#sorry Lamorak they were right | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

icharchivist · 4 months ago

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I'm kinda conflicted about Florence cause on one hand i see your vision on the other if the only way she was covering up was because she felt old and had to dress proper then you go girl! you're still young (and the fanservice is not too eccessive at least they could have increased her boobs like it happened to Metera in the past or shown her legs as well)! But still i'm kinda sting on the focus shift i feels like it's robbing her of her depth and us of the perspective of Dalmore in this but i can also imagine they didn't want to put too much behind units forcing the players to pull for both to continue the story when Vane's already adds to the setup Ugh it's messy , I don't think it's totally bad but at the same time you are totally right and i feel very conflicted with the direction they are staking...and a lil scared

I mean the whole thing is that it could just Not Have Happened.

she's one of the handful of female characters over 30, one of the only one who isn't a mother/mother figure of some kind, and they decided to make her age something she should have a complex about?

She's a powerful sorceress who cursed her own brother to live in an armor that tortured him for years because it was the only way to keep him safe, she loves horror to an extend that scares most people around her, she's snarky, she grew up with Lamorak as well as with Gawain, she is grieving the same parents Gawain is grieving.

And now we make her story about how she loves fashion but can't because you see being 32 is too old :(

her wind unit at least is about her reponsibilities to her country, her Halloween unit was about her playing dress up to organize a horror maze for the town, but clearly the next follow up had to be about fashion.

We spent Savior of Dalmore and a couple event talking about how the death of Gawain's parents affected him and even Lamorak, but what about Florence?

Gawain accepted the curse Florence put on him, but what does she feel about what she had to do?

Lamorak was revealed an enemy of the state a couple events ago, we've seen Gawain's reaction, but what of Florence?

I'm fine with the FE not being plot relevent in some way, (tho i'm coming back on that), but if it had to not be plot relevent to THIS FE it could have used it to extend on Florence more. On threads that were never brought up with her as a result.

And like. The Dragon Knights Event's banners have the habits to try to squeeze in one unrelated lady with big tits because otherwise Guys:tm: don't pay attention to the banner. Sometimes we get lucky and it gets skipped, but that's not the norm. The fact that she had no focus on the event AND that her FE is unrelated to it AND that her FE is about her enjoying fashion are all rather damning moment.

they could have released her unit another time of the year if they insisted. Or they could at least have tried to be less transparent about the fact they were freaking out people wouldn't want to pull on a banner without fanservice attached to it.

Like. I'm all for Wastonian readings of characters but at some point we need to remember that it's all Choices Made By Writers/Artist/Marketting. Florence getting a story about being insecure about her fashion because she's old isn't an inspiring story about an irl 30yo woman reclaiming her age. It's marketters who can barely handle a woman over 30 in their games making the most basic story because "what do women want and we can use to sexualize them? fashion? let's go."

Florence didn't "choose" to wear long clothes, she didn't "choose" to let lose, writers did that for her, they're the ones who put those characters traits on her.

The art is beautiful. The outfit is beautiful. Despite her FACE not looking like herself (so moe), she is beautiful. But i'm genuinely annoyed a character i really like and who has potential to have strong stories end up reduced to the most basic, almost insulting girly girlz interest because god forbid women have depth aside from that.

And i'm sorry but after the summer we've had already, hell, even after summer, the current state of female characters' new units?! i'm sorry but i'm pissed that they're using one of my fav character for another horny bait and nothing else because they didn't know what to do with her but they had to squeeze a woman on this banner.

If this last year's worth of women units hadn't been so horrendous i may have let it slide, but it's a pattern and i'm tired of this shit

And i'm also pissed that i'm suddenly seeing people being "oh NOW i understand the appeal of Florence, older woman ftw, sexy milf" like oh my fucking god i'm going to start gatekeeping. Not only is granblue hornybaiting but people just take the bait because we're all so used to it now, it's deplorable.

*deep breath* anyway i've said i wanted to avoid more negativity on this topic but i genuinely mean it when i say i'm pissed, I have been annoyed all summer already with the direction the gacha is taking and using one of my fav chara for this is one of my last straw, i pretty much don't care about any wastonian reasoning when the writers doing it have only written this type of things recently. Because god forbid women are more than fanservicy caricature.

#ichareply #anonymous #ichafantalks gbf #ichasalty

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monstersandmaw · 5 years ago

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Male shadow/room monster (Lamorak) x female reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

The first-prize winner of my giveaway from a little while back, @honeysugacube, requested a tentacled shadow/room monster for the 3k story, so here it is!

