’s flip-flopped feet as they pass, feeling like spiders in the night.

The air is cool coming off the ocean, the breeze bringing the salty brine smell that opens up Billy’s lungs and makes him feel like he’s floating. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up and lets himself enjoy the freedom from the day.

Max and Billy head towards the skate park near the beach, having arranged to meet the twins at 1. This is not Billy’s first time sneaking out, but Max had caught him last time and insisted on coming or she would tell Neil. So this is Billy fulfilling Max’s pushy request, because his blood curdles at the thought of what Neil would do if he caught Billy sneaking out.

When they are down the block, Billy diverts into the street, knowing that it would be safer than on the thin sidewalk. Max follows him, weaving her board dangerously, teeth bright white and glinting out of her grin. Billy laughs as the board veers wildly and she stumbles off it, feet slapping the pavement loudly as catches herself.

“That’s what you get!” He calls back to her as he pumps his leg and goes faster.

“Asshole!” she shouts back.

They make it to the skate park a little late, Billy boosting Max over the fence before following her. They head into the grass on either side, lined by trees and swathed in dark shadows. Billy whistles shrilly, grinning as he sees two shadows jump.

“Mija!” A delighted voice calls from the side, and then Tomas is emerging from the trees and beaming widely.

Max takes a moving jump from her board, landing hard in the grass and running to leap at him. He catches her, laughing and grinning. “That was good! You timed it much better this time!”

“I know,” Max tosses her hair, shifting her body so that she’s in a princess hold instead of awkwardly clutched to Tomas’s chest. “I’m great like that.”

Tomas laughs loudly. “That you are, little bird. That you are.”

He drops her onto her feet and ruffles her hair. “Oh, hi, Billy. Didn’t see you there. Max was too busy outshining you.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure. Fuck you, asshole.”

Tomas snickers, offering his hand. Billy claps his hand to Tomas’s clenching it into a fist and knocking their knuckles together. “Where’s Domingo?”

“Comin’. He wanted a taco.”

Max brightens. “Can I have a taco?”

“No, Max—” Billy starts, because he knows that if he starts fucking up her food schedule, Neil will have his hide, but Tomas interrupts.

“Sure! C’mon, mija, I’ll get you some. What do you want?”

“Carne Asada. And Pork Carnitas. Oh! And can I get some of their ice cream?”

Tomas laughs. “What, did your mom not feed you or something?”

Max pouts. “I just want some Horchata ice cream, Tomas.”

“I think he might have one or two ice cream sandwiches left.”

Max brightens.

“You know we came here to skate, right?” Billy calls. Tomas flips him off over his shoulder.

Billy huffs, popping his board up and grabbing it, following them to the other end of the park, where they climb another fence and come out on a street where a food truck is parked. Technically it wasn’t open, but the three of them had been regulars for so long that Domingo could knock on the window and the chef (who lived in the back and drove to different cities along the west coast as well as Mexico) would cook them what they wanted as long as they had the money.

Domingo is standing in front of the truck when they walk up, laughing at something the chef said.

“Hey, Tio,” Tomas greets as they stop next to his brother.

“Jesus,” Angel groans as he sees the extra people. “Do you little shits never eat, or something?”

Billy laughs under his breath as Domingo ducks his head. “Please, Tio Angel. We’ll pay, we promise!”

Angel scrubs his hand over his face. “Y’all are the worst, you got that? I swear.”

Doming gave him a bright smile that punched a hole in Billy’s chest. “Thank you so much!”

“What do you want?”

Max perks up, rattling off her order in a voice that is fairly presumptuous, considering it’s the middle of the night and Domingo probably dragged Angel out of bed for food. Tomas adds his own order, leaning his arms on Max’s head and making her grumble.

Domingo catches Billy’s eye. “And a Chicken Tinga and an Al Pastor, please. Oh, and some Refritos and Elote.”

Billy makes a noise in the back of his throat. “No, Domingo, I can’t pay for that—”

Domingo cuts him a look. “I can.”

“I don’t need your goddamn charity—”

“It’s not charity, cabron, I’m just buying you tacos, goddamn.”

Billy opens his mouth but Domingo cuts him off with a finger pressed to his lips. Billy’s protest dies in his throat with a strangled noise. Domingo gives him a secret smile, pulling out a wallet and slapping down a ten-dollar bill.

Angel takes the money and brings back change. “It’ll be out in a little while, shitstains. Try not to make too much trouble in the meantime.”

“Thanks, Tio!” Max chirps, scooping up her board and pushing off.

Angel’s face transforms from long-suffering to fond in a split second. “You assholes are bad for her,” he says, pointing at Tomas.

Tomas gives him a dramatic gasp, placing a hand on his chest for added effect. “How can you say that, Tio? We are teaching her the fine arts of sneaking out and talking food out of even the most unwilling chefs. Those are great skills! She’ll use them for the rest of her life!”

Angel snorts. “Sure, dickhead . Whatever you say.”

Domingo slings a hand over Billy’s shoulder. “So, where do you want to sit?”

Billy has to swallow before answering. “I wanted to skate, asshole.”

Domingo scoffs. “Too late. You get food now.”

Billy grumbles but follows Max, who is waving from a table at the end of the block. Domingo steers Billy that way, Tomas staying behind to get the food. When they reach the table, Domingo sits so that his thigh is matched along Billy’s, shoulder to shoulder and breath brushing Billy’s ear as he looks at him.

“How was Neil?”

Billy shrugs. “Not too bad, actually. He’s been preoccupied with getting Susan settled at her new job, so.”

Domingo nods, leaning into Billy. “Did he give you any trouble?”

Billy shakes his head. They sit like that, matched thighs and breaths even as Max chatters at Domingo about a new trick Billy was trying to teach her. Tomas comes by with the food piled high in his arms: two tacos and a churro ice cream sandwich for Max, four tacos for Domingo, an additional three tacos for himself, and two for Billy. They share the Elote and Refritos among them, using forks provided by Angel to scoops out bites as they chat.

Billy leans more into Domingo, the other boy shifting so that his front is pressed into Billy’s side, one arm wrapped around Billy’s shoulders while the other one scoops stray corn bits out of the container of Elote. The ocean breeze sweeps over them, ruffling Max’s hair and picking up the bag and dancing it across the table. Tomas snatches it out of the air before it can be carried away, laughing as Domingo teases Billy gently about his wipeout on his surfboard earlier today.

Billy leans his head on Domingo’s shoulder, eyes drifting close.

“Aww,” Max teases. “Is it past the old man’s bedtime?”

Billy cracks one eye, glaring at her. “Shut up, Maxine. I’m 13, not 30.”

Max snorts. “You act like a 30-year-old.”

Billy makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I do not!”

Max sticks out her tongue. “Yes, you do!”

Billy gasps, pulling away from Domingo and climbing to his feet. Max shrieks and runs, her little body darting away.

“Get back here!” Billy growls, chasing after her and throwing out a hand to catch her.

She squeals when Billy seizes her torso and tickles her mercilessly, squirming in his grip.

“Billy!” she laughs. “Please! Don’t—no—”

Her giggles rise on the ocean breeze as Billy tickles her, Tomas and Domingo looking on with fond smiles. He catches sight of Domingo’s smile, and for a moment, Billy feels like everything in the world is okay.

#Freedom from the Day #on ao3!#prequel to the timetravel!AU #withoutmonsters #the blog not the fic lol #cold_shadows #my writing #Billy Hargrove #Max Mayfield #stranger things

7 notes · View notes

allyvampirelass29 · 5 years ago

Text

The King of Nothing: Scene 1

A Vampire Diaries Prequel By: Allyssa J. Watkins

<3 <3 <3 SPAIN 1864 <3 <3 <3

Klaus sat perched upon the wooden fencing of the round pen, his fingers steepled, just under his stubbled chin, looking every bit like a haughty king on his throne, a winged predator, watching the mice dance.

"AGAIN!!!!" He yelled out, his brow severe and slanted forward with his disgust, as the lovely Natalia, landed hard once more in a spray of reddish brown dirt.

She leapt to her feet, growling in frustration, plucking up her sword, and the broad shouldered Elijah bowed to the raven-haired beauty, before raising his own sword.

"ENOUGH of the ceremony, Elijah, you're fighting my charge to the death, not dancing the bloody quadrille!!!"

Elijah's eyes seemed to heat up behind the placard of ever somber nobility, as he stared back hard at his preening brother. "I'll have you know, there are several skills gleaned from dancing the quadrille that might be applied to the art of swordplay."

Klaus rolled his eyes, gesturing his brother forward. "No one cares about your prancing, Brother, keep your musings to yourself, and FOCUS!!!! I said, AGAIN!!!!"

Natalia charged at Elijah, with pure force, and a yell, slashing her sword, and there was a clang as steel met steel, Elijah parrying effortlessly. Natalia struck again, with a turn, and Elijah turned around her, meeting her blade with considerably less force.

"Oh how ADORABLE!!!!!" Klaus sneered. "Look at the two of you with your precious little faux fight!!! What the HELL was that, Elijah!? I might as well be watching the two of you circle 'round each other at some insipid ball!!! PUT SOME BITE INTO IT!!!!"

Natalia glared over her shoulder at Klaus, even while she spoke to Elijah, the hot summer's breeze making her curls dance. "How badly do you want to knock him off that fence right now?"

Elijah sighed, hoping his face did not betray the shocking violence of his thoughts. "Immensely so. If only there were a considerably large trough of water that he might fall into to make the experience that much more satisfying."

Natalia giggled, brushing a curl from her forehead. "Sadly, I don't even think that would cool him off...…"

Elijah nodded in agreement. "I'm afraid we must perform quite the show if we are ever going to placate his raging thirst for a violent spar."

"I'm game if you are," Natalia smiled with a wink.

"I'm SORRY!!!!" Klaus yelled from the fence, curling his fingers on either side of his lips to sound louder. "Did I say CHATTER or BATTLE!? EN-BLOODY-GARDE ALREADY!!!!"

Natalia huffed, biting her tongue to keep the scathing remark from hurling itself back at him. She raised her sword, and swiftly sliced it at Elijah's side. He blocked much harder than before, and thrust the pointed tip of his blade toward her torso which she swiveled to avoid just in time, slashing upwards, and cutting his cheek.

"Draw some blood, Sweetheart, that's it!!! Elijah, are you even TRYING!? She's a NEWBORN, and she'll never learn if you insist on letting her win!!!! FIGHT like you HATE the very sight of each other!!!!"

"I'll just pretend you're him," She teased to Elijah, and he smiled widely, the cut on his cheek already healing.

Elijah felt his speed increasing, deciding if he gave Klaus a swashbuckling spectacle, he would quiet his heckling chide, and let them end the day early. He felt the reverberations through his hands, as his sword met with Natalia's again and again, his movements less fluid and more savage, thrusting and parrying, forcing his blade down toward her determined face, and her own flew up to block it, a murmur of effort escaping her lips, as the two blades scraped against each other, back and forth, still crossed, and Elijah's strength won out, his blade biting down on Tal's, flinging her across the arena, and she stumbled backward with the force.

"AGAIN!!!!"

Natalia rose up in a fury, flying at Elijah, who looked a little guilty, and she slashed at his chest, as he nimbly jumped back, and blurred behind her, pressing the cool steel of his sword, to the warmth of her pulsing neck.

"That's cheating," She hissed, starting to get pissed off. "I didn't know we could cheat."

"Hush now, he'll love it," Elijah whispered back, holding his sword steady, careful not to let the sharp edge cut her throat.

"Well, well, FINALLY somebody's playing dirty!!!" Klaus crowed. "Natalia, PLAY DIRTIER."

Natalia blurred out of Elijah's grasp, her hands closing over the hilt of the dagger tucked in Elijah's black boots, and as he moved to strike, Natalia met his thrust, distracting him with her sword, before stabbing the smaller blade into his other side, as he yowled in surprise.

"AGAIN!!!!" Klaus screamed, no words of encouragement, of course. So quick to reprimand what I've done wrong, and GOD forbid you tell me when I KNOW I've done right.

Elijah fumed, grasping her wrist, pulling her closer. "That was just mean," He growled back, his breath labored, as he pulled the blade from his side.

"You said it yourself, Elijah...…. He'll love it." She whispered back teasingly.

Elijah released her, feeling affronted, casting the dagger aside furiously, and this time when he swung his sword toward the side of her head, she could almost feel the heat coming off of it.

She brought her sword up, forcing his back, lunging for his arm, and he whirled around, kicking her in the side hard, sending her tumbling.

"AGAIN!!!!"

Natalia, having been flung into the dirt, one too many times, gritted her teeth and blurred like a speeding bullet towards Elijah, swooping down to slash into his leg, feeling his knee buckle, and then driving him backward as hard as she could, swiping the blade at his own neck. But the eldest Original's pride was still wounded, and the girl's tricks were wearing thin. He grasped her blade with both hands, and she hesitated, horrified, as his palms bled, staining the forged steel red, and he ripped it from her grasp, letting it cut deep into his flesh, drawing the tip across her shoulder, before flipping it in the air, popping her in the cheek with its iron hilt, and she went down hard.

"AGAIN!!!!" Klaus yelled, just as the petite blonde threw herself against the fence exasperated.

"OH MY GOD, NOT AGAIN!!!! Can't we do absolutely ANYTHING else, besides watch Natalia get her ass kicked? Nick!!!! I'm bored!!! Play Sire Games another time, won't you?"

Rebekah pouted her pink lips, crossing her arms over the rounded wood, shaking the dust from the hem of her light pink muslin dress.

"Rebekah behave. I haven't time for your squirming squall right now, Natalia must be tested."

"Natalia, Natalia, Natalia!!!" Rebekah exclaimed dramatically, crossing her arms, sulking. "Your kingdom for bloody Natalia. My GOD, I go away to Paris for two weeks, and you bring home that dreadful thing!!! I HATE her, Nick, that ungrateful little troll lives in my house, steals my clothes, and hasn't a kind word for anyone. Boohoo someone killed her whole family, why do I have to suffer for it?"

Klaus narrowed his eyes annoyed, as Elijah leant down sheepishly to help Natalia to her feet, and she slapped his hand away.

"You're being ugly, Rebekah, and my patience wears ever thin. Natalia is mine to do with as I wish, and if I seek to strengthen this acquired weapon with rigorous training from now until Judgement Day, so be it. Your boredom means less than nothing to me. Stay, watch, keep your mouth shut, or go back to terrorizing Paris.

"How very droll," Rebekah drawled, hastily brushing the dirt from her layered sleeve. "Is it just me Nick, or have you been nastier, angrier, and more all around beastly since your tenacious tart arrived? My, my, how fitting you train her in the round pen. What's next, are you going to tie your little filly up with the rest of the livestock?"

Klaus snarled, grasping Rebekah’s white lace glove, pricking his nail hard into her palm. "Don't you EVER talk that way about her again, do you understand!? You spoiled, self-aggrandizing, little prima donna, that girl has survived atrocities that would drain even your worst nightmares pale, and she will have your respect, I DEMAND it!!!"

Rebekah yanked her hand away, with an indignant scoff, showing Klaus her palm. "You see that!? Just look what you've done!!! Blood, on my best gloves, from Milan no less!!! Oh tosh, demand my respect, do you? What for? It's not like you show her ANY. You treat her worse than anyone, too proud to return your pet to her nothing human life, because of some stupid blood bond, and now I'm bloody stuck with her, playing nursemaid to some disdainful wretch!!!"

Klaus took pause, his stormy blue eyes intense in their focus, leaning forward. "I will speak to her as I see fit, mine is the voice that she will heed as gospel. I am her Sire, her damned master. You will NOT provoke her. Not if you intend to keep your pretty things, including that glove, and yes, that hand."

"I am sorry, Natalia, that was a bit much......" Elijah pleaded, his eyes repentant he stood over her. "How is your jaw?"

Natalia glared up at him from her place in the dirt, her fiery eyes full of spite, rubbing her right cheek, feeling the ache, tasting her own blood. "You broke my tooth!"

Elijah winced, looking ashamed. "Forgive me, Miss Callidora. In striving to sate Klaus' thirst for cutthroat sport, I, myself, may have drank from the same cup."

Rebekah's piercing wail met the pair of them, and Natalia smiled sarcastically. "Great. Look who's home. Apparently Paris has enough petulant, pastel, fluff and feathers snobby bitches, and even worn torn France couldn't endure her."

"You certainly don't make things easy on yourself, do you?" Elijah tsked, extending his hand out graciously to the smouldering raven maiden.

Natalia slapped his hand away, and rose from the dirt on her own, still tasting blood as the bruise formed on her cheek. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Rebekah's a little blonde brat who deserves every word spat against her. I was raised a proper young woman, Elijah, and my own privilege didn't turn me into a sanctimonious she-devil!!!"

"Yes, although, I see such an upbringing did not deter that sharp tongue from particularly vulgar language."

Natalia laughed, tossing back her curls, her eyes snapping. "I'm not that sweet Spanish Lady anymore, Elijah, I'm a creature of the night now, remember, a monster just like you with nothing to lose. I don't care anymore, to hell with propriety, it was all fuss for nothing anyway."

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, it does pain me so....... You are not a monster like me, Miss Callidora, nor will you ever become such, not as long as I breathe. The very comparison sickens me, even in your snark and playful jest. You are a lady, make no mistake, even with your defiant predilection sorely amplified....... Rebekah is a great many things, but you would do well to remember she is also Klaus' most favoured sibling."