Content: Reader is both touch- and affection-starved, feeling distant and detached from her family who provide her with things and objects instead of the warmth of affection, equating them with love... In a version of her own fairytale, the reader gets the friend and affection she longs for. Wordcount: 3825

___

Leaving the campus and the stresses of your course behind you, you stepped onto the bus and drew out your phone to text your mother. ‘Just leaving - I’ll be home in half an hour or so.’ With that done, you slipped your earphones into your ears and turned up your music. Moments of your day replayed in a random shuffle through your mind, but always you felt always on the outside of things.

Your classmates had arrived at the lecture that morning and immediately hugged their friends, slapped each other on the back, and blurted questions and anecdotes from their weekends, while you doodled quietly on the edge of your notebook, waiting for the professor to show up. It wasn’t that you had no one, but they had different classes, and when you did share lunch together, there was nothing between you like the depth of friendship you saw with that group in particular. You didn’t really see them outside of a university context, and you’d never been all that good at making friends.

The bus jolted and you blinked, realising that you’d drifted off into your reverie, and now the bus was pulling away from your stop. It wasn’t that far to the next one, so you pushed the stop button and slouched to the front of the bus, bag slung over one shoulder.

Closing the front door behind you twenty minutes later than you’d intended, with sore shoulders from lugging your book bag all that extra way, you sighed. The hall light was off, casting odd shadows across the walls and floor, and as you kicked your shoes off and one bounced off the skirting board, you thought the shadows shifted just a little bit, drawing back, almost as if they’d tried to shrink away from the blow of your shoe.

You frowned, but paid it no more attention than that, and headed for the kitchen. Your father stood at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables while your older brother lounged nearby, nose buried in his phone. It had been a little quieter around here since your older sister had got a job about three hours’ drive from the city, and you were still getting used to that absence, like an instrument missing in a group while the others play on regardless. You were the only one who really seemed to notice the difference.

“How was class today?” your father asked without looking up.

“It was fine,” you said as you poured yourself a drink. He didn't comment that you were later than usual, and perhaps he hadn’t noticed. You’d learned not to bother trying to elaborate on the intricate details of your day to your family. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about you, so much as they just… didn’t engage. You’d spent a good five minutes with your mother telling her about the first day’s lectures last year, and once you’d finished, she’d said, “I’m glad it went ok. Would you like rice or pasta with supper?” That pretty much summed up your relationship with your family; they were good providers, but there was no warmth.

As your father finished with the vegetables, he asked, “Are you planning on going out with any friends for your birthday next week?”

You shrugged. “Maybe.” If you’d been honest, you’d half forgotten that it was your birthday anyway. You hadn’t made any plans, worried that anyone you asked would either accept only to be polite or would find somewhere better to be and leave you feeling worse than before about not doing anything.

“You’re still up for going to that Italian place round the corner though, right?” your brother butted in from the other side of the room.

“Sure?” you shrugged. He and your parents loved Italian, so that would probably make for an easy evening all around.

“Great,” he grinned and turned back to his phone.

A week later, you woke in the pre-dawn of your birthday and felt absolutely certain that there was someone in the room with you. With a gasp, you sat bolt upright and stared at the door, but nothing was out of place, and there was clearly no one else there. With your heart pounding, you sighed, feeling the ghost of a touch on your face from some lingering dream that you only half remembered. Fingers had been stroking gently down your cheek, and combing through your hair, a soft voice whispering that they were proud of you.

Sighing deeply, you flopped back into the pillows with a groan. The more you thought about it though, the sharper the details became. The fingers had not been fingers, but soft, smooth tentacles of dark grey smoke, and there had been milk-white eyes blinking in the darkness; four of them.

“What a way to start my birthday, huh?” you mused aloud. With another sigh, you rolled over and pulled the covers up around your ears.

Hours later at breakfast, your parents gave you your presents - a modest list of things that would have been useful to almost anyone your age at college, and, with a small degree of fanfare, they offered you the latest iPhone, telling you how much you deserved it for working so hard and making them proud. No one gave you a hug though. It was hard not to feel ungrateful as you cradled your new phone in your hands, and the guilt that accompanied the sentiment troubled you. They loved you, of course they did, and they showed it by providing you with everything you could want. Except what you actually needed in the truest sense of the word…

Conversation at dinner that night was mostly centred on your father’s work, but there was a bit of discussion about the progress that your brother’s favourite team had made through the league tables, and your mother even asked you about the assignment you’d been struggling with a little bit the last week. “I got an A,” you smiled and her face lightened instantly.