"Oh COME ON!!!!" Natalia spat back, rolling her eyes, looking at Elijah incredulous. "WHAT!? You've got to be kidding, Please..... tell me you're kidding!!!"

"What?" Elijah half smiled, twirling his sword through the air, with a few practice swings. "Did you think it was me, Niklaus was closest to? Now, it is you, Miss Callidora, who must be kidding. As far as brother against brother goes, even the North and South in this Uncivil War, have not perfected the betrayal quite like the Mikaelson Clan. No, Klaus, would rend my head from my shoulders if it meant sparing the life of his faithful, though at times grating little sister. Thus it has always been, even as young children. Klaus and Rebekah, Always and Forever.

"And yet he scolds her frivolousness, orders her around, and controls her too!!! What the HELL kind of family is this?" Natalia glowered, wrinkling her nose with disgust.

"A complicated question that I cannot answer in truth, Natalia, if Klaus is bent this hellishly so on keeping you amongst us......" He looked away, a hardness in his eyes that Natalia had never seen before. "If you knew even a shade of what we, all of us, had done, what we're capable of........ You'd redefine the word monster, with much more fearful reverence, flee from this house in frenzy, and never once look back. If he felt anything at all for you....... He should release you at once."

Natalia felt the chill ease itself warily through her body, despite the beating heat of the day, and for once she didn't have a scathing counter ready on her tongue.

"Klaus may reprimand Rebekah, boss her about, kill any man that seeks to spirit her away, but he loves her deeply, in that strange, twisted, overprotective means he's come to don. And it would be prudent for you to remember a kind word for her, is one less cross one from him.

Natalia laughed amused, twirling her sword in her own hand. "His precious Rebekah can go to HELL," She simpered, her voice overly sweet. "All of Klaus' most CUTTING scathes, cannot traumatize me quite like the arduous experience of having to be nice to that screeching blonde banshee!!!"

"Girls, GIRLS, am I interrupting your little hen party!? How about a little less idle chit chat, and more vampire VIOLENCE, if you would be so kind!?" Klaus taunted from the fence, hands clasped together, but his eyes were callous, despite the teasing lilt of his voice.

"Niklaus, as we have been toiling tirelessly since dawn broke, might I suggest a brief respite? You know full well, a young vampire needs twice as much blood to sustain their strength, and Miss Callidora hasn't had near enough for this level of physical engagement."

"Miss Callidora, MISS Callidora, will FEED once she's done something to merit my keeping her ALIVE!!! That goes for you too, Brother, I want to see LESS flirting and MORE BLOODY FIGHTING!!!!!" Klaus roared, his unhinged voice echoing through the arena, and Rebekah hopped up next to him on the fence, her painted face, smug.

"Come now, Dear Brother, Elijah for all his dastardly swordplay prowess is never going to hurt a lady, and yes," She looked down her nose at Natalia, still covered in dirt, with vehement distaste. "I do use the term...... loosely."

Natalia laughed without mirth, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh Rebekah, you would know all about being a loose lady, now wouldn't you? Why DID you rush home so fast? Did you bed all the men in Paris already, and still none will marry you?"

Rebekah moved to leap over the fence with a furious yell, when Klaus caught her fast, gripping her forearm, and Natalia swore she saw the faintest smirk tease the curve of his bottom lip. Favourite sibling, huh? You sure about that, Elijah?

"NICK!!! Are you really going to allow that HORRID strumpet to appall and humiliate your sister so? Elijah has obviously failed as a challenging sparring partner for her, so why not let ME settle this, just between us girls?" Rebekah smiled evilly with a feminine shrug of her shoulder. "No one fights a woman better than another woman, you know I'm right...... I've just been dying to spend more time with your little sired bitch."

"NO!!!!!" Klaus seethed, with a dark scowl, knocking her off the fence, and she landed behind it in a blur of blonde hair, and a rustle of overturned pink muslin, aghast. "You are NEVER to touch her, Rebekah, not once!!! I FORBID IT!!!! Do NOT try me!!!! As much as it would alleviate all of our suffering to let the two of you have at it, I want her trained, not dead."

Klaus arched both red blonde eyebrows, just daring her to move against him, and finally with a sigh, Rebekah hung back, away from the fence. "Fair point, Nick, I'll behave, since you asked SO nicely. But, my, whomever are you going to get to dance with your little scrapper, since clearly Elijah's too frilly cuffs and coddled manners to get the job done proper?"

Elijah had just raised his sword to Natalia's once more, and before he'd even swung it, Klaus could taste the disappointment like a rancor in his mouth, rubbing his finger hard against the scratchy stubble on his chin, his blue eyes, biting as they chastised such impending failure.

Everyone froze as Klaus rose to his full height atop the fence, his balance perfect, as he straightened his leather vest, plumed with gold scrollwork at the breast, and he leapt into the arena, like a great lion, with lithe, lethal grace, his leather boots not making a sound as he landed with menacing flourish.

"Rather than watch the both of you continue to henpeck at each other to exasperating boredom, why not let the fox have his play?"

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

#niklaus mikaelson #klaus x oc #tal #elijah mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #spain #vampire diaries #king of nothing

1 note · View note

thiskryptonite · 6 years ago

Text

Date: Various. April 19th, 2015 - January 13th, 2019

Location: Ashbourne: Mortuary, Libary, and The Pit

Word Count: 1703

Triggers: Death, Murder, Blood, Violence, Mentions of Suicide

Summary: August reflects on the loss of his mother, and the loss of the Undertaker who took him in. Completed for Writing Prompt: Nostalgia

Nov. 13th, 2018

It was not his first funeral.

Though this one was significant in that it stood out from the rest. He still managed in his same way, August kept his smile, kept his composure. There was a lot of work to be done. There had been a lot of loss. More than he’d ever seen at one time, and that was a lot considering that for the young man’s age, he’d been doing this for a long time. A lot longer than most people realized.

It shouldn’t have been just him today, the Old Man always liked to work a big crowd, took some sort of joy out of making masses feel better. His predecessor had taught August the tricks of the trade here in Ashbourne, truthfully the young witch had never intended to someday have to take over for the Mortician. He’d have been fine simply working in the other’s shadow, there were so many people looking to him now to say something. To say the right thing.

When the truth was, all he wanted to say was: I lost someone too.

This funeral is harder though, August knows the man in the casket. His face a reconstruction of the man he once was, work, that August spent hours painstakingly performing. He’d always thought the old man had such a hideous face, recreating that hooked nose was terrible, stitching back that yellowed leather-like skin was a chore, but in the end, you’d never have been able to tell that the undertaker had been nearly ripped apart by a berserker the night the ceremony went awry.

He had spent more time with this man than nearly anyone else, August had never told him what he had meant to him, and now he was never going to get the chance. He watched them lower the casket into the ground, a sermon followed before dirt began to fill the grave, like it had so many times before. August did what he could to keep a straight face, but when it was done he went back inside the funeral home and simply, sat, or stood, but he just kept moving from one room of the house to another.

Nothing felt right, nothing was the way that it should have been. This place was too empty now. August had always wanted his run of the place so that he’d be free to do whatever he wanted without fear of having to keep it hidden from the old man. Now that freedom also came with a burden of responsibility, and maybe that was the old man’s biggest joke before he kicked it, leaving August with more work than he had ever wanted to do.

The foyer had been the place where August spent the bulk of his time, his eyes always wandering the pages of his mother’s words, either her journal or her grimoire. He was obsessed. More so since coming to the town than he’d ever been before. It had been Willow who led August to the funeral home, and it had been the Old Man who gave her things over to him and brought her to where she was buried.

August looked out the window at the rows of graves and felt darkness bubbling within him, a wonton desire to hate, to burn, to avenge, to tear down everything that ever meant anything and start again. He hated it here. He hated everyone here. His eyes shifted to the loathsome tree at the top of the hill and his mouth contorted deeper in discontent.

April 19th, 2015

“How did she die?”

August had asked, once, years ago when he knelt contemplatively in front of his mother’s grave. In deep letters spelt her name Viktoria Knight.

His eyes looked to the old man, whose face looked quite grave, she’d died years ago, but he seemed to remember it still. His expression told August more than he wanted to know, but he needed to hear it. He needed him to say it.

But he didn’t. Instead he handed August the faded journal which detailed her years spent in this town, though there were parts of it that were worked into some sort of code, the ending was clear. Suicide.

That evening August found himself in the ring opposite a particularly vicious looking beast. His magic had been weaved to give his fists a greater impact, to make his skin a little tougher, to make his blood a little less appealing. His eyes wandered dangerously over the creature, this was his third match of the night and he was barely standing but an almost delirious smile kept the young witch standing.

“Is that all you got?” The crowd cheered as August outstretched his arms to either side, his one eye was swollen shut and he’d tasted blood during the second match. His energy was tapped out and whatever magic he had worked was fading, the adrenaline was still pumping however, and his opponent only snarled before they lunged. His fist connected with August’s face and the witch immediately saw stars as he stumbled back and hit the fence, though he smirked and spit blood out beside him.

A sort of scarlet static that was getting to be familiar in his fights danced across the skin of his exposed upper body and moved towards his fists as he swung out, his opponent easily dodged the sloppy movement and August went down. His field of vision danced around him as he laughed and felt the beast’s heavy feet connecting with his ribs, felt one crack.

Everything went dark and he awoke the next night in the hospital, apparently, August had been left outside. His cut from the first two fights in his pocket.

January 13, 2019

Again, August has found himself in the library, once again. He’d brought his mother’s grimoire there before in the hopes of unlocking hidden meaning or secrets, but the return of the dead from the forest had inspired him. Things were never as they seemed, and in parts of her journal, words became disordered or disorganized. Various sigils and symbols lined the margins and for years he’d simply assumed that they were just the rantings of a mad woman whose mind had been taken by this place.

The night before however he’d knocked it over and a page had spilled out, when he turned it over he found words jammed into the spaces between lines, upside down and swerved. It read, for my son: I love you.

Had she known he would end up here some day?

The question taunted him nearly as much as the secrets hidden within her grimoire, he’d come to the library with renewed purpose. August was looking for anything else that she might have written while she was here, or anything that might have been written about her. He knew now that she followed a dark path, one that she returned to when she came to Ashbourne, and one that August was content to follow as well until he unraveled the mystery surrounding her death.

August thought to one of the last conversations he’d had with the undertaker.

October 30, 2018

“What is the meaning of this!?”

August looked incredulous at the old man, how could a human possibly understand? That’s all the man was, just like his worthless father. An innocent man who’d been made to rot in prison. The lives of humans were so pliable, they could be shifted easily and forever altered from their intended course.

“I thought you’d left for the evening.” August asked, his childish sort of ambivalence to answering questions in a straightforward way had come to irritate the old man.

“I’ve told you before, I won’t stand for this. You’ve gone too far this time August.” The undertaker was a stern man, one who would not allow August to stray from the intended path of a Trillium Witch, at least not under his watch. He’d tried to assume to role of father figure, but

“You literally have no idea what you’re talking about, you’re just another ignorant old fool.” August shot, his eyes menacing as he gripped the knife he’d just been using to practice carving the symbols from his mother’s grimoire into a piece of skin he’d taken off a cadaver.

“It was a mistake taking you in. I’m going to turn you in for this.”

With a few short words the air was all but sucked from the man’s body as he was lifted off the ground. His skin sunk in as if he’d been petrified in a way, though August had merely woven a spell that would preserve him temporarily. August didn’t want to kill him, yet. “I’ve killed people for a lot less, if you think I’m going to allow you to turn me in, you’re mistaken.” Rarely did he perform magic in front of people, and even rarer still did they live long afterwards. Secrecy was very important to a witch.

He went through the motions of drawing a circle for banishment, it was a specialty of his, locking things away in a hidden place. One that he’d created a long time ago to hide the things that were worth hanging onto, or the things that could tie him to unfortunate deeds. From behind the old man’s bondage he was yelling, but it was little more than heated air against August’s resolve.

He shushed him.

“You should have just minded your own business, it didn’t need to end up like this. Really, I like you, we had a good thing going but, the truth is you never would’ve taken me in had you known I’d probably killed enough people to replace all those missing bodies in the grove.” August joked, he was always a bit unhinged in these moments. He couldn’t wait for this to be over.

“Anyways, this is it.”

He spoke the incantation and in a brilliant display of red light, the old man was sucked into himself and vanished. It was only good timing that the ceremony with the tree went wrong only days later, it made it that much easier to drop the still-living-breathing body in the path of a freshly turned berserker.

#maledictus.prompt #selfpara #musing

9 notes · View notes

bananashemmo · 7 years ago

Text

Double Trouble

Pairing: Y/N/Boxer!Luke

Rating: PG-All

Request: No

Words: 4.000+

Summary: Luke never wants to admit that he’s still boxing behind Y/N’ s back and once she figures out she leaves without a word. Little didn’t she know that Luke’s enemy has been waiting out in the woods for him to meet someone else instead.

Gum smells filled his nose once his fingers came up to touch his bloody nose. He didn’t notice it until he walked past a window in the rain with a lamp post mirroring his reflections.

The hoodie was covered way over his head and with the fearless attitude, he still kept his head high. But there was no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to not look over his shoulder even if it was just for a split second.

Luke spit down on the ground and removed his eyes from the young blood running down the small sticks of stubble above his bottom lip.

Any would have called it bad conscience but Luke didn’t. He didn’t want to carry the weight on his shoulders and instead crossed the feeling with anger instead.

He wasn’t supposed to be out tonight, everybody was aware.

No matter how many times he tried to hold back, it was the fights that carried him back to the small basement right below the bar that he usually visited during frustrations.

Tonight was not any different. Stubborn as he was he didn’t want to walk anywhere. Whether it was the guilt or not forcing him out he was clueless but one thing was for sure.

He couldn’t sleep next to Y/N knowing that he couldn’t hold her beside him.

He didn’t know what caused him most pain, the troubles and fights he had with her or when he was in the small arena pushing the life out of somebody else.

Nobody wanted to admit that they enjoyed the pain they caused on another player.

With a glare towards a black BMW driving past him like it wasn’t odd in the middle of 2 A.M, he crossed the road past the slippy puddles with small light reflections from the posts and ran the shortcut through the trees.

He could see the apartment from there and to his luck, the lights were off just like they had been when he arrived back.

He could easily remember the times when he saw the lights on, how it almost made his heart skip a beat. He hated being caught but somehow it happened too many times but was never better than the first time he was.

Feelings like ashamed and a little bit hurt could fill his veins. He didn’t want to look at her in the eyes and admit that he had been crossing the one rule they only had between.

Putting his boxing gloves back into his black backpack he lifted himself over the fence that was separating the streets from the small apartment quarter.

His shoes dusted up grey pieces of gravel from the uneven asphalt and looked over his shoulder one last time. He knew what he had done tonight came out of anger but he didn’t want to admit he regretted it deeply.

A small get together at the bar after the fight he had attended was what tore up the beforehand calm pieces.

Nobody had seemed to start a fight like usual, mostly Luke would just stare at sit watching people tear the flesh out of each other before he would decide to leave and go home. It was usually at that time he knew it was time not to be out anymore.

But tonight was something different. Way different to be exact.

He wasn’t sure if it was the anger from the fight with Y/N that was causing him to lose focus or if it was just the fact that he had won the game he previously had attended.

He knew his competitor was a winning champion and a small town boy like him couldn’t keep up with that. But he did, and that was caused by the newly formed drama.

Luke couldn’t help himself. He was a cocky mess when it came to winning.

He swore under his breath he didn’t want to sound arrogant but once he had beat Stephan Fell he couldn’t do anything else but brag. It was his born nature to show that he was the better and for once that was a bit success in his life.

With two beers placed in front of him, he barely got the chance to place the money into the bartender’s hand before Fell had decided to give it a small push.

Beer everywhere and a rather angry Luke he just couldn’t help himself.

He was the one starting the fight that night. A real one for once.

He had been boxing for as long as he could remember. At first, it was just activities but the more he did it, the more he fell for the rush, the adrenaline and the feeling of getting all his emotions out at once.

It felt better than kicking a bottle of water, throwing a jar towards the driveway and yell at someone. He couldn’t fully describe how he felt about it but he felt good.

He had the tricks to win every fight but standing in front of Stephan Fell without his equipment and fighting in the free it suddenly became something else.

He wasn’t sure what kind of pushes he had suddenly forced but it wasn’t until Stephan forced a fist into his eyebrow he hurried out of the door wanting to escape before it got ugly.

The blood was seen from far away, he almost swore he was getting it in the eye but with the small walk from the bar to the apartment, he knew it would dry up.

There wasn’t time to clean it up. If he knew Y/N’s peeing schedule well she would wake up at exactly this time and go to the bathroom. Just to his luck, or not so.

He had several times tried to dry the blood off his hands but it was useless.

Even in the dark, he could tell that it was smeared between his fingers.

Walking up the stairs as quietly as he possibly could Luke held his breath. The smallest movements could cause him to become a lier and he just wanted to avoid it, just tonight.

He had made sure to shut the door as quietly as he could and his shoes had been placed right next to hers. They were muddy and it was obvious but he could have easily said it came from a morning run.

He felt that everything was going just like he wanted to, he had thrown his boxing hoodie over his shoulders that he always wore after games and hung it on the staircase before walking into the bedroom and stopped mid-track.