“Well done. I knew you’d do us proud.”

Your hand twitched on the fork, as if you’d been expecting her to reach over and squeeze it, but she didn’t. She topped up your glass and chinked hers jauntily against the rim instead, the cold glass chiming oddly in the busy restaurant.

Back at home your brother nudged you in the ribs and tilted his head curiously. “You ok? You were kind of quiet tonight…”

“I’m fine,” you said. “Just a bit tired.”

“Ok, look, I was going to give this to you earlier, but I thought I’d wait til tonight. I know you used to read all those creepy fairytales under the covers as a kid and play with all the dolls mum and dad gave you…” and with that, he handed you a badly-wrapped parcel, the selotape lifting off at one end where it had refused to stick to the brown paper. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m kind of shitty at wrapping.”

“It’s alright,” you smiled. “Thank you.”

Awkwardly, he flashed a smile at you and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway with the present he’d pulled out of his jacket pocket where it'd been hanging on a peg on the wall. From the weight of it and the shape of the package, you were certain it was a hardback book. As you swept your fingers over the cover, the light above you flickered off suddenly and you glared up at it. In the absence of light, the shadows seemed denser somehow, and you shivered, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling slightly. A heartbeat later, and it came back on. With another shiver, you left the hall and headed upstairs.

Alone in your room, you unwrapped your brother’s present.

Old, slightly cracked leather bound the book, and it had metallic corner pieces to protect the edges. It was only about as long as your hand from palm to fingertip, and there was nothing on the cover at all. Opening it carefully, your nose picked up hints of a scent like distant woodsmoke, herbs, and something akin to petrichor. Inside was written a phrase in Latin and, with the help of your new phone, you discovered that it meant, ‘In the heart there lives a shadow’. “Odd title,” you murmured aloud.

The story itself, thank goodness, was written in English, in an archaic typeface that might have looked at home with a first edition of Dickens or something.

‘In a house on the hill above town lived a young girl,’ it began in typical fairytale style, and despite the cliche, you found yourself falling further and further into the story. It spoke of the daughter of a witch who had grown up feeling isolated, her mother always working. The parallel hit you hard almost immediately and you wondered if your brother had finally noticed how your family behaved towards each other. Dismissing it as a fluke, you turned your attention back to the book.

To make up for the lack of time the spent together, the witch bought her daughter gifts, and among one of those gifts was a small chest, meant for jewellery or trinkets. When the girl opened the chest, however, she found a pool of inky liquid that stirred and rippled when she dipped her finger into it, the fluid never leaving any trace on her skin. She left the jewellery case open on a table in her bedroom, and that night when the sun went down, when there was only candlelight in her room, a small black cat crept up to her.

You smiled as you read the next bit, having spent the whole of your childhood longing for a pet that you could share some kind of connection with; a cat to curl up in the creases of your duvet, a dog to play with… frankly anything would have done, even a goldfish to swim around in circles in a tank, but your parents had said no. The dream of one just appearing one day had been a near-constant one for you. The little girl in the story discovered that her cat was not a normal cat and was in fact a creature formed from the strange darkness in the chest.

As she grew, the creature changed shape, eventually taking on the form of a young man. “You’re happy tonight,” he said as the two of them lay on a grassy hillside, gazing up at the stars.

She reached her hand across and touched his strange, smoky skin. Beneath the twisting mist that surrounded him like an aura, his body was smooth and hard, cool like leather, and as he linked his fingers with hers, she said, “I have you - I have a friend. I’m no longer alone.”

Tears rolled down your face as you finished the story, leaving the little book open in your lap. Never had you felt more alone than in the wake of finishing that strange fairytale. “I wish…” you sniffed, smearing the back of your wrist under your nose. “I wish I wasn’t so alone all the time…” you hissed bitterly, before you began to laugh softly to yourself. Your whole body ached, right down to your bones, and your chest twisted, leaving you feeling wrung-out and empty.

Heck, you’d probably even have taken a shadow monster yourself for a friend in that moment, and no sooner had you thought it than something moved across the room, startling you out of your tears. Blinking to clear your vision, you watched a shadow growing slowly in the middle of the empty floor, like a spreading puddle. A moment later, you thought your ears must be deceiving you as you heard a soft, rasping voice whisper, “Please don’t cry… I can’t bear to hear you cry.”