Soft breaths came from the mock of hair that had seemed to take over the otherwise beautiful face of hers.

He stood for a moment and took everything in.

The way she was softly covering the sheets like they were made of human and if he looked closely he could tell she was wearing one his shirts. It wasn’t something he had noticed when walking out.

She could have woken up because it felt cold and wore it but then she would have noticed he would walk out. She wouldn’t be that stupid just to fall asleep again.

He silently sighed and filled the five steps that were separating him and her. He didn’t want to wake her up even though he was home by now but he still couldn’t leave her alone.

With the hand that wasn’t covered in blood, he carefully caressed her cheek. Brushed her hair away from her face and leaned down to kiss her soft warm forehead.

It was times like these he thought oh how she deserved someone better, someone, who could always be there for her.

He could stare at her forever. It didn’t matter if it was when she was sleeping and he was laying right next to her. Or if it was in the kitchen when she was doing her utter best to just cook him the best meal even if she wasn’t good at it.

The best times were when he could just stare at and gaze at her beautiful eyes. Especially at the summer where the sun would peak at the best times and letting him see into the thing he loved the most.

There was no doubt that he prioritized her the biggest. She was her one true love but with all the bad decisions he carried on his back, it always seemed to take on her.

Even if he didn’t attend to or wanted it.

He looked at his calloused fingers that couldn’t compare to her flawless skin. Even in the darkness, he could tell that she was having a bit of redness on her cheeks.

Something she had when she was either getting shy or too hot in the bed when sleeping.

Moving away from the bed he looked towards the balcony doors that were covered by the white curtains. They had the hint of transparent and he was able to see the lampposts outside.

Considering whether or not the package of cigarettes were screaming for his attention he fumbled with his fingers for a bit before settling onto the horrible craving.

He could taste the smoke on his lips and feel his lungs tighten already.

As quietly as he could he slipped the package out of his skinny jeans and shrugged the curtain away from the door handle. At first, he wanted to sit outside but when feeling the cold he just decided to stand by the door.

With one hand out of the door and smoke clouding over his face, he inhaled deeply and blew towards the balcony.

She hated the smoke inside. Basically, she hated everything about his habit, but just like everything else she decided to accept it. He had considered it many times, quitting just for her but it kept coming back.

It was like he could never actually shrug it off. He knew the feeling though, it could almost compare to the love he had for her. It wasn’t just something he could shrug off, it was an addiction.

It amazed him how she could still sleep. Her hair had fallen a bit into her face and he had to collect himself together to not walk over and caress it away. He didn’t want the smell to wake her up, she had a strong nose for this.

“A killer between two fingers.” Luke sighed to himself instead and looked out of the window.

No stars were in sight, barely the moon. If he closed one eye and really focused on the other he was able to see the reflection from it between the clouds. Not something major.

Cigarettes like these ended so quickly. One blow, two blows, and a third before he was almost done. It was what he needed the most besides seeing her after a horrible night.

Sometimes she swore that he was more into the cigarettes than her. But he swore on his life if it really depended he would quit everything to show his love for her.

He didn’t want to blame her. Words didn’t fully come to attention.

With a glare and one last blow he threw the cigarette into the darkness and closed the balcony door quietly.

He considered whether or not to brush his teeth but decided he was too tired. He would just do the double trouble tomorrow morning where he would wake up to another rush of guilt.

Shrugging off his boxer hoodie onto the navy blue chair that stood placed right next to the TV in front of the bed he looked over his shoulder when he heard noises.

His heart was racing quicker than before and his eyes widened when he saw Y/N flutter her eyes open from her side of the bed.

At first she was waking up, clearly not getting what was real life and in her sleep but when she noticed Luke by the end of the bed with that recognizable facial expression she knew something was up.

“What are you doing?” She asked, sitting up and the sheets falling down to her thighs.

Luke looked down at his feet with a million thoughts running through his mind, though, no answers seemed perfect for the situation.

Y/N looked extra carefully at him because of his silence, her eyes widening when she multiplied the clues.

A disappointed expression quickly came to her face and she sat up fast.

“You’ve been out?”

She almost couldn’t ask the question, her voice cracked in the end.

A deep color of red flashed on Luke’s shoulder but not in a cute way. It was going all the way down to his neck and even if he seemed like the toughest guy in town he wanted to curl into a fetus position.

“How could you?” She asked firm and her legs dangled down to touch the floor, “We had an agreement, didn’t we?”

“Of course we did Y/N, it just slipped out tonight.” It wasn’t the right words to say, but there wasn’t an excuse for this. He blew it up and was completely caught in the act.

“It just slipped out tonight?” She repeated his words like he was being ridiculous, “Luke, it was an agreement we both had to make sure that things would change for the better. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does,” Luke started but was interrupted by Y/N; “Of course it doesn’t! The second I’m fast asleep you use I’m naïve against me! How did you think this through? You just hoped I wouldn’t notice and everything would be like nothing happened tomorrow?”

“You’re not naïve.” Luke tried to reason with her and tried to walk towards her but she backed away.

“Of course I’m naïve!” She almost wanted to yell, he wouldn’t be surprised if she suddenly ripped off his shirt she was wearing and throwing it right in his face.

“You have me wrapped around your finger and when I believe we have a deal you know that my trust is all in you! You know that I don’t expect you to do this and is able to convince me nothing has happened during the night!”

“Y/N, don’t see it like that.” Luke was on deep water and he had no idea how to save himself.

“How should I see it then?” She questioned and crossed her arms.

Luke’s eyes widened by the sudden silence and his sudden chance to talk. It was this exact moment he had feared the most and just wanted to push behind his shoulders and not think about it.

He looked at her and tried not to break because the way she was looking at him showed nothing else but disappointment.

“What were you even doing?” She couldn’t stay quiet.

The answer was already clear, she could just smell his hands and figure it out. But he stayed quiet, not wanting to give her the answer because that was when he couldn’t take it back.

“You were out… Boxing again?” She almost stuttered by the last words and looked down at the ground.

This time Luke couldn’t avoid giving an answer. He had to stay true to his actions and not run away from it with his tail between his legs.

“Yes.” His voice was deep and full of regret. Just like he was feeling inside.

Her facial expression changed quickly and a rock almost dropped from his chest. This was where he knew that a girl felt heartbroken inside.

She didn’t want to say something, she just looked at him with tears in the eyes. He wanted to hold her close and say he was stressed but he feared her reaction. He didn’t want to feel the rejections because of her disappointment.

“I-,” She was lost for words and to avoid the sob she walked past him.

Throwing on a pair of Nike tights and the hoodie he had thrown onto the navy blue chair she hurried out of the door without a word being said. She didn’t want to stay where she was right now.

The silence hit hard.

Luke looked lost for a second, almost forgetting how to breathe. His heart was racing so fast he could almost feel it in his toes and he ran his fingers through his hair like if he was in a nightmare.

He looked into the mirror that was having in their closet and almost couldn’t look at his own reflection.

He felt so ashamed.

He knew that she didn’t want him to run after her. She wasn’t like other girls, she wanted to be alone when she was like this because otherwise, she said things she probably would regret.

But he also knew that in the end she only wanted him to wrap his arms around her. But every time they fought, it was like it took longer for her to get to the usual conclusion. That he deserves another chance.

But he also had to collect himself together. He couldn’t just stand here and feel miserable. He had to make up for his mistakes.

Using his thumb to try removing the blood from his eyebrow he exhaled deeply.

He had heard the front door open and close so he knew she was outside. It was like a knife to his chest when he heard it close harshly.

There was no doubt he had to run after her. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t.

Looking over his shoulder to take his hoodie he suddenly realized something when he saw the emptiness on the chair.

An innocent act from Y/N’s side had turned into something way worse. She was wearing Luke’s boxing shirt outside most probably with the hoodie over her head and knowing that Stephan was still outside.

Luke suddenly forgot how to breathe.

“Fucking hell.” He banged his fist against the door frame and ran out of the bedroom.

There was one place to look and it was EVERYWHERE.

He couldn’t even remember if he had locked the door to the apartment or not before he was out in the cold again. The weather was horrible, worse than it had been when he was smoking his cigarette and he had to collect himself just for a moment.

She could be everywhere and nowhere but he knew she wouldn’t be far away. She didn’t like being outside at this time of the night no matter how angry she could possibly get.

Running between the paths with no directions headed he searched for lights, he searched for sounds of people and anything. But it was one of the darkest and quiets nights of the week.

Not an eye was seen in the otherwise calm area. This place wasn’t for danger but when your personality was drawn to it, it was hard to shrug it off from your area.

If his heart was able to be pushed out from his chest this was now. He didn’t care if he was out of breathing and needed to take a break. He NEEDED to find her and it had to be done as fast as possible.

He almost dropped his phone out of his pocket when he fished it out and tried to call her number. To his fear and just like he predicted it was straight to voicemail.

“Y/N!” He knew yelling her name wouldn’t do anything well, but it was his last bit of hope.

When not hearing anything else but his voice echoing between the apartments he looked towards the woods where a small light was showing. It wasn’t much visible and could easily be nothing.

“Y/N?” He yelled again, this time with a question in his tone. He just wanted to hear the sound of her voice.

A muffled scream came the second his voice echoed and he almost dropped his heart.

Even with a hand covered in front of her mouth, he knew it was her.

Running towards the small light he saw from the woods he quickly recognized it to be from a phone, watching it light up from the back side pointing upwards.

When he came close enough he noticed Stephan hovering over a fragile body in a fetus position trying to protect herself.

He almost couldn’t contain his anger when he saw Stephan give another kick to her body, a bloody scream coming from her lips and her voice almost cracked in pain.

“I swear to god if you touch her one more time I’ll kill you.” Luke’s voice was so deep yet loud it caught Stephan’s attention.

At first he seemed surprised by someone showing up but when noticing it was Luke he almost seemed amused.

“Looks who’s showing up! You know, boxing with your girlfriend isn’t really the experience.” Stephan dared to give her another kick and without hesitation Luke tackled him to a tree, both fists holding him tight by the chest.

“What part of don’t touch her don’t you understand?” Luke said through gritted teeth and looked Stephan right in the eyes.

“The part where you try to be the hero.” Stephan responded and watched Luke as he pressed him harder against the tree.

“Why are you even trying? I mean, she knows your personality. You can’t contain your anger, you don’t know how to control your frustration and you respond to anger by beating. That doesn’t really sound like the ideal boyfriend, does it?”

“Unlike you, I would never lay a hand on her body.” There was no hesitation in Luke’s words as he bored them into Stephan’s head.

“I never said I was the hero.” Stephan lowered his voice and loosened himself from Luke by twisting his arms.

“How don’t you feel responsible for this? I mean, who allows her girlfriend to stay out this late at night knowing that your best enemy is waiting right behind the corner. It was a good one though, I mean at first I thought she was you because of the hoodie but when I noticed the female crying voice I decided not to attack her already.”

Luke looked down at her by the mention of his boxer hoodie. He could see his last name reflect on the back of the fabric.

Words couldn’t explain the guilt he was feeling in his heart.

“Things happen for a reason, you know that right?” Stephan asked and pressed Luke harder against the tree.

“I’m aware.” Luke tried to swallow the spit that was creasing in his mouth. He was having a hard time to breathe when Stephan suddenly reached his hand up to his throat.

“And how about we finish this fight once for all?”

For once Stephan didn’t look challenging at Luke. His puzzled facial expression was quickly changed into his eyes widening when Luke managed to free his hands and forced Stephan to the ground.

“Don’t be a step forward. Just always prepare for a loophole.” Luke kicked once, twice and a third time that made Stephan connect to the tree Luke had previously been pushed into.

He could continue the kicks, let his anger get to him because he honestly couldn’t believe the way he treated others. He would always be a disrespectful douche that would never get the second chance from Luke’s behalf.

Stephan had been knocked out by the many kicks, he wasn’t moaning anymore or complaining in pain. But that didn’t stop Luke from continuing. He had no control of getting out of his cycle and it wasn’t until he heard faint sounds from his behind.

It was a small groan, not sound or anything powerful but just the tiny bit of her voice made him turn around quickly.

“Luke… Please stop…” She barely whispered above her breath.

He looked back at Stephan to see his eyes closed and the blood leaking from his nose. He blinked twice and looked back at Y/N almost covered in the leaves from the cold fall weather.

“Oh god…” Luke whispered almost as if he was in pain and leaned down to scoop Y/N up in one piece. She was cold, completely fragile and once she was in his arms he dared to never let go again.

He almost had to run, he had no idea where the sudden fitness came from but there was no doubt he needed to get as home as quick as possible.

Turning the paths and up the stairs, to their apartment, he constantly looked down to check if she was awake and she was. She was having her eyes half closed, but still nuzzled her nose into his almost wet black t-shirt.

He smacked the door closed with his feet and took the turns to their bathroom. He didn’t want to let go of her so instead sat on the toilet seat with her on top of him.

“You’re okay now. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” He softly spoke and removed bits of hair away from her face. She had a bruise coming under her right eye.

She sat silent for a minute thinking. She was also leaking blood from her eyebrow, just the opposite of his. But then she suddenly opened her mouth.

“Are you okay?”

He looked carefully at her by her words and nodded his head softly.

“I’ve been a dead man walking inside. But now I think it’s finally time to show something different.” He leaned his forehead against hers, “No more fighting, no more violence, no more of anything.”

She looked at him carefully and nodded her head in agreement.

“I’m okay as long as you’re here safe and with me. At all costs.”

379 notes · View notes

wackygoofball · 7 years ago

Photo

Gifset: Jaime x Brienne - Florist AU

Jaime Lannister wants nothing more but work his normal job again, no matter what it may cost him. Ever since the hand injury accompanied by a number of infections that had him hospitalized for what felt like an eternity, he felt useless, no longer being able to work his job the way he used to, growing increasingly frustrated with himself.

However, his health keeps suffering for it, since Jaime doesn't want to take the time to fully recover from the infections having made his immune system rather fragile, not wanting to admit that weakness to himself.

Tyrion, concerned for his older brother’s wellbeing, wants Jaime to fully recover and regain his strengths. Thus, the youngest son of Tywin Lannister makes arrangements to have his brother take a much-needed vacation, though really, he has to trick Jaime into it, which Tyrion manages, passing it off as a business meeting in the Stormlands, only to have Jaime suffer through a flight there with his poor health, arriving on the Sapphire Isle, Tarth, where there is evidently no business meeting whatsoever.

Once Jaime realizes that he has been played, he calls Tyrion from the airport to demand explanations, to which the younger man only recounts the merits of a vacation by the sea, including “a beautiful countryside, salty air, to help the weak lungs and a horrible internet connection. You will hate it, but you will thank me for it later, I am most sure, dear brother.”

Jaime gives in to his fate eventually, knowing that with his health at present, he wouldn’t be able to make it through another flight for at least a number of days. That one flight had him close to dying, so Jaime either manages to force Tyrion to have a ferry take him, or he will have to sit through this for a number of days until he is well enough to travel again.

No matter what, someone is going to get murdered once I am back in King’s Landing, though, Jaime thinks to himself as he moves into the small house by the sea that his brother rented for him.

Jaime makes a few attempts to get back into work despite his little brother’s scheme, because there are telephones, obviously, and even Tyrion’s effort of taking Jaime’s cellphone away before he left for the non-existent business meeting should not prevent him from making some phone calls or get himself hooked up on a computer in one of the internet cafés downtown.

However, Tyrion should not be underestimated, since he also snatched Jaime’s notebook containing all numbers, just like he somehow managed to block his accounts by changing his older brother’s passwords so that Jaime doesn’t even have a chance to check his e-mails.

Not knowing what else to do with the forced free-time, Jaime starts to explore the “stupid island” and wanders around, hoping that the fresh air will do him good enough to be able to board a plane ASAP to get back home – and smack his little brother upon return.

However, as he continues venturing through Tarth’s uninhabited areas, not wanting to talk to people, since he is almost instantly recognized as Jaime Lannister, or at worst, the Kingslayer, following a scheme he took part in to take down Aerys Targaryen after illegal practices in the company, Jaime gets lost.

Reckoning that it’s best to keep in one direction until he reaches either a town or the coast, Jaime tries to keep on track, cursing his little brother for taking his cellphone all the while. He eventually comes by a flower field with high grass and even higher flowers.

So, cutting across country it is!

Jaime continues to wade through the high grass, when suddenly a scythe comes slicing out of nowhere. He barely manages to jump aside. And as the high grass falls to the earth, the flowers reveal a tall, blonde woman with brilliant blue eyes and scythe in hand.

“Oh by the Seven, I could have chopped off your head with that,” she curses.

“I realized!” he retorts.

“Just what devil possessed you to come through here?! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“Well, maybe next time you check whether there are people you are about to cut down with your scythe, woman,” he grumbles, quite surprised that the woman now puts the blame on him.

“You should not walk on private property, then. Normally, there are no people here, you realize?” she scoffs defensively.

Jaime explains that he got lost and just tried to keep in one direction. "Islands do have limits, so I thought if I stuck to one direction, I would get fuckin' somewhere. Also, there are no fences, so I didn't know I was on your property."

"Well, basically, this is all my property."

He frowns. "What?"

The blonde woman holds out her hand to him, scythe over the other shoulder. "Brienne of Tarth."

“Tarth, as in…”

“As in the name of the island, as in Tarth Inc., yes,” she confirms. “And you are…”

“Jaime Lannister,” he answers.

“As in Lannister Corporations.”

“In fact.”

“Well, Mr. Lannister, then I suppose I should see to it that you get back to civilization. I likely cannot afford for Tywin Lannister’s son to get lost in my fields.”

“Unless you want to suffer his rage, no.”

“I think I will pass. We all heard the tale about the Casterlies.”

“Yeah, that didn’t end pretty.”

She gives him a hand and proceeds to walk Jaime through the flower field. Jaime notices just how well the woman seems to know the area, barely having to look down as Brienne continues to wade through the high grass, though she stops every now and then to bend down and collect… rather odd things: Withered flowers and leaves, out-of-shape mushrooms, curled and bent twigs, and so on.

When asked about it, Brienne explains that she is a florist and that she grows all plants she uses for her bouquet here on the Sapphire Isle, so to maintain their quality.

"And what are the mushrooms and broken twigs good for?" he asks.

"Two other bouquets I am working on."

"But those blue flowers are withered."

"I am aware."

"Then why would you use them?"

"Why not?"

"I thought you’d only use the best. You yourself just said that you wanted to guarantee the sheer quality of your flowers by growing them here instead of importing them from elsewhere," he argues, trying to keep up with her.

"It's all a matter of arrangement,” she explains.

"Well, last time I checked, most people will lose their shit if they get withered flowers in the bouquets they order."

"Which is why we tell our customers specifically that this is what they get,” Brienne answers, shrugging. “So there are no bad surprises."

After some time, they reach Evenfall Hall. Brienne offers to call a taxi for him, after learning that Jaime’s brother made arrangements to have his cellphone taken. In the meantime, Jaime looks around the great hall, taken aback by the sheer beauty of the arrangement, bouquets, and amphoras Brienne displays there, surprised to learn that, in fact, the withered flowers and knotted twigs make them special, and that is something he can tell without having a single clue about the florist business.

When Brienne returns to inform him about the cab being on the way, the two engage in a bit of casual small talk, though both tend to dodge personal topics, as Jaime does not wish to talk about his poor health and his hand injury in particular, whereas Brienne, upon Jaime’s questioning about her father, plainly tells him that he passed away some time ago, so not to provide further information, which has him shocked.

“They never addressed that in the news."

"And I am glad for it."

The taxi arrives soon thereafter, and Jaime is on his journey back to the small house by the coast. And as it seems, he found something that is interesting enough to explore while he plots his little brother’s murder: the curious case of florist Brienne of Tarth.

On the next day, Jaime starts to research in a nearby internet café and by asking around town to learn more about Ms. Tarth’s florist business, surprised to learn that there is one specific rule in the terms of service:

"We work with many different kinds of flowers, but we do not make bouquets featuring roses of any kind."

Jaime reckons that he might just as well dig into the matter a little further, and so, on his next stroll across Tarth’s countryside, he ends up by Evenfall Hall yet again.

Brienne, naturally, is rather irritated to see the handsome man who is a big gun at Lannister Corporations back. After all, most people, particularly men, keep their distance from her. Jaime explains that he would like to use his time here to spend as much time in nature as he can to recover, but since all is hers “it would only be fair to ask for allowance first.”

Brienne doesn’t even know what is happening, but she has to realize soon in the wake of the conversation that she somehow agreed to playing tour guide for the arrogant and snarky son of Tywin Lannister.

They didn’t lie about Jaime Lannister – he is a gifted businessman who can convince you of almost anything if need be.

As Jaime asserts, the arrangement would be of mutual benefit, adding, "Plus, it would be a pity if the oldest son of Tywin Lannister was found dead here after he got lost in your woods. Imagine the uproar – and the sorrow."

She rolls her eyes. "My heart could barely take it."

Over the course of Jaime tagging after Brienne as she goes about her daily chores of searching the most curious items for her flower arrangements, they start to grow closer, just like they begin to open up to one another as they discover that, against all odds, they actually have a lot in common.

Eventually, Jaime asks her about the "no roses policy," which has her rather defensive as to why. Brienne shoots back by asking why he is so eager to keep his hand injury to himself, "though you evidently can't move it properly."

This gets Jaime by surprise, since he tried his best to hide the injury from anyone uninvolved, including the blonde florist.

That is what pushes him at last to admit just why he is so persistent in pushing himself to the limits: "I want to be of use again. I can no longer work the job the way I used to work it. I can no longer do the sports I used to like. And my dear little brother doesn't seem to get that I need to do this job much more desperately than he can even begin to fathom."

"Well, maybe you have to find a new job then."

He blinks. "Excuse you?"

She shrugs. "I used to work for my father's company, you know? Full-time job. Flights all across the country. Just like him. I worked very closely with Renly Baratheon for a time, which kept me from home... for a long time. We missed each other on flights, we barely saw one another. Then my father got sick, and I stayed home to tend to him... and I realized that this was so much more worth it than maintaining the family company. I rather want to maintain the family, you see?"

"So you dropped out?"

Brienne nods. "I am still the biggest shareholder, so to know that the policies are maintained to the moral standards we set up and that I wish Tarth Inc. to continue to stand for. But I don't actively take part in it anymore, no. I sell flowers now."

"Quite a change of profession."

"Yes, and I realized that it did me... really good."

"But don't you miss it at times? The challenge of it? I mean, you said yourself you are not afraid of a challenge if it arises."

"Not really. And I realized that there is something to... setting up new challenges for oneself."

"So using unusual components for flower bouquets is your challenge?"

"That. And growing flowers in new environments... I get to climb mountains... It may not be the challenge of being a CEO, but... it's fine to me. Everything else that I need to stay competitive in... I can take to the gym."

Jaime laughs. "I bet you beat all the men around."

"I knock them into the dust for all my life."

"Well, if I were in good health, I suppose I would put up quite a challenge."

"I'd still beat you."

"Boxing?"

"Mixed Martial Arts."

"I used to do that before the hand injury, quite successfully so."

"Now, is that a challenge, Mr. Lannister?"

As the two continue to spend time together, taking solace in each other’s company and the trust that keeps developing amongst the two as they continue to open up to one another in ways they didn’t to anyone in what feels like ages, they grow closer and closer.

And so, it isn’t until long that they get too close. However, Jaime’s departure, which is not far away, as he is doing better with every day passing, may stomp on the fragile bud that grew between the two. Thus, Jaime and Brienne have to wrestle with their growing feelings for one another, aware that life is pulling them in different directions.

And it seems to be that this is one of those challenges that they may not be able to overcome…

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #wacky tries gifs #Aesthetic #game of thrones

124 notes · View notes

fer8girl · 7 years ago

Text

Ghost’s Dawn

Gladiator-days fiction for Dvasia. Also on AO3 and could use more comments >^,^<

A panicked buzz woke the small Cathar from her fitful sleep, whispers slithering through the slaves’ sleeping quarters. “Hide them! Hide them!” The words hissed around her as she shook loose her disorientation. Frenzied hands grabbed other younglings, tucking them under blankets and robes. Suddenly there was booming against the doors, just before they gave way.

Guards burst into the room, looking humongous from where she sat on the floor, and pointed at the scurrying bodies. “There!” one grunted.

Two small twi’lek were snatched up - five cycles old, just a bit younger than her - and she realized that the rumors were true. Since getting thrown in with this lot of slaves she’d heard about random pen raids where the smallest or weakest were carried off. No one was sure where they went but none ever came back.

She frantically looked for a place to hide, anything or anyone who’d help her, but it was a lost cause. The others were busy concealing younglings that they’d birthed or adopted, with no family she was an easy target.

Grabbing her thin pallet she tried dashing to a corner but she made the mistake of looking up. Her eyes locked with those of one of the guards and she shrank away. “Don’t see me,” she whispered, putting all of her will behind the words. It was a trick that’d saved her before and seemed to work this time. His eyes went blank and he looked from side to side, appearing confused. She darted backward in a relieved rush, just before flying into the legs of a guard behind her.

His hand dug into the scruff on the back of her neck, raising her as she spat and hissed. A lashed-out claw narrowly missed his face but he just chuckled. “Filthy vermin,” he said, poking her in the ribs and she lashed out again, baring her fangs in a snarl.

“Vermin with bite, eh?” muttered another.

“Good, maybe it’ll last longer,” he replied.

Still held at arm’s length all she could do was dangle helplessly as he carried her out along with several other younglings. Behind them were muffled sobs while the remaining slaves huddled together, already mourning those they couldn’t hide. She tried swiping at the guard again, but he just gave her a hard shake. “Save your energy, you’ll need it,” he grumbled.

While they tromped through the dank tunnels she glanced at the others. There was maybe a dozen of them, a few still squirming while the rest had gone limp with resignation. All like her, young, small... easily forgotten.

Taking one last chance she reached up to tear at the arm of the guard, this time her claws gashed deep into flesh. He dropped her with a surprised shout, cursing and grasping the injured limb while she rolled away, scrambling to her feet. Her actions spurred the other younglings, they started wiggling in their captors’ grips as she ran down the tunnel.

Fueled by adrenaline she sprinted down the hall, hoping to outrace the thudding feet behind her. She hadn’t made it far before a hulking body stepped from the gloom, blocking her path.

“Trying to wriggle off the hook little worm?”

The raspy voice sent chills up her spine and she stopped dead in her tracks, staring up at the wrinkled face. Thin braids fell from a knot atop his head, looking like tentacles, and a sneer twisted his leathery features. She glanced from side to side, searching for a new escape route, but before she could dash off a guard caught up and cuffed the side of her head. Reeling from the blow she felt warmth trickling down her face as he picked her up.

“Sorry Doran,” the injured guard muttered. “Damn thing snapp…” His words were cut off by a wheeze as the wrinkled man gut-punched him.

“I hate having to clean up after those I hire,” he intoned, then walked to where she was held aloft. Blinking warm wetness from her eyes, she glared at him while he chuckled ominously. “But at least I know who to wager on.”

He strode down the tunnel with the guards close behind while she was half-dragged along the stone floor. The brutal retaliation to her rebellion quieted the other younglings, they just whimpered until they reached a metal gate at the end of the hall. It creaked open and she lurched away, only to be chucked through with the others. They landed in heap but quickly sprang apart, some running to bang on the gate while she looked around.

So different than the pens it was like visiting another world. No ceiling, only more sky than she’d seen in her life, with red-orange streaks starting to chase off the night. Crisp air filled her lungs and she inhaled greedily, relishing oxygen untainted by the odor of unwashed bodies. The ground was hard-packed dirt, dusty but a welcome change over the clammy tunnels.

Curiosity had her wandering forward as dawn approached. More gates peppered the walls fencing in the area and there were bones littered about. There were deep gouges where they’d been gnawed on. By what? she wondered, and when a screech echoed across the area she had a feeling she was about to find out.

“Turn ‘em loose!” barked the wrinkled man.

In the waning darkness she could see the gates opening and tall, spindly beasts entering the arena. They were nothing like she could’ve imagined, even in her nightmares. With armored bodies and pointed insect-like legs, the creatures seemed barely tamed, swiping sharp limbs at the guards much like she had. Dawn light gleamed on bony crests and the multitude of teeth protruding from their upper jaws.

She swallowed hard, feeling rooted in place while the other younglings squealed in terror. The beasts’ heads swiveled towards the shrill noises and they charged. Behind her she heard pattering feet as the others scattered but all she could do was hit the ground and repeat, “Don’t see me, don’t see me…”

Hunkered into a tight ball, she burrowed into the dirt as much as she could, glad that her pale fur matched the dust. A stampede of pointed limbs ran past and she curled tighter, praying they’d miss her. Her silent pleas became more fervent when screams echoed through the arena, followed by noises she didn’t want to define. She clamped her hands over her ears, rocking and murmuring to herself. It was only when she felt the thud of legs close to her face that she grudgingly opened her eyes, fearing the worst.

Warm breath puffed above her head prompting her to look up, and when her gaze traveled higher her eyes met the three of the creature looming over her. It seemed curious and she could see that it was smaller than the others, its crest not quite as large. It jabbed at her with one leg tentatively then leaned down, opening its mouth.

‘NO!’ she thought in panic and it stilled, drawing back slightly as if it heard her. The three eyes blinked and she did too, just as surprised. When its face moved forward she tried it again, thinking, ‘No! Stay back!’

Something clicked into place like tumblers in a lock, and she felt herself in the mind of the beast. It was a jumbled place, thoughts swirling like leaves in the wind. She fought to not get swept up in them, to focus the best she could. It was so hard, the beast was starving, its body wracked by hunger pains.

Hunger was something she was painfully familiar with, she’d been shoved from the food bins more times than she could count by larger slaves. She grasped onto the pain, somehow drawing it into herself where she could bury it with her own. Once relieved of it the beast lowered its head and brushed its muzzle to her leg. Fine bristly hairs trembled against her fur and she giggled nervously at the tickle. Its eyes met hers again and when it tilted its head in anticipation inspiration struck.

She channeled the beast’s hunger back to it but a controlled portion, giving it purpose. In return she could feel its strength funneling into her, reinforcing their bond as she stood. There was a quiet buzz at the back of her brain, the creature making its presence known and she welcomed it. It crouched slightly and she sidled up one leg to perch on its back.

The rest of the creatures had decimated the younglings and a few guards were trying to wrangle them while others stared at her. Some looked wary, trying to figure out why she hadn’t been devoured. A frisson of anger shivered down her spine as she watched them, the creature’s feelings twisted into her own.

‘Food?’ she thought, still getting the hang of the link they shared, and the creature keened excitedly. Concentrating as hard as she could she stared at the guard who’d pulled her from the slave pens. “There,” she said. “That’s food.”

It charged him with a ferocious cry while she clung to its neck, limbs speeding along the hard ground. Overcome by shock the rest just looked on in horror as the creature speared a leg through his torso then dragged him along the ground. Doubled satisfaction surged as it sunk long teeth into his throat, ripping free his windpipe with a crunch. Warm fluids coursed down its throat and as the beast’s hunger abated she felt almost like it was her own stomach being filled.

Another juicy bite tore into the carcass’s leg, prime hunks of muscle dripping blood onto the ground. She became mesmerized by the spots of red, arcane constellations soaking into the dirt. The smell beckoned and she leaned forward, tempted to leave the safety of her perch.

‘That would be unwise.’ A melodic voice rippled more through her mind than her ears and she glanced up. The rest of the guards had regrouped, aiming whatever weapons they had at her and the beast. Most tried looking brave but she could smell their fear. A tall red-skinned woman stood in front of them, haughty but curious, and she knew that’s whose voice she had heard. ‘You’re safer there, little dis. At least for now.’

The guards started circling them and she watched them carefully, letting the creature know their positions. One jabbed a pike at them and together they whirled, the creature knocking his feet out from under him with a stilt-like leg.

“Back off!” the woman warned and this time they seemed smart enough to listen. She walked towards the pair and the creature bowed its head, surprising the rider clinging to its neck.

“I raised this one and many like her. They’re called Acklay,” she explained as she reached up and stroked under its jaw. “Not many take to being ridden though.”

Golden eyes peered up at her and she felt like layers of her will were being stripped away. ‘Don’t see me,’ she thought and the intrusion paused then pulled back.

“Interesting,” intoned the woman. Then she smiled slowly and whispered, “They’re afraid of you.”

The idea sent a shiver of pride through her, “Good.”

Her reaction seemed to please the woman. “But fear can make people do rash things, like attack at sudden movements. Stay still, stay quiet and you’ll leave here alive.”

“Promise?” she asked skeptically and the woman nodded.

“Yes.” The woman glanced back and stiffened, “But you have to trust me.”

Over the woman’s shoulder she could see a burst of movement, fury taking form as the Weequay she’d encountered barrelled through the guards.

“What in Am-Shak’s name is going on?” he bellowed, stopping at the guard’s corpse. He shook his head at the carnage and pinned the woman with his gaze. “Slaves, not guards Syble.”

“ Atenuâ just got a little overzealous, ” she stated. “I tried warning you about starving them.”

The Weequay huffed, looking exasperated until he saw the small Cathar atop the acklay. “And what is that thing doing up there?”

“It seems Atenuâ has found a friend,” said the woman, her voice softening like warm honey. “You know, you haven’t had a proper gladiator in quite a while. And don’t beast-riders do the best in the arenas? I could train them, rider and mount. Think of the credits.”

Even from her perch she could feel the coercion in the woman’s tones, swaying the Weequay’s thoughts. He looked doubtful at first but while the woman murmured coaxingly his expression relaxed.

“An acklay rider?” he mused, warming to the idea. “Unexpected, bold, I like it.” Tilting his head he looked at her again. “You’re the one I wagered on, aren’t you? In the mess no one could tell who’d lasted the longest. Guess I win!”

He laughed darkly and she shivered, noting his humor was more disconcerting than his anger. Tightening her grip she was relieved when he turned to the woman. “Fine, have it your way. Train them for the arenas.”

He strode off, the guards marching behind him, leaving her and the acklay with the woman. A shrill whistle summoned the other acklays near, a single noise accomplishing what a cadre of guards couldn’t.

“Now it’s safe, little dis.” The woman beckoned to her, “Come closer so that I may take a look at you.”

Sliding from the acklay she was still wary, ready to run. But where would she go? she wondered and she approached the woman. Long red fingers brushed dust from her mane then trailed over the scars on her cheek. The woman clucked her tongue before crouching down to her eye level. “My name is Syble. What’s yours?”