“What?” you breathed, sitting up and staring wide-eyed at the rippling darkness in the centre of the room. Fear clenched your heart so tightly you wanted to scream, but you weren’t sure you had enough voice.

“Please… don’t be afraid… I swear I will never hurt you,” the entity murmured, and the surface of the small pool surged and rippled before quietening down.

“What are you?” you hissed, heart thudding. “How is this happening?”

“Don’t you remember me?” came the response.

You stared blankly at the shadow. “Remember you?”

A gentle smile crept into the voice of the creature you couldn’t quite see, and you heard the voice say, “When we were both very small, we used to play together. I’ve grown up here alongside you.”

“Oh my god,” you whispered as a flood of memories you didn’t know you still had rushed across your mind. “My imaginary friend… I… called you Lamorak…”

“Indeed you did. After one of the knights of Arthur, I believe,” he said, sounding amused at that.

You paused and then swallowed nervously. “So… if you’re real, then what are you?”

“I… I’m honestly not sure. I believe that I am formed of the shadows in this place, and that I was partly conjured by you when you were young to fulfil the needs of a young child who was often overlooked.”

“But… how is that possible?”

The darkness rippled again and the voice answered, “Magic, most likely. The force of a wish can be pretty powerful, especially in someone very young.”

“Tell me you’re the only one like you that lives here,” you demanded, a twang of anxiety shooting through you at the thought of innumerable shadow beings hiding in every crevice of the house.

“To my knowledge, yes,” he replied.

“I… I think I remember you in a different shape…” you said after staring for another few seconds at the mass of ebbing shadows on the floor, breathing like an ocean on a sandy shore. It was true, though you hadn’t thought about Lamorak for years. Your mother had dismissed your talk of the shadow boy for childish fantasy, and you’d started to see and think of him less and less after that. Forgotten, he had apparently banished himself back to the shadows of the house but had never left. Something about that made your heart hurt all over again.

He chuckled and said, “I take many shapes now.”

“Do you have a favourite?” you asked shyly, realising that you were no longer afraid.

After a little pause, he asked, “Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless with excitement for the first time in a long time.

The shape began to shift and move, rising up and filling the space in the centre of the room to a height of six and half feet or so; it was difficult to be sure because the shadows that surrounded him like an aura were constantly moving. There was a part of his ill-defined silhouette that was clearly his head, and from it, four milky, silvery eyes blinked at you, all slightly out of sync. From his broad shoulders down, he got stranger and even less humanoid; his arms looked more like tentacles, writhing slightly, and as you continued to stare at him from your bed, you realised that there were more of them behind him, and the two which were most prominent were just the largest of them. His legs too were not humanoid, but were a seething mass of tentacles, some thick, others almost wispy, ending in tiny coils of mist like candle smoke.

“Wow…”

“You’re not the only one who’s changed a bit,” he chuckled and you warmed to his dry sense of humour instantly.

“Yeah, but you were supposed to be my imaginary friend… Emphasis on ‘imaginary’…! Come here,” you smiled and he obliged, if somewhat tentatively.

“Not so imaginary after all,” Lamorak breathed as he neared you, shadows frothing and roiling around his lower tentacles like waves around sea-kelp. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted as he drew to a halt in front of you.

You got slowly to your feet and stood beside your bed, dwarfed by his presence, but instead of being intimidated by him, your stomach twisted and you began to cry again.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down and bringing a soft-looking tentacle to your face. He drew the very tip of it across your cheek, and you watched the shape of his eyes change from almost completely round, like giant pearls, to pinched tight at the outer corners, as if worried. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I… I feel awful that I forgot you… I… I didn’t know how much I missed you too…” you sobbed, and in a heartbeat you felt his arms wrap around your body. Darkness enveloped you and you let it consume you utterly.

The peaceful thum-thum of his heartbeat was all you could hear for a moment, before a different noise rose around you. Gentle whispers, like spring leaves tickled by a soft breeze, filled your ears and mind, and when you lurched back, suddenly recalling having heard them before in moments alone in your room, he cocked his head to one side and shrank back. “Did I hug you too tightly?” he asked, half joking, half worried.

You shook your head. “You’ve always been here, haven’t you?”

He shrugged slightly, all the tentacles on his right side heaving and shifting. “I’ve mostly been dormant in the basement,” he admitted. “But I have come to see you sometimes. When you’re lonely, you call to me. I don’t think you know you’re doing it though.”

“The whispers…?” you asked.

“I think it’s these,” he said, first looking at one tentacle and then bringing more up to touch your cheek again, and you shuddered violently as sparks of inexpressible joy flashed across your whole body. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you said, another tear escaping your eye. “I… I don’t understand…”

“Understand what?”