She shrugged at the question and Syble’s eyes narrowed. “No clan, pride?” She shrugged again and Syble sighed. “Maybe better this way.”

“You have unique abilities, abilities I can help you hone,” she continued. “Have you used them before?”

She nodded and concentrated hard. “Don’t see me,” she muttered and watched a smile of delight dawn on Syble’s face.

“Very good,” she murmured. “To the unskilled eye you’re almost a ghost.” The smile widened as if inspired, “Dvasia, it means ‘ghost’ in my peoples’ language. Do you like it?”

“Dvasia.” Her tongue stumbled over the foreign syllables before catching them and making them hers. “Yes, I like it.”

“Then Dvasia you are, a living ghost. Now come,” Syble stood and offered her hand. “I will be your Akirsera and teach how to use those skills of yours.”

“No pens?” she asked, hopefully.

Syble chuckled, smoothing her fingers over the small furry hand she held. “No my little dis, you will stay with me. And I have much to teach you.”

Walking hand-in-hand with Syble, followed by acklays, Dvasia knew she’d be eager to learn.

Translations for the Sith used in the story...

Akirsera - 'mistress' Atenuâ - 'stilts' dis - 'cat' Dvasia - 'ghost'

#swtor #dvasia #cathar sith #gladiator days #acklays #love my ocs #my fanfic #long fic

20 notes · View notes

theclydesdalerussian · 7 years ago

Text

The bae over at @theprixrity wanted not one, but ALL the headcanon questions about Russian Mama. So here, I present to you:

Manya Volkov: in Grave Detail

What does their bedroom look like?

Her room is rather plain. When she was given a home in Alexandria she honestly had no clue what to do with it, all she knew was she hated American Suburbia. So, she made it her own the best she could, the collections of animal skulls and all the windows open for Vladik to poke his head through. As for her bedroom she refuses to wash the bed sheets. More animal skulls and her weapons lying around.

Do they have any daily rituals?

Manya wakes up as soon as the sun does out of habit of being outside. When she was outside she would pack up her things and travel, maybe stop by a pond or stream and get a drink of water or hunt for fish. Travel mostly, till the sun starts to go down to which she settles. Makes a small fire, maybe cooks her fresh kill and rest, roughly 9 at night. Now in Alexandria however it’s slightly different. She still gets up early(unless she has certain company over *cough* then she can sleep a little longer), Brushing her teeth is important...maybe a shower if she can not simply stand herself. Go downstairs, make some coffee, then go outside to spend time with Vladik or go for a run. Then she stays in the home she was provided, read her worn down book after a meal. Then sleeps, again right at 9...again unless she has company that wants to annoy her.

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

In this New World, limited food and getting away from walkers can be quite the weight loss program. She was never one to gain weight anyhow, but having the hot Southern sun beat on you every day can take it’s toll.

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

Rarely a problem, a simple fire outside always did the trick with her. She had to do it in her travels...so going back to her feral roots is a breeze if not preferred.

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Despite her rather rough exterior she does keep her rest home rather tidy. A sweep of the floor or a wash of some dishes. No big deal.

Eating habits and sample daily menu

Again, with the New World comes a new eating habit. Survival ran through her veins, so hunting for woodland creatures with some pecans or berries always kept her from starvation. In fact, when she first started traveling she in fact went to some abandoned places and grabbed some canned foods. This is still true for her settlement in the safe zone. Eating normal food is odd for her now, while still enjoyable. Though one could see she lost some table manners as she eats with a animal edge to her.

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Manya is not one to waste time, she is either traveling somewhere or hunting something. But, she has learned to take a step back and enjoy some things...only to quickly go back to the task at hand.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

Manya never thought it was possible to indulge in things again. However, she does have her book and the Walkman she found to remind her she was still alive and in the present. As more things are presented to her, she took up cross stitching from one of the older women in Alexandria.

Makeup?

None, she never wore make up before the Apocalypse and she sure as shit doesn’t wear it now.

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

One could argue that Manya suffers from PTSD due to her environment. Having to worry about her and her family’s safety from The Russian Mob where she had to use a gun at a young age. Experiencing the hysteria and panic when Walkers started forming, the feeling of being the only person on earth only to find people that either wanted to take advantage of her or kill her. She however does not think so, she adapts and survives...that’s how it’s always been. Not being able to trust people is their problem.

Intellectual pursuits?

Manya was in college studying law, she was always someone that sought knowledge. A Documentary enthusiast as well as books was a big stimulation for her.

Favorite book genre?

Manya likes all kinds of books, her favorite...and one she carries around is actually a Russian print of Animal Farm. Which, of course would explain her need to nick name people after animals.

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Manya is in fact bisexual, while homosexuality is actually frowned upon in her country Manya never felt the need to come out to anyone. She is attracted to both men and women, and love them both equally. She did feel, in the New World and in America in general the feeling she could be much more free to express these feelings if those said feelings did arise.

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

Manya suffered an injury on her back when she was very young. Long story short she tried to climb under a rusty fence and got severely scratched. She also wears some scaring from her travels but never feels the need to hide them.

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest short term goal is to find out about her family, the idea of their death is very real to her. But as long as they didn’t suffer then she could live with that. The smallest one, at the time, was to go to New York. Or somewhere out of the South...course that never happened.

Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Now living in Alexandira Manya’s goals have changed. She still wants to know about her family yes, but now keeping the people inside those walls safe became her top goal. She also wants to be able to be normal for once, maybe not the normal she once knew...but normal enough for the new world.

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Manya’s style of choice is simple. Boots, jeans, a shirt or tank top, and a flannel shirt. In the winter time she made herself a fur blanket out of deer. Underneath the clothes however she dawns Victoria’s Secret, it was a thing from the American girls she worked with in Sea World and it was all she had. All her clothes were things she found to fit. She’s comfortable in them, and aims to stick to it.

Favorite beverage?

Manya loves her booze, Vodka obviously though she took a love for the American whiskey and beer. But water is universal.

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Her family mostly, the goal she sought to know about them. The people of Alexandria and what one or more may have done on that particular day. Is Vladik resting okay? Jesus this big redneck snores like a bear.

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

The typical chicken pox, she remembered she wanted to scratch so badly. It got so bad her mother had to stuff her underneath her covers to basically sweat it off and not scratch.

Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Turn Ons: Bravery, No Bullshit, Southern American Culture Turn Offs: Liars, Bullshitters, Loud Mouths

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

Probably draw some shapes and such. Write some lyrics that she likes.

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

She likes organization, not in a compulsive way but more along the lines of something appealing to the eye. It has to have a flow in her mind.

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

She knows some things about justice and law as well as obscure facts no one really cares about. She also picked up some knowledge in being in the woods, the different plants and wildlife.

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Still alive? That’s a big deal. That annoying Negan person destroyed for good.

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

Not really, Manya pretty much lives for today since tomorrow is never promised. She still plans to know what happened with her family, and while settling in some safe zone with a redneck was not in the cards...she seems to be handling it okay.

What is their biggest regret?

Not being able to get home sooner, even though she knew she wouldn’t have stood a chance in getting there. She wished she could hug her family longer, tell them how much she loved them. Especially her father...she misses him the most.

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

She calls Michonne “Sister”, she also developed a friendship with Jesus. But Vladik has, and will always be her companion. Enemies however...that Foghorn Leghorn, loud mouth Negan is on up there. And that rat looking Dwight...his death would be slow as far as she is concerned.

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

During the hysteria of Walkers Manya was such in a panic she ran to a hiding place and stayed low until it was dead quiet. Now, if something happens she is right there on the front line. Fighting tooth and nail for the safety of others.

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Having someone close to her is dangerous for her well being. For if they died she loses it. For example, when she had to see Daryl be dragged to the van to head to The Sanctuary Manya screamed out, having to have two people hold her back. She was even told her scream was terrifying, she sounded like an dying animal. It happened again, seeing him in that sweater outfit...how she couldn’t talk to him. That she was not able to say goodbye to him, she had to leave. She walked toward the nearest tree and just destroyed it with her machete. All the while screaming to the top of her lungs. Needless to say if anyone killed someone she loved in front of her they will rule the day they ever do.

Most prized possession?

While she considers him more of a companion then a possession, Vladik her horse is something she hold the most dear.

Thoughts on material possessions in general?

If you have it, cherish it. That’s her way of thinking. Don’t flaunt it around, everyone had lost so much so whatever you do have you better enjoy it.

Concept of home and family?

Home and family is important to her. Her father taught her without family you have nothing. At the time her home and family was Vladik and the woods, but after much resistance she calls Alexandria and the people in her new home and family. One she is deeply protective of.

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

Manya is a deeply private person. Her distrust in people make her a hard shell to crack. But, if she feels she could trust you she slowly opens and confides in you.

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

She does like shooting Walkers, yes they are dangerous but Manya finds them very dumb.

What makes them feel guilty?

Not being able to save people she swore to protect. If anyone gets hurt or kidnapped under her watch she feels deeply responsible.

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

She keeps a pretty level head in decision making. She analyzes everything to the very detail.

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

She is a Type A trying to learn to be Type B

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Cigarettes, give the girl some cancer sticks!

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

Neither, she is a happy middle.

How misanthropic are they?

Roughly an 7 or 8. She makes some exceptions.

Hobbies?

Walker killing, hunting, cross stitching, busting a redneck’s balls

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

She attended Pushkin Leningrad State University and was in her second to third year before she went to America under the J1 Program. She finds education important, but more along the lines of common sense.

Religion?

Manya is deeply atheist. She hated the Church when she was in Russia and she sure as shit does not believe in God more so now.

Superstitions or views on the occult?

Manya does not believe in such things. However she does appreciate the teachings of the occult when it comes to nature. In fact she collected and wore a deer skull in her travels because she knew how easily freaked out people could be.

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

More along deeds first and words later.

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

Manya responds to people who are kind, to have the heart of a lion as they say. Someone who sees her as a equal, not some frigid thing. But apparently she has a thing for rednecks which is actually hilarious considering how low she used to think of them.

How do they express love?

Manya has a hard time expressing feelings. In fact she would deny it, even get very pissed about it. But what she does not realize is she sort of makes it obvious, she may laugh and cover her mouth(a sign of shyness). She may become softer, less of a ice queen. Even if it comes to words she does not say it right away. She may say something like “You’ve gotten under my skin and it’s pissing me off”, which means “I’ve fallen in love with you and I don’t know how to deal with that.”

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

Being sort of on the short side jumping on someone’s back and putting them in a choke hold seems to be the go to if weapons are off the table. A choke hold and bashing their head in.

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

No, in fact she would die as long as someone stays alive. Tomorrow is never given, if it’s her time to die it’s her time to die. She accepted it a long time ago.

#☢ГȔƧƧȈÅȠ ĻÅƜ → ʰᵉᵃᵈᶜᵃᶰᵒᶰ

1 note · View note

glitter-and-golden · 7 years ago

Text

Sunlight & Shadows ptII: Garden

Part II of the childhood AU now entitled Sunlight and Shadows. This isn’t a fill, I guess. Drat. Haha. Shirayuki is 8, Obi is 11. --- Shirayuki carefully plucks each petal off her last daisy and sets it on her bench. She looks at her growing pile with satisfaction, and then tromps over to the bougainvillea. They're a funny kind of flower: vivid pink tissue paper leaves with smaller, more normal looking flowers inside. She gets a handful of those, too, careful of the scary thorns that hide in the spaces between the leaves.

She adds each of them to the pot her dad bought her at the thrift store for just projects like these, and swirls them around and around with a sandbox rake. A fly buzzes over her head, interested, but she shoos it away.

By the time Obi hops over the fence, she's collecting leaves to add to the mix.

"Hey, Squirt!" Obi is a splash of black in the middle of all the wild color of her garden. "Whatcha doin'?"

She grins. "I'm a witch!" she says cheerfully, brandishing her rake, shaking it so that droplets fly off. "Do you want to play witches with me? I'm working on a potion."

"Witches, huh?" Obi makes a thoughtful noise, peering into her pot. She's added some dirt, some petals, some greenery that she ground up in the mortar she got for Christmas. It's an impressive potion. She imagines it will heal someone sick to be fresh and new, like in the stories on her bookshelf. Obi dips his finger into the muddiest part, sniffs at it, and then pinches Shirayuki's nose like he's beeping a horn.

"Obi!" Shirayuki shrieks, hurriedly backing away and rubbing at her nose. She gets smears of mud all over her fingers. Not that they were clean to begin with, because Shirayuki has dirt on her knees and between her toes and in the creases of her elbows. Obi laughs, high and light, as Shirayuki sticks her tongue out at him.

"Sure, I'll play," he says, "but I get to be the monster."

Shirayuki is still rubbing the her nose with the back of her wrist, because it feels like she's got mud up her nostrils now but she has mud on her fingertips too. "Monster? Like Pocket Monster? Oh!” She brightens. “Can you be Oddish? Oddish is so cute." Obi makes that face again, like he's regretting he ever shared his books with her. "Okay, Hoppip," she amends quickly.

"You gotta learn some of the other ones Squirt. There are more than grass types."

She pushes her finger tips together, pursing her lips. "Eevee?"

Obi shakes his head despairingly. "I'm a BIG monster," he says with a stomp on her bench that rattles all her tools. "I have CLAWS." He bares his fingers at her and scrunches them menacingly as he bares his teeth.

Shirayuki giggles delightedly. "And I have to catch you?"

His eyes flicker, and he grins. "Just you try it."

Shirayuki dashes for him immediately, because if she gives him any sort of chance to get a head start, she'll never catch him. Obi leaps right out of her reach, dashing around the lavender bush and all the bees that drone and spiral through it. She barrels after him, her laughter following the sound of his growls, and their footsteps make sharp slaps on the brick path between the violets and the tomato plants. He hops into her sandbox, and she's just about to catch him, but the second she reaches out to grab his shirt, it slips through her fingers.

They run all over, tracing paths new and old. Through grass, around rocks, around Shirayuki's bench, around the front of the house and back again. Obi has a trick she hates, where he stands around one side of something and no matter which way she tries to get around it, he runs the opposite way. It's dizzying.

Finally Shirayuki stops, her feet flat on the brick path again, and tries to catch her breath. Obi is already under the apple tree, the sunlight dappling him through the branches. He looks at her, crosses his arms over his puffed out chest, and grins. "What, tired already, Squirt?"

She shakes her head fiercely, and Obi's grin gets more dangerous. "Yanno," he says, as if he's not even winded at all, "this monster's decided to have a change of plans."

Oh no.

"Yeah," Obi drawls, starting to rub at his stomach. "In fact, this monster has realized--"

Shirayuki turns and bolts.

"He's--HEY." She’s gotten a head start, but Obi's feet come after her, and she runs faster. As fast as she can. The wind catches at her hair and brings tears to her eyes as she flies around the house. She's bad at Obi's trick, so she doesn't even try it with the birdbath, though she does startle a poor dove that goes flapping up into the sky.

And then Obi catches her, jumping on her from behind, and they go down onto her front lawn with a tumble and a squeak, all arms and legs and rolling bodies.

"Got you," Obi exults. Shirayuki can feel now how hard he's breathing. He's not Superman after all, he just seems like it sometimes, seems like he could run forever without tiring. Shirayuki is breathless, sucking air into her tiny lungs. "And I'm going to make you--" Shirayuki starts laughing, even though she doesn't have enough air-- "my dinner."

He buries his face in her stomach and it tickles. Shirayuki shrieks and pushes at his head, laughing too hard as he makes ridiculous noises like he's eating her up. She kicks with her knees. Her lungs burn. Finally, finally, just when it feels like she's about to explode, he flops off her, onto his back in the grass.

Shirayuki drags air into her lungs with relief. The sun dazzles down on them, blinding, so she rolls on her side. Obi has thrown his arm over his eyes. They lay like that for a long minute, just breathing.

Eventually, when she feels like she can get out a whole sentence again, Shirayuki pokes Obi in the side. "Not fair you aren't ticklish," she sulks.

"I'm not complaining," says Obi. "And if you could tickle me, I'd never come over."

"Not even for syrupy pancakes?"

There's a pause. "Well," says Obi slowly. "Maybe for syrupy pancakes."

"What about for oatmeal raisin cookies?"

"I could be convinced, I guess. Is food the only thing you can think of to tempt me with?"

Shirayuki sits up, and digs her toes into a patch of grass. It itches along the soles of her feet. "You said you were hungry," she points out.

Obi grunts.

"Come on," Shirayuki says, pulling at Obi's sleeve, and he flops over onto his stomach before pushing to his feet and following her inside.

It takes her eyes time to adjust to the darkness, but she knows her house well enough to weave around the furniture. The tile floor is cool under her dirty feet as enters the kitchen.

In truth, Obi is always hungry. There's an extra stash of snacks now in their house, more than double what they used to keep. Her father had told her a year ago that Obi was allowed to have anything he wanted in the kitchen, so long as they didn't burn the place down.

She hands him a granola bar and then gets out glasses for orange juice, and they sit at the table together, chewing in quiet companionship. Obi eats slowly, savoring each bite. He slouches in his chair like a teenager would. Shirayuki kicks her feet at the rungs of her chair, since she can't quite reach the floor. Obi doesn't ask for another granola bar after he finishes his first one, but she gets him one anyway, and he opens it wordlessly.

"What do you wanna do now?" Shirayuki asks. The sunshine has left her skin, and the kitchen is fully in focus. Light brightens stained-glass paintings that decorate the windows, and magnets hold up her other art on the old, mustard-yellow refrigerator. There's a picture of her and Obi on there too, from a couple years back, the both of them at a festival, messy with ice cream but too happy to care.

"I should get back home," Obi says after a long swallow of juice.

"Why?"

He gives a negligent little shrug. "Homework."

Shirayuki doesn't think that's the real answer, or at least not the whole one--something seems a little funny--but she says, "Okay."

He pins her with a look. "You do yours too, Squirt. No forgetting about it to go be all frou frou with the flowers, okay?"

She giggles. "I will."

"Kay." Obi beeps her nose again, hops from his chair, and walks to the door. Before he walks out, he turns and calls over his shoulder, "And go look in the mirror." He salutes, and then he's gone.

Shirayuki lets her feet kick back and forth a little longer as she chews on the last of her granola bar, and then goes down the hall to the bathroom. She's not tall enough to see the mirror yet--she can see the top of her head, so maybe another year, if she gets a good growth spurt--so she has to step onto her wooden stool.

She blinks at herself. She is a mess. Grass in her hair, dried mud on her nose. She looks down at her hands, her shirt, her feet. It's like she was born right out of the garden.

She wants to go back to it, to work on her potion and listen to the bees, but Obi's voice keeps her in place. Homework first. She sighs, turns on the tap, and washes away the dirt.

#sunlight and shadows #obiyuki #fanfic #childhood au #they're a little older now #just a bit #still babies tho

27 notes · View notes

lesbrarians · 7 years ago

Text

Junkrat/Roadhog: Voyages Ch 4

I v much doubt anyone was holding their breath for a chapter on Friday, but if you were, I’m sorry it took so long to get it up! This cold is kicking my ass. Also hi we’re about to enter a new arc.

Title: Voyages

Characters: Junkrat, Roadhog

Rating: R

Summary: After a rocky start and some ups and downs, Junkrat and Roadhog are officially partners, even if things haven’t progressed quite as far as Junkrat would like. With his treasure at the heart of their grandiose plans, they take their adventures overseas and leave their mark on the world, for better or worse. (Mostly for worse. They’re criminals.) Sequel to “Origins.”

---

Junkrat was able to shelve his emotions for the time being. He was still shaken up about Roadhog’s rejection, but as long as he didn't think about it for too long, he managed.

A good old-fashioned stick-up always helped take his mind off things too. All it took was a grenade launcher in his hand, aimed at a cowering omnic shopkeeper, to feel like his old self again.

"C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, money in the bag!" he said, jerking his head at the wide-open duffel bag that Roadhog was holding. "Just empty the till, and I won't blow you and yer worthless shop to smithereens. Cross me heart." He drew a sardonic X over the right side of his chest, then crossed his fingers behind his back. "Now hurry it up before I get angry. And trust me, ya don't want to see me angry. Roight, Roadhog?"

Roadhog grunted.

"See? Me mate here knows what I'm talkin' about. Now just do it already, ya tin cunt, we don't got all day!"

The shopkeeper positively whimpered -- Junkrat didn't even know omnics could whimper, but he hated them for it. It made them sound more human, which was the furthest thing from the truth. The omnic acquiesced, Junkrat watching with beady eyes to make sure that every last yen was transferred from the cash register to their bag. "Excellent!" he said brightly, grin stretching from ear to ear. "See, that wasn't so hard, now was it? Oh, and give some of them jewels to my associate here." The omnic hastily gathered up several ruby-laden necklaces and pushed them towards Kiki, who was balanced on the counter. She scooped up the jewelry and funneled it into the panel in her stomach for safekeeping. "That's more like it. I think we're done here then, dontcha? Roadhog?" He looked at his partner in crime for confirmation.

Roadhog zipped the bag up and slung it over his shoulder. He nodded at Junkrat, who pulled out his detonator, and headed for the door. Junkrat lingered by the counter long enough to drop some parting words. "I'd like to say I'd be seein' ya later, but we both know that's not gonna happen."

The omnic's head jerked up to look at the detonator. Junkrat waggled it at him, just to make sure he got the full gist of the situation. "What--" the omnic said, voice clouded with panic. "You said you wouldn't hurt me, as long as I gave the money to you!"

There was one good thing about omnics, Junkrat thought, as much as he hated to admit it, and that was their ability to process and speak in any given language. It was tiring, trying to rob Japanese shops with owners who knew very little English.

Junkrat held up his crossed fingers. “Crossies don’t count!” He laughed maniacally. “And really, hate to break it to ya, mate, but if yer trustin' anything I say, then y'deserve to get blown up. Never trust a Junker!" Junkrat picked Kiki up under one arm and fled the scene of the crime with a screech of laughter. The minute he was out of harm’s way, he pressed the button of his detonator. The shop exploded with a loud kaboom. He gave a sweeping bow in the general direction of the ensuing plume of smoke. “Rest in pieces!”

Junkrat was panting by the time they safely made it back to their hideout, winded from the running. He wasn’t lacking when it came to stamina, but running through half of Tokyo would exhaust even the toughest of athletes. He could only hobble so far before the exertion caught up to him. He collapsed with a breathless little giggle, dumping Kiki on the ground beside him.

“Oh, that was good,” he said after he sucked down a few lungfuls of precious air. “That was real good. Whatcha got in the way of spoils, Kiki?”

The robot extended her thin metal arms and opened the panel in the front of her stomach. She withdrew several necklaces from her electronic innards and deposited them on the ground before him.

“Not bad,” Junkrat said, inspecting one of the items, a swanky little akoya pearl necklace. “All and all, I’d call that a success, eh, Roadhog?”

Roadhog grunted in the affirmative. He was too busy counting bills to waste his breath on giving a verbal response.

Junkrat smacked his lips. He was parched from all that running. “Get me one o’ those soft drinks over there, Kiki,” he said, glancing over at the pile of untouched cans.

Kiki did not respond. Junkrat frowned. Maybe she didn’t hear the directive. “I said, go get me a drink, bot,” he repeated. Roadhog looked up from his counting.

The screen on Kiki’s face flashed blank for a split second before the usual, stylised kitty face was replaced by the letters N-O.

Junkrat’s scowl deepened. “Whaddya mean, no?” A bad feeling stirred somewhere deep in his gut. Kiki had never disobeyed an order before -- she couldn’t, right? She was just a standard helper robot. Wasn’t she?

He reached for his grenade launcher. "You can't tell me 'no.' What, ya suddenly defective?"

"Junkrat," Roadhog began. Junkrat's eyes darted over to his partner. His gun was already drawn.

Kiki's screen flashed again, the same two letters blinking defiantly at him: N-O.

"Yer not defective," Junkrat said, trying to process this new piece of information by voicing it aloud. She was a device. All devices had a purpose; they were tools built to carry out a job. A mechanical robot was no different -- unless it had artificial intelligence. Free will. A “soul.” "So what, yer a fuckin' omnic?"

There was a long silence. Both Junkrat and Roadhog stared at the robot. They both knew the answer, but a sick sense of curiosity motivated them to hear her response. Finally, the screen changed: Y-E-S.

Junkrat made a noise of revulsion and lunged at Kiki, gun forgotten. He pinned the tiny robot to the ground, his boot covering the fading sticker he had stuck to her belly. "You lied to me. Ya piece of junk-- Roadhog, it lied to us!" The switch in pronouns, from 'she' to 'it', was entirely unconscious.

"You can't trust an omnic," Roadhog said, the disgust evident in his voice. Neither one of them recognised the hypocrisy of decrying omnics as untrustworthy after Junkrat had just bragged about how Junkers weren't to be trusted. "What now?" Roadhog’s fingers flexed, and Junkrat had the distinct impression that he wanted nothing more than to crush the robot between his massive hands.

But Junkrat was selfish. He was horribly selfish, and even though there was a part of him that would have gotten off by watching Roadhog crumple metal as easily as a tissue, a much larger part of him wanted things done his way. "Whaddya think?" he said. He held out his hand. "We blow it up, of course. Shoulda done that in the first place. Get me one of them mines and some tape." Roadhog obeyed, fetching the supplies for him. If Junkrat hadn't been so caught up in his loathing of Kiki at the moment, his ego would have inflated tremendously. He always did love it when Roadhog treated him like the boss -- which, of course, he was.

Junkrat used half the roll of adhesive to secure Kiki to his live concussion mine, the omnic beeping frantically the entire time. He stepped away from the excessively taped bundle and surveyed his handiwork. The only thing visible was the tips of Kiki's cat ears and the lights of her virtual eyes. "It's cute," he said, disdain dripping from the word. "Omnics ain't supposed to be cute! Who the hell designed this thing, anyway?"

"Some Kiki Cola businessperson," Roadhog answered.

"Well, yeah, but-- grrgh!" Junkrat growled in frustration. "Damn this country!" He kicked the mine, sending it skidding across the floor of the half-finished building. "I think it's time we move on, dontcha? Find somewhere else, this place ain't gonna work."

Roadhog grunted in agreement. "I'll get the stuff." Junkrat sat down, arms folded across his concave chest, and glared at Kiki. He had never felt so betrayed in his life. He had trusted the robot, he'd thought it was a handy, fun little servant. That's what he got for thinking that he could believe anything a robot said. Omnics were deceptive, sneaky little bastards, and he hated that he had allowed himself to be tricked.

"What a fool," he muttered out loud.

"Did you say something?" Roadhog said, looking up. He was packing their belongings, filling the duffel bag and the sidecar of the motorcycle. There was no way they could tote along all the pachimari they'd acquired, but he did add a second one to the back of their chopper.

"Nah, it's nothin'," Junkrat said. He stood up and strapped his RIP-tire to his back before climbing into the sidecar, perched on the mountain of their loot like a dragon laying claim to its hoard. Roadhog revved up the engine of the motorcycle, and they set off. As they exited the construction site by ramming through the chain link fence, Junkrat pressed the button of his detonator. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see it explode. One of the structural supports of the place they'd called home gave way. It was like he was watching it in slow mo: the building caving in with a deafening rumble, clouds of dust billowing in the wake of the detonation.

"Good riddance!" he said, shouting to be heard over the roar of the motorcycle's engines and the thunder of the building collapsing. With Roadhog at the helm, they careened down the streets of Tokyo.

---

Junkrat insisted on stealing a boat. He was done stowing away and trying to keep quiet, which was hard enough for him without the added pressure of attempting not to get caught. After spending a day driving across Japan, they staked out the Shimonoseki ports in the hopes of picking out the best vessel for their purposes. Roadhog lobbied for a relatively unassuming fisherman's boat, but after staring at the signs advertising the high speed beetle ships that ferried cargo between Shimonoseki and Busan, South Korea, Junkrat was hellbent on hijacking one of the cargo ships ("It's only four hours!" he bargained. "That's no time, who knows how long that fish boat's gonna take? Besides, I wanna see what it’s like above deck on one of those ships after all that cargo hold mess.")

Like always, Roadhog ended up caving to Junkrat's whims. He did have a small victory, though: while Junkrat wanted to board the ship with all their usual grace and tact, plowing past security while yelling obscenities, Roadhog was able to convince him to dial it back. They stole a small fishing boat from a private dock, where they didn’t have to worry about radar tracking, security, or the Coast Guard immediately descending upon them.

Lurking under the cover of darkness, they waited until the ship loaded up its cargo and set sail before chasing after it. They both knew that their fishing boat was no match for the speed of a beetle-style cargo ship, so they had staked out a spot a good long distance away from shore, so they could intercept it in its path. Roadhog readied his hook and, in the split second that the ship passed them, fired it at the railing. It anchored the two boats together, and Junkrat couldn't stop himself from screaming as they were dragged along behind the cargo ship, their speed multiplied tenfold.

Roadhog shoved him violently, bringing him back to his senses, and he collected himself. "Okay, no, I'm fine, this is fine, we got this!" He shimmied up the taut length of chain that connected the two ships and scrambled on board. He hit the deck with a thud and, armed to the teeth, he set off to neutralise any officers he found.

He hadn't expected there to be many people on board, given that it was a simple, low volume cargo boat with no passengers to corral, but he hadn't expected it to be quite as deserted as he found the ship. "Where the heck is everybody?" he wondered aloud. He finally found the hub of the ship with the controls to steer it, as well as his answer: the ship was manned by two omnics, no doubt built for the express purpose of maritime navigation. He had to begrudgingly admit that it made sense for omnics to be ship captains and officers -- food was hard to manage when you were at sea, and the fewer mouths to feed, the better. Besides, it was a simple, direct shot from Japan to Busan: pick up the cargo, drop it off, no stops needed. Automating the process and putting it in the hands of robots was the way to go.

It didn't mean that Junkrat had to agree with it, though.

His instinct was to fire several grenades into the pilothouse, but Roadhog had given him strict orders to not do this, and he had repeated the instructions to himself several times in a row to cement them in his brain. If he destroyed the ship's controls when attempting to take out the omnic behind the wheel, they would be up shit creek without a paddle, so to speak.

No matter, he thought to himself and deployed a steel trap at the entrance to the navigation cabin. He set a mine down on the ground and counted down in his head with a mental "five... four... three... two...." At the count of one, he leapt on top of it and detonated it mid-air, sending himself flying onto the roof of the cabin. There was a commotion beneath him, and one of the omnics ran out the door. The jaws of his steel trap snapped around his foot, and Junkrat had to bite his hand to keep from giving a crow of victory: Gotcha!

The omnic screamed, and his mate was quick to follow, abandoning the helm of the ship long enough to try and prise him out of the jaws of the bear trap. "Come on... come on...." Junkrat mouthed. The omnic wasn't far enough out the door; letting loose a grenade would be both ineffective and unwise, as it would give away his position without causing any real damage. With a grunt, the head omnic dragged his comrade free of the jaws of death, shattering Junkrat’s hard work. He didn’t have long to be outraged, however, as his prey exited the cabin to pursue the enemy who had laid the trap. Junkrat took the opportunity to pounce, lobbing a well-aimed grenade at the captain (unusual for him; he normally took a more chaotic, spread out approach to shooting, but accuracy was of the essence here) and leaping on top of the injured omnic.

He didn't need to look to know that the captain’s head had been blown clean off his shoulders. Which was fortunate for him, as he needed to concentrate all his efforts on wrestling the other omnic into submission. Even with a busted foot, he was surprisingly strong for a bucket of tin.

Junkrat used all of his weight (not that he had much of it) to pin the omnic to the ship’s deck and fumbled to unscrew one his mechanical arm’s fingers. He snapped, the flint embedded in his thumb striking against the ridged steel of his middle finger, and glowing hot sparks shot out. “Get scrapped,” he grunted. The hot screwdriver stabbed the omnic’s chest with enough force to eventually puncture it. Blue tendrils of electricity crackled.

With another vicious stab, he speared the omnic’s power core and watched the dying lights in the omnic’s eyes (in his mind’s eye, a question mark floated over his head; he’d never thought to think about how omnics saw the world around them, but given the eyelashes he’d seen on the feminine-presenting omnics in advertisements, it seemed like as good a theory as any).

Something stirred in his chest when the lights went dark entirely. He shivered. He never felt as energised as he did when he was snuffing out an omnic’s life -- if you could even call it that. The realization of how alive he felt at this moment, adrenaline pumping through his veins, was particularly hilarious given the dead omnic beneath him. He laughed and bounced to his feet, a spring in his step.

Junkrat laced his fingers together and stretched his arms out to crack his knuckles. He examined the controls inside the navigation cabin. They were still hurtling through the water at breakneck speed, and his first order of business was stopping the ship and letting Roadhog and their belongings on board. Then they could figure out how the hell they were going to get to South Korea from here.

He stopped the ship far too abruptly, causing him to lurch forward and bang his head. “That’s gonna leave a lump,” he said ruefully, rubbing the sore spot. The damage was only cosmetic; he was reasonably sure his brain had become impervious to assault over the years.

With enough trial and error -- and oh, wasn’t that the story of his life, constant trial and error? -- he figured out how to lower the cargo ship’s gangway. As with most modern beetle ferries, it was built into the ship itself so that there was no need for dock workers to bring out a foldable gangway every time the swift-sailing ship docked. After peeking over the railing and spotting Roadhog’s thumbs up that confirmed that he was in position, Junkrat lowered the gangway onto the deck of their stolen ship.

He abandoned the controls and scampered down the deck to meet Roadhog, who was loading their motorcycle (somewhere along the way, it had become theirs and not his) on board. They engaged in a spirited debate about what to do with the fishing boat. Or rather, Junkrat argued passionately that they should sink it, while Roadhog continued to calmly repeat that an explosion of that magnitude could draw unwanted attention, whether or not they were in the middle of an ocean. Junkrat finally gave up, with the caveat that he be allowed to conduct a grand and entirely unnecessary explosion once they were in South Korea.

They abandoned the fishing boat, leaving it stranded in the middle of the sea. They were on their way back to the pilothouse when a thought occurred to Junkrat, and he visibly perked up.

“Wait, hold on just a tick,” he said, stopping in his tracks and flinging his arm out to halt Roadhog. “This is a cargo ship, ain't it? What say we see if there are any treasures to be found?”

Roadhog grunted in agreement, and Junkrat prowled around until he found a large, two panelled hatch cover embedded in the floor of the ship. “Now that looks mighty suspicious, don’t it?” He rubbed his hands together.

Junkrat used the nearby lever to winch open the hatch to the cargo hold. He craned his neck as the panels folded open, curious to see what lay beneath. Several heads swiveled in his direction.

He slammed the door shut.

“Roadhog,” he said, hysteria cutting through his attempt to regulate his voice and speak calmly. “We gotta bunch chrome domes here.” He thought about the rows upon rows of omnics sitting calmly in the dark of the cargo hold and shivered, goosebumps crawling up the flesh of his arms. “Creepy,” he said under his breath.

“Omnics?” Roadhog asked.

“I think so.” He hadn’t gotten a good enough look at them; for all he knew, they were standard, run-of-the-mill robots. Still, what was the difference? They were all cargo -- at least, he personally thought so, and whoever was sending omnics overseas appeared to agree. Or perhaps it was voluntary -- omnics weren’t human enough to get claustrophobic, and traveling as cargo had to be loads cheaper than being passengers on a conventional ferry.

Either way, Junkrat didn’t care. He just cared about making sure that the omnics didn’t get out of the cargo hold. He didn’t need a bunch of robots investigating why a dirt-smeared Junker, who was very obviously not a crew member, was on board their ship.

“Get that bike over here, ‘Hog,” he said. They parked the chopper on the hatch, effectively sealing the omnics in.

He should have felt better knowing that they were safe, but the knowledge that there were still bots beneath his feet made his skin crawl. He squirmed, trying to shake off the willies. “Wish we coulda just blown ‘em up.” He knew that this was wishful thinking -- sinking the ship while on board was probably not the wisest decision -- but still. A man could dream.

“I’m uncomfortable too,” Roadhog responded, addressing the crux of his statement.

“Really?” Junkrat said, tilting his head in curiosity. “Ya don't look like it.”

Roadhog simply looked at Junkrat. His mask was as expressionless as ever. Junkrat was, once again, struck by how challenging it was to read someone who never showed his face. Coupled with a reticent nature, Roadhog's lack of visible facial expressions made it difficult for Junkrat to pick up on the subtleties of his emotions. It didn't help that Junkrat was oblivious to begin with and lacked a great deal of social intelligence.

“I don't like them any more than you do,” Roadhog pointed out. He sat down on the ground, and Junkrat followed suit, any thoughts of getting the ship moving again vanishing. “I'm the one who blew up the omnium, remember?”

Junkrat remembered. He got so caught up in his own prejudices that he never even considered how Roadhog felt. If anything, he had even more reason than Junkrat had to hate omnics -- they were the ones who had displaced him and started the whole chain of events that led to the formation of the Australian Liberation Front.

“Nah, yeah, of course ya do! You got robbed, lost yer pigs and all that. They fucked up both our lives, but I reckon you got more to be pissed about than I do.”

Roadhog looked at him for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice sounded odd. “They didn’t fuck up your life. I did.”

Junkrat startled. “Wait, what? The heck are ya talkin’ about? You didn’t fuck nothin’ up -- you make my life better!” he said earnestly, desperate to impress this upon Roadhog. “Seriously, I ain’t pullin’ yer leg. I wouldn’t even be here roight now if it weren’t for ya!”

A huff of air escaped the vents of Roadhog’s mask. “Yeah, I’m always saving your skin.”

Junkrat swatted at him. “I meant that I wouldn’t be sittin’ on a ship on me way to Korea, havin’ the time of me life. But yeah, pretty sure I wouldn’t be alive either.” Scratch that, he definitely wouldn’t be alive right now. He could think of half a dozen times where he would’ve died had Roadhog not been around. The time when his hand had been cut off was particularly vivid. “So really, haven’t got the faintest idea what yer talkin’ about.”

Roadhog went quiet again. "The omnium," he finally said. "You wouldn't be a Junker if I hadn't blown it up. None of us expected it to reach as far as it did. We created the apocalypse. I am the apocalypse." Roadhog looked down at his hands, as if he could see the blood on them. It wasn't like Roadhog to feel remorse, and Junkrat suspected that his regret wasn't due to the deaths he caused ("Life is pain, so is death," as he had once told Junkrat) but more to the fact that the environment of his homeland had become so uninhabitable. Any chance of taking back his land and rearing pigs once more vanished the second the A.L.F. wiped the omnium off the map. And the lingering radiation affected them all -- it got into Roadhog’s lungs, and Junkrat had been told that it was the reason for his madness, which he preferred to call "genius."

But Junkrat had more important things to address than Roadhog's regret.

"Hold on, ya think my life is fucked up 'cause I'm a Junker?" He couldn't help but feel offended. Growing up in Junkertown and being a Junker was such an integral part of who he was, and it felt like a personal slight. "No, no, no, mate, it's not any of that! Omnics are how I lost the oldies, that's what I was talkin' about.” He paused, just for a split second. That was not something he liked to think about. He didn't remember much about his parents, but he did remember what it felt like when they didn't come home one day. Not a pleasant memory.

He plowed on. “Not the whole bit about bein’ a Junker. What's so bad about that? Yer one too, ya big hypocrite!”

“Nothing's bad about it. But we wouldn't have needed to be Junkers if it weren't for the damage that I did.”

Junkrat didn’t understand why Roadhog had any regrets. Of course he didn’t regret any of the deaths, that made sense, but why feel bad about making the centre of Australia more inhospitable than it already was? They were survivors, they’d pulled through it just fine and had practically thrived in the nuclear wasteland. A little bit of radiation was nothing. They had their own community, and none of them cared if they lost some humanity on the way. They were human enough to each other.

Maybe it was that he didn’t remember anything about what it was like beforehand, so he couldn’t grasp missing that way of life. Maybe it was that he didn’t get just how bad the negative effects were. Either way, he had a hard time seeing what Roadhog’s point was.

“And what, y'think I wouldn'ta done the same thing? Blown up an omnium and turned the Outback into a wasteland? It was worth it! 'Sides, not like I had a bad time of it, growin' up in that kinda environment," he reasoned. "No different than if you hadn't done it.” He tilted his head as he reconsidered.”Well, maybe less scavengin', and no Junkertown to live in, but… y’know," he trailed off with a shrug.

Sure, he'd seen some fucked up shit in his life, but hadn't everyone? He didn't know that much about conventional society, besides the fact that it had a lot of stupid rules and "laws" that made him roll his eyes (he was still convinced that he shouldn't have been imprisoned for killing those cops -- it was a survivalistic defence!), but he didn't think it could be all that different from Junkertown: No one could possibly know with complete certainty what their next meal would be, and people died every day no matter where you lived. It was possible that his perception of life was dangerously skewed, but as far he was concerned, all of that was perfectly normal. He didn't let the negative things get to him, asides from the occasional recollection of the night he'd realised that he was alone and his parents weren't coming home. But that wasn't a common thought, and besides, he was happy. He was living the dream, traveling abroad without a care in the world, blowing things up and taking whatever his heart desired, all with a true blue, loyal partner at his side. What more could he ask for?

"The point is," Junkrat continued, "you didn't fuck anythin' up, least of all me. As a matter of fact, I'd say ya made the world a better place, takin' out all those bots in the process! They're the ones to blame here. All that wouldn't've happened if they hadn't tried to nick our land in the first place." This was what it all came down to in the end: the omnics and the need to eradicate them.

Roadhog hummed, which Junkrat took as tacit agreement. He patted Roadhog's stomach affectionately, as if to say don't even worry about it. His mind began to wander, and he envisioned the omnium explosion as he leaned against Roadhog's side. He'd tried to ask Roadhog for details about how it had gone down, but he'd never gotten a full answer. Roadhog clearly preferred to keep those details private, at least for now, so he stopped pressing the matter. He wondered how they had destroyed the core itself. He imagined cannons would have done the trick.

“Are there cannons on this thing?” Junkrat asked.

Roadhog looked down at him. “It’s a cargo boat, not a pirate ship.”

“Shame,” Junkrat mused, rubbing his chin. “I feel like we’re pirates.”

Roadhog laughed, which was music to Junkrat’s ears after the heaviness of their conversation. “Arrghhh, matey,” he said.

Junkrat was completely and utterly tickled pink. He burst into delighted peals of laughter, and Roadhog joined in. The deep rumble of his laugh contrasted so sharply with Junkrat’s own high-pitched giggles, and the juxtaposition just made him lose it even more.

It took a good long while until they settled down. Junkrat’s stomach ached from laughter and his face hurt from being stretched so wide for so long, but he was content. He rested his head on Roadhog’s stomach, his grin relaxing into a lazy smile.

“We should get moving,” Roadhog finally said. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

Junkrat stuck his tongue out, annoyed by the very suggestion, but he had to admit the truth in it. The longer they remained idle, the greater the chances of someone finding them. It wouldn’t look good if they were dallying alongside the stolen boat they were abandoning, especially when they were supposed to be two omnics on a mission to deliver a boatful of fellow robots to South Korea.

As they entered the pilothouse, Junkrat pointed out all of his hard work to Roadhog -- the splintered steel trap, one omnic with a mangled foot and a punctured chest, the other headless -- who nodded approvingly. With the two of their heads put together, they figured out how to read the holographic navigation map and got the ship moving.

Junkrat kicked back in the captain’s chair, propped his feet on the dash, and let autopilot take over. “Piece of cake!” he said.

He was overconfident. The weather grew hostile and they sailed straight into a storm, which interfered greatly with the autopilot system, and they quickly learned why the omnic captain and his first mate were necessary to steer the ship. The trip to South Korea took longer than it would have had the omnics been around to pilot, as neither Junkrat nor Roadhog knew anything about navigating a ship through rocky waters. After the squall died down and they spent a number of hours trying to correct their course and speed through the several hundred miles to their destination, they pulled into view of Busan.

Even in the distance, the port of Busan was beautiful, lush with greenery, spires towering behind scores of shipping vessels and wooden jetties. The salty scent of seawater and fish filled the air.

With a mechanical ka-chunk, their dashboard locked up and the ship began guiding itself to the dock. Port pilots, who sailed out to meet the incoming ship, board it, and bring it into the harbour, had been replaced by automatic systems. The ship confirmed the number of passengers aboard it: a given number of omnics in the cargo hold and two crew members, the same amount that had left Shimonoseki. The heat source the captain and his first mate had emitted was replaced by that of Junkrat and Roadhog, the omnics’ mechanical bodies gone cold in death. With no additional passengers detected, the cargo ship began guiding itself to its assigned docking point.

It eased up alongside the pier, where several dock workers -- humans and omnics alike -- began the process of mooring it. Junkrat and Roadhog whispered furiously to each other, trying to figure out how they were getting off the ship.

They decided to just go for it. They ducked out of view as they lowered the gangway, the dead omnic propped awkwardly in the captain’s chair, and ran to the motorcycle as the ramp lowered onto the pier with a groan. A handful of dock workers were in the process of climbing on board, presumably to assist in unloading the omnics and whatever other cargo was in the hold, when the chopper came thundering down the ramp.

“Get outta our way, ya drongos!” Junkrat hollered. The workers dove aside, one or two of them leaping straight into the water, and they tore off, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of exhaust and the sound of tires squealing.

#roadrat #junkrat #roadhog #overwatch #origins #voyages #my fanfiction

10 notes · View notes

david-pasquinelli · 7 years ago

Text

The Thousand Year Echo

Meryl was weeding in her garden when she heard the first voice. It spoke clearly, like it was the neighbor calling over the fence to her, but she didn’t understand the words. She looked around after the voice, but saw no one.

“Hello?”, she said, rising hesitantly to her feet. The voice was still speaking— had been speaking, uninterrupted since she first heard it. Meryl peeked over the fence. Maybe the neighbor had turned on the TV, or a radio. But when she got up on her tiptoes to see over the fence, she noticed the voice was gone. She made a sour face, then brushed it off and went back to weeding. No sooner had she knelt down to take up her trowel again than did the voice come back, along with several others, laughing.

“Who’s there?”, she demanded, stamping her foot as she stood up again and holding the trowel like a knife. No answer, just more of the same talking she couldn’t understand. She checked the other fence, and the other other, both with the same result. She returned to the spot she was weeding and listened. What language was that? Russian? Chinese? No, not quite. Was it just a bunch of babble? Was she having a stroke, or a seizure, and this was a symptom? She took out her phone and looked up “symptoms of a stroke”, and “symptoms of a seizure.” Neither seemed likely. Just making the search and reading the results was a strong indication, in and of itself, that she wasn’t having a stroke or a seizure. Then what was she hearing?

She stood there in her garden, completely baffled, listening to the voice carry on. Could somebody be playing a trick on her? How? Could the metal plate in her head be receiving radio signals? (She had no metal plate in her head, as far as she was aware.) Maybe it was time for a cup of tea, Meryl thought. She dropped her trowel where she stood, took off her work gloves and left them with the trowel, and walked to the back deck. When she stepped up to the deck, the voice cut out, like a radio losing reception. She stepped back down. The voice came back. She flossed the step, up and down: Up, no voice; down, voice.

Meryl skipped the tea. She went to the hardware store and bought a hundred orange marker flags. She systematically combed over each square foot of her back yard, row by row, like she was mowing the lawn. She’d take a step, listen for the voices, and, if she heard them, mark the spot with a flag. When she had covered the whole of her back yard there now appeared a swirl of markers, a spiral galaxy of orange flags with Meryl’s gloves situated in the center.

Over the next two weeks Meryl made a few more trips to the hardware store. She dug up her garden, digging along the contours she’d mapped out with the flags, then filled the area in with poured concrete, making herself a nice, if not oddly shaped and bizzarely placed, new patio. She put a wrought iron bench in the middle of it, and on either side of that, a flower box. It became her habit to spend much of her free time out on that bench, listening to the voices.

It had been a man’s voice the first time, but it wasn’t always. She’d hear, now a gang of children at play, now a young man and woman talking, and a baby crying. A whispering woman—and she could’ve been whispering right in Meryl’s ear—frantically muttering what sounded like a prayer was a recurring one. Always the voices came in that uninteligible, unplaceable language— apart from the baby’s.

Meryl looked for that language, scouring the internet for samples of any she’d never heard before. None of them were right. The more she listened to the voices on the patio, the more unlike anything else their language seemed. It was heavy, and solid like blocks of carved, polished stone. Every other language she could find was a twittering of birds by comparison.

One afternoon Meryl had friends over for dinner. She took the table from the back deck and set it up on her new patio, where they all dined that night. She was nearly as shocked as her friends were when they heard the voices. She’d been operating under the assumption this whole time that she’d gone discreetly and pleasantly insane, or something like it.

Jason—she’d had the biggest crush on him in high school, which no one ever knew about, and when he ended up marrying her sort-of friend, Dawn, Meryl drew closer to her out of some masochistic impulse—was particularly excited by the phenomenon and, after a few beers, announced to the dinner party that he was resolved to solve the riddle. Everyone laughed at this, except Jason. Conversation moved on. No one thought much of the announcement.

Meryl herself wasn’t very curious about the voices. Or, she was, just in the way that she wanted to listen to them, rather than in the way that she needed to have an explanation for them. It was troubling enough to know other people could even hear them. Finding out what the were, where they came from, what cuased them— to Meryl that would just be making matters worse. Jason started emailing her frequently, asking questions about the voices. She answered his questions. He was no trouble to her.

Until one day he showed up with a small crew of—were they scientists?—all duded up in hazmat suits like she had E.T. stowed away in her back yard. He promised her that it would only be two hours, tops, and then it’d be like they were never even there. They just needed to collect some data, he told her, that’s all. He pleaded with her, and flirted, like he always used to do in high school. He was old and ugly now, and the display was farsical, but in fairness she was old and ugly too, and anyway it worked. Meryl relented.

They were in and out in two hours, and they had left no trace, just like Jason said. Then, years passed, and Meryl never heard what came of it. Dawn and Jason had divorced not long after, (but unrelated to), the data collection episode, and their divorce had let the air out of her friendship with either of them. She fell out of contact with a lot of people, as it happened, and drew closer to the voices. She had, over the years, developed an understanding of their language, but she couldn’t articulate their meaning. To listen to a language for years, but never speak it… you get a sense of it, in your guts, like a dog must have for the way its human relatives speak. But a dog doesn’t have the equipment to talk back, and neither did Meryl.

In the same time, she had also developed lung cancer, which she fought and “won.” The sad truth is that one does not win against cancer. Meryl was down half a lung. Her life would be shorter than it otherwise would have been, because of that. And still, not a day would go by, from the first day she was diagnosed until her last, that wouldn’t be in the shadow of her cancer, or its returning. She didn’t think of herself as having won a battle.

Oh, and money. Not much of that was left, meaning the voices that had kept her company for so long now would be repossessed by the bank, along with everything else. This would happen, she was certain, save for a miracle. Then, a miracle.

Jason called her, out of the blue, to tell her that they’d found what the voices were. They were an echo. An echo from a long, long time ago. Using a lot of sciencey words that meant nothing to Meryl and that, truth be told, meant nothing to him either, Jason explained to her that any sound waves propagating through the space enclosing that little patch in what used to be her garden would be repropagated exactly, through that same space, some one thousand years later, by a process distinct from the one which causes familiar echos, but roughly analogous. Jason was very excited about all this. Meryl wasn’t. But along with this news, Jason had also called with a proposal: To make that special little patch of hers a destination. People would pay good money just to sit on her bench and listen to the idle chitchat of our distant ancestors, and even better—he said even better, but to Meryl it seemed even worse—they could leave a message of their own, to be heard by who knows who in a thousand years’ time. “Can you imagine it?”, he asked breathlessly.

Meryl hated the idea, but she did believe it would pay. Again, she relented to Jason. She kept the house, and raked in money besides. She even got to hear the voices still, on Sunday’s, when the house—not her house anymore, the house—was closed to the public.

She thought it was kind of sad, watching all these people come to leave their own personal messages for the next millennium. She understood, like she understood the voices, in her gut, not her head, that there simply wouldn’t be anyone to recieve them.

#fiction #short fiction #speculative fiction #writers on tumblr #writing #spilled ink #spilled words

1 note · View note

azvolrien · 5 years ago

Text

The Lady of Kaltara - Chapter Three

In which we finally meet the eponymous character.

~~~

They took the train out of the hills, first backtracking south towards the Imperial City before branching off to Ulcaster, a small town in the easternmost reaches of the hills and the terminus of the line. It had its roots in one of the many Legion forts built to watch the frontiers of the Empire and still showed them in the layout of its streets, but the military tents had long since been replaced with civilian houses and shops and the central headquarters with a public hall. Its protective earthworks, however, remained firmly in place, topped by walls of stone, brick and wood, and the gates were always guarded.

Beyond them to the east was nothing but the plains. Close to the town they had been fenced off and parcelled out as fields of crops or livestock, but only a couple of miles from the walls, the fences disappeared and open land stretched to the horizon.

Wygar reined in Rathus at the edge of the last field and squinted into the distance. Behind him, Una knelt up in the saddle to peek over his shoulder, and he closed his eyes in concentration.

“She’s still a long way off,” he said in reply to Una’s questioning grunt. “But the direction hasn’t changed much. We’re still on track.” He opened his eyes again and gazed up at the sky. “The sun’s at our backs now, but this far north it won’t set for a while yet.”

“We should try to get as far as we can before dark,” said Una.

“You took the words out of my mouth. Sit down, sweetheart, and hang on. I’ve never given you a ride on Rathus at really full tilt before – you could get badly hurt if you fall.”

Una sat down and wrapped both arms tightly around Wygar’s waist, gripping the saddle with her knees.

“If you feel yourself slipping, just shout and I’ll slow him down enough for you to get your balance again,” said Wygar. “All right?”

“All right. Though, can’t you fly?”

“I crashed rather hard the last time I tried, so certainly not while carrying you, sweetheart, and I hate doing it at the best of times. Are you ready?”

Una hugged him a little tighter and nodded resolutely.

“Good.” Wygar dug in his heels. “Rathus – run.”

There was no sense of shifting up through the gaits, from walk to trot to canter as there might have been on a horse. Rathus simply went straight from standing still to a full gallop in the space of a heartbeat, tearing across the plains with each long stride. Ulcaster soon vanished into the distance behind them. Within half an hour, even the mountains had fallen below the horizon, and there was nothing to any point of the compass but long grass swaying in the wind. Once, a herd of deer scattered before the construct; another time, a huge aurochs bull made as if to square up to him, then thought better of it and hastened out of the way.

At dusk, after the sun had set but before the sky had fully darkened, Wygar finally reined Rathus to a halt, thoughtfully studying the plume of smoke rising from a small clump of trees up ahead. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

Una just groaned and slumped against his back.

“Fair enough. We’ll stop for the night soon – this might be a good spot to camp, if whoever’s already there doesn’t mind sharing.” He nudged Rathus back into a walk up to the edge of the copse. Firelight glinted between the trees. “Think you can get up into that tree there?” he said, softly enough that whoever waited at the fire would not hear him.

Una looked the tree up and down, judging the distance. “Take Rathus a little closer,” she said. Wygar ducked his head to avoid a low branch; Una stood up to grab it in both hands and heaved herself up onto it, before scooting along to the trunk and clambering a few branches higher to hide in the shadows there.

“Stay up there while I check this out,” said Wygar. “I’ll come and get you if it’s safe, all right?”

Una nodded, hooking an arm around the trunk to steady herself. “Not the first time someone in our family’s hidden in a tree,” she muttered.

Wygar winced at the observation, but did not reject it. “Either way, I’ll be back soon.”

The campfire sat in a sheltered hollow left by an uprooted tree; a tarpaulin had been stretched down from the roots to create a small half-tent over a sleeping bag and a canvas rucksack. Its owner sat by the fire, roasting the carcass of a rabbit on a spit.

“Smelled the meat, did you?” said the man without looking up, fanning the flames with his wide-brimmed hat.

“Saw the smoke,” said Wygar, climbing down from the saddle.

“Hm. Is that so.” The man set the hat on his head, braced his hands on his knees, and got to his feet. He was about Wygar’s height, perhaps a hair taller, but far broader in the chest and shoulders and carrying a great deal more muscle. One hand rested not-quite-casually on a long knife at his hip. “I reckon you’re going to hand me those reins, pal.”

“I’m sorry, he’s not for sale.”

“Didn’t say anything about buying.” He loosened the knife in its sheath.

Wygar sighed and shifted his weight slightly, adjusting the positions of his feet. “Rathus is bound to obey me alone,” he explained. “He wouldn’t listen to your orders – you’d just have to leave him here when you broke camp. I was going to ask if you would mind sharing your fire for the night, but I can see you like your privacy. I apologise, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Nah, you’re staying here, longears.” The knife came out, and the man lunged with astonishing speed for his size.

It was a split-second decision. There was no time to mount Rathus and flee; the man would catch up before Wygar even got one foot in the stirrup. Instead Wygar bent his knees, dropped into Master Kendrick’s favourite fighting stance, and drove a swift jab backed by the force of a concussive strike into the man’s solar plexus. The knife dropped from nerveless fingers as the man went flying, hit the trunk of a tree back-first, and fell to the ground in a dazed, winded heap.

Wygar picked up the knife – the man’s eyes widened – and hurled it into the trees, where it landed somewhere in the gloom with a rustle of leaves. “Given the option,” he said, his breath shaking, “I would prefer not to leave a trail of bodies in my wake on my journey. I don’t enjoy doing it and it doesn’t set a good example for my daughter. So I am, you will be pleased to hear, not going to kill you.” The man managed a weak, nervous smile. Wygar crouched down in front of him and held up one of the pendants around his own neck, a small oval locket on a chain. “I have one question, and then – as promised – I’ll leave you to your fire.” He clicked open the locket to show him a delicate miniature portrait of Fayn. “Have you seen this woman?”

The man squinted hard at the tiny painting, then shook his head.

“I see. They must have taken a different route, then. Thank you anyway.” Wygar began to straighten up, paused, and lifted the man’s hat from his head. “I’m keeping this.”

“That’s fine!” squeaked the man.

Una, thankfully, was still waiting in the tree when Wygar returned. “Well?” she asked.

“We’ll find somewhere else,” he said, letting the hat fall to the ground and holding out both arms. “Hop down, I’ll catch you.”

Una leapt from the tree into his arms. He staggered back under her weight, before he caught his balance and lifted her onto Rathus’s back.

“Did you steal their hat?” asked Una, sounding impressed.

Wygar picked up the hat and put it on, hiding the points of his ears beneath the band. “He tried to stab me, sweetheart,” he said as he climbed up in front of her. “I don’t feel unjustified in stealing his hat.”

Una just sniggered, and held on around his waist again as he spurred Rathus into a trot and out of the copse.

They finally stopped a few miles further on and set up camp in the bend of a gentle river, protected on three sides by the water. Una wandered down to poke through the debris washed up on the bank and collected an armful of wood. “This’ll need to dry out if we want a fire of our own,” she said.

“I know a trick for that,” said Wygar absently, kneeling by the water and taking off his newfound hat again.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.” Wygar leant over to study what little of his reflection he could make out in the dim light.

“About what?”

“About how distinctive I look.”

“Yeah, you stand out a bit,” said Una, laying each stick out side-by-side. “What about it?”

“That’s probably not a good thing while on a rescue mission. Your mother and I… Well, we enjoy a certain small degree of fame. After all our travels, a lot of people have heard of us, in a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend sort of way at least. I just think it might be better – safer – if, for a while, I look… less like myself.” He poked at the tattoo on his face, then ran one hand back over his hair. “There’s a knife in the bottom of the left saddlebag,” he said. “Can you go and get it for me?”

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Una, narrowing her eyes.

“Nothing permanent, sweetheart.”

Una made a doubtful sound, but shrugged and fetched the knife regardless. It wasn’t as long as the copse-dweller’s, but the edge was still wickedly sharp. Wygar lightly tested it with his thumb, steeled himself, and sawed his ponytail off above the tie.

Una gasped, clapping both hands over her mouth. “Your hair!”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Wygar quickly sliced his sidelocks off to match before he could lose his nerve and incinerated the shorn hair with a wave of his hand. Una wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell. “I am very proud of my hair. However, the safety of you and your mother ranks considerably higher in importance.”

“I hope Mam still recognises you,” said Una.

Wygar had to laugh. “She may not have very good eyesight,” he said, grinning, “but I don’t think it’s so bad that she can’t recognise her own husband after a haircut.”

“So what about the…” Una tapped her cheek, indicating Wygar’s tattoo.

“Well, we don’t have any makeup to cover it,” he said, looking back at his reflection in the river. “I suppose…” He stood up and took his rolled-up blanket from where it was buckled to the underside of one saddlebag, then cut a long, wide strip from the edge with the knife. Una tilted her head as Wygar wound the cloth around his own, covering both the tattoo and the eye beside it. “This’ll have to do,” he said, tying the ends in a knot at the back of his head. “So,” he said, putting the hat back on. “What do you think?”

Una giggled. “You look like the Wanderer.”

“Who?”

“From the Fjord Quest books – he’s a one-eyed man in a big hat like that. It’s never really made clear who he is, like if he’s a spirit or a wizard or just a knowledgeable man, but he shows up in all the books to help the main characters.”

“Well, I suppose there are worse comparisons.” Wygar fished around in the same saddlebag and came out with a flask of water, an apple and a square of flatbread. “I’ll raise some wards and make us a fire,” he said, handing the food to Una. “Eat these and get some sleep – we still have a long way to go tomorrow.”

Una ate slowly, watching in silence as Wygar dried the sticks she had gathered and stacked them into a proper fire, then wrapped herself up in her blanket as he walked in a circle around their campsite, scraping protective runes into the earth with the butt of his staff. A ring of magic shimmered gold for an instant as the wards activated, then settled back into invisibility. Wygar nodded and made Rathus lie down by the fire, then sat down with his back against the construct’s side.

“There,” he said. “We’re safe for the night. Nobody can see, hear or get to us through those wards.”

Una shuffled along to sit next to him against Rathus. “Yeah.”

“How are you holding up?”

Una pulled the blanket up over her nose, closing her eyes tightly. “I’m scared,” she admitted, barely audible.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It’s not really me I’m scared for.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He laid one arm around her shoulders, and she huddled closer against his side. Her breathing shook raggedly and she pressed the blanket over her eyes. “I’m scared too. But your mother is the toughest person I know, and we. Are. Going. To. Find. Her. We’ll find her safe and well and bring her home.” He gazed unseeingly at the fire, making no move to brush away the tears trickling down his own face. “That is the only outcome I will allow.”

***

Vidra sailed through the fort’s gates. Inside the walls, it could almost have been the stronghold of any minor noble in the Empire: a courtyard paved with grey flagstones, some outbuildings along one wall, and a four-storey keep roofed with slates and sporting a round tower at each corner. The only difference was that the courtyard flagstones came to an end halfway across the enclosure and were replaced by stagnant water and wooden jetties. Vidra bumped up against one and Edri leapt out to deftly tie the mooring lines.

An imperious grey-haired woman in a long open-fronted robe strode up to the end of the jetty, flanked by couple of guards bearing spears. “This had better be – oh. It’s you.” She straightened the hem of her tunic and folded her arms. “Vil. You know the Lady wasn’t best pleased to see you the last time you were here.” One of the guards meaningfully tested the point of his spear.

“Yes, Steward Brennar,” mumbled Vil, looking down as his hands as he wrung them. “But – you see… Um…” He nodded towards Vidra.

“Up you come, Mistress Wolf,” whispered Edri, untying Fayn’s collar from the awning and heaving her onto her feet.

Brennar raised an eyebrow. “Dabbling in slavery, Vil? I thought you lost the stomach for that years ago.”

“Yeah… Well.” He nodded to Edri, who kept one hand firmly around Fayn’s collar and drew back her hood with the other. Fayn flinched back under the awning, wincing in the sudden light.

Brennar’s eyes widened and she sucked her breath in through her teeth. “Ah-hm. You’d better bring her inside.” She waved for them to follow her and turned back to the iron-studded door of the keep.

Vil knelt to untie Fayn’s ankles. “Please don’t make us carry you,” he said quietly as he stood back up and, like Edri, clamped one hand around the back of her collar.

Fayn cast an eye around the dock-courtyard. The insides of the stone walls lacked anything approaching a decent handhold: not only were the blocks perfectly flat on all sides, but mortar had been smoothed over the joins to eliminate the cracks, and the only gate she could see was the one Vidra had sailed through. A troop of archers stood guard atop both the walls and the keep’s towers; a few of them had nocked arrows and were intently watching the newcomers, though no bowstrings had yet been drawn. Escape would have to wait. Fayn nodded briefly and allowed Vil and Edri to lead her off the boat.

Brennar pushed open the heavy door and waved them in, while her two guards took up stations to either side. “Finally,” she said, standing aside to let Vil, Edri and Fayn through the door. “There’s only so much Cruon can do with rats and ferrets – a moontouched human should be much more useful. And if this doesn’t work…” She sighed. “Well, nobody can say the Lady hasn’t tried everything she could. Come, come – she’s upstairs.”

She led them up a spiral staircase in one corner of the keep, too narrow for two people to walk abreast; Edri moved ahead of Fayn while Vil kept his hold on her collar, all the way up the stairs until Brennar let them through into a room that took up the entire top floor of the keep. At one end, a chair that needed only a little more gold leaf to be a throne stood against the wall, beneath an arch crafted from the jawbones of an ancient whale and flanked by two ceramic-and-metal statues of odd catlike creatures; at the other, a fireplace big enough to roast a wild boar on a spit sat cold and empty. In between, a man and a woman pored over a large table strewn with documents, watched by a few more guards around the walls.

Brennar cleared her throat. “My Lady. Vil the boatman and his niece have returned to Vosta.”

“And if that swamp-rat isn’t here with what I asked for, they can turn right back around and leave again,” said the woman at the table without looking up.

“Thankfully that won’t be a problem,” said Brennar, waving them forwards.

The woman looked up from the sheaf of papers she studied, and froze at the sight of Fayn for an instant before a broad grin appeared on her face. “I don’t believe it,” she said, leaving the table and striding over to Fayn. She was tall – almost Wygar’s height – and built with the solid, functional muscle of an arena fighter. Old scars on her hands and bare forearms and a hint of a tattoo on one shoulder suggested that that might, indeed, have been her profession once, and a sheathed gladius hung from her belt. “A true moontouched, too,” she said, peering closely at Fayn’s eyes. “We’ve had a few people trying to pass off just pale blondes as having the moon’s blessing, but you, you’re the real deal.”

Something Rhona had once said in passing drifted to the surface of Fayn’s memory, and she clenched her hands into fists to stop them shaking.

There are places in the world where they eat people with gwynder because they think it’ll give them magic.

“Those runes on the collar,” said the Lady. “I don’t recognise them. What are they for?”

“She’s – she’s beast-blooded, milady,” said Edri shyly. “They’re to stop her changing form. I – well, I can do a bit of rune-magic as well as my portals.”

“Beast-blooded, you say? Which one?”

“Wolf and otter, milady,” said Vil, looking at the floor.

“Wolf and otter?” The Lady stood back a little, rubbing her chin in calculating thought. “That’s very rare, isn’t it?”

“In the sense that I’ve never even heard of anyone with more than one,” said the man at the table, “yes, it’s rare.”

“Blessed by the wolf, the otter and the moon,” mused the Lady. “There’s going to be a lot of power tied up in you and no mistake.” She straightened her broad back, a sense of decision etched on her features. “You, you, you and you,” she said, pointing at four guards in turn. They all stepped forwards. “Assist Cruon. Vil, you and your niece can leave now; welcome back to Vosta. Cruon?”

“Yes, my Lady?” said the man at the table. He didn’t look more than a few years older than Edri; certainly he was considerably younger than both Fayn and the Lady, though he tried to disguise it with an artfully stubbly chin.

“You know all the right amounts?”

“Of course, my Lady,” said Cruon, sounding mildly offended by the question.

“Good.” She paused as the two of the guards replaced Vil and Edri in holding Fayn, then waved one hand towards the door; Vil, halfway through it, stopped for a moment before Brennar gave him a pointed look and he disappeared down the stairs. “Take her down to your lab and bleed her ’til she passes out. You know the drill.”

~~~

Cruon might not be his real name, I dunno. Much like whatever Vil did to get on the Lady’s bad side, it’s open to interpretation.

It’s going to take Wygar quite a while to grow his ponytail back, but he’ll get there eventually.

#az writes stories

0 notes