“Why that feels so good…?” you admitted. “It’s… I… Is there something wrong with me?”

In an instant, he had picked you up in his arms and sat you down on your bed. “No,” he reassured you, even as he drew back slightly to give you a little room to breathe. “No, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just… alone.”

“Why did you show yourself to me tonight?” you asked, hoping to distract yourself from the way your hands were trembling and your skin felt suddenly too tight all over.

Lamorak gestured at the bed beside you and said, “May I sit?”

“Sure.”

He leaned in close and nudged his side against your shoulder; it was the gesture a familiar friend might make and it brought a lightness to your chest. He was still tall and you also liked the way you had to look up at him. “You’re hurting but you’ve stopped noticing. You felt it all over again tonight when you read that story, and… well… I felt it too.”

The aching in your chest redoubled and you leaned into his welcoming darkness. “It’s like my wish came true,” you breathed.

“May I hold you?” he asked in a voice as gentle as velvet.

When you nodded and whimpered, “Please,” he drew you easily into his lap, as if you were still a child, and allowed his dark tentacles to hold you while you curled up against him.

“Lamorak,” you smiled as exhaustion washed over you and you let him stroke your cheek and your hair until you drifted off to sleep.

He came to you night after night following that first reunion on your birthday. Six months later and your grades had gone up, you’d become marginally more confident and sociable at university, and you’d been invited to three people’s birthday events.

Returning after the latest one, you shot down the corridor and into your bedroom. Going still as you reached the middle of the room, you looked around. “Lamorak?” you whispered and the darkness beside the wardrobe coalesced into his familiar, tentacled form as he stepped out to greet you. “I had so much fun tonight!” you grinned, elated and buzzing. “Thank you for encouraging me to go!”

“I can feel it,” he chuckled, approaching and lifting your chin. “You look happy.”

Easily you stepped into his arms, but something felt different that night. The bond between you and this shadow creature suddenly drew taut as a bowstring and your heart began to pound as you sensed the slight change. “Lamorak,” you gasped as his tentacles touched your neck and throat with searing affection, yet more winding around your waist and thighs. “Oh my god… that’s… that…”

“You want me to stop?” he purred in your ear.

“No!” you gasped, and a tentacle slithered up your spine, beneath your clothes.

Shaking, you tipped back into his hold and let him carry you to the bed. “I want you,” he said. “I want to show you how much I love you…”

“Please…” you hissed, throwing your head back as his shadows skimmed under your bra and brushed over your nipple. “Please…!”

Slowly, with the reverence of a pilgrim at a shrine, he undressed you, taking care to keep caressing you all the while with his many other tentacles. His four, pearlescent eyes blinked rapidly, though none of them at the same time, and as he worked you closer and closer, delving inside you and circling your clit enough to make you gasp and moan and cry out against his dark body, you caught a glimpse of his mouth for the very first time. A long, horizontal slit in the blackness of his face opened up, revealing a maw of pointed teeth, and a black tongue, long and languid.

He dragged it over your thighs and stomach, over your hips, and finally down to enjoy the taste of you. Again and again his tongue savoured you and sent waves of pleasure throughout your whole body until you almost forgot how to breathe and your skin felt aflame.

“Perfect,” he moaned against your body and you felt the echo of it in your mind. The constant whispering of the shadows around his tentacles rose to a cacophony as you bucked and heaved, heat coiling inside you.

“I’m…” you cried out just before you came.

Lamorak held you while you clenched and heaved, stroking you tenderly all the while, caressing you and kissing you until you finally fell back into the sheets beneath you. Your body was wrung out and tingling all over, and every time he moved even a little bit, you twitched again. He gave you kisses and told you in hoarse whispers how beautiful you were.

“Don’t leave me,” you whimpered as he adjusted his tentacled embrace around you, and he washed slowly back over your body in a tide of darkness.

“Shh,” he crooned. “I’m here. I’m always here for you. As long as you need me, I’m here. And I’m always yours.”

With those words echoing in your mind, you drifted quietly to sleep, naked in the safety of his arms.

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

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#shadow monster #room monster #shadow room monster #monster x reader #exophilia #shadow monster x reader #female reader #shadow monster x female reader #monster x female reader

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teamxdark · 4 years ago

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Office AU: The Bet

Arthur: Galahad is a big basketball fan, so sometimes we watch a game with him on tv.

Arthur: Guin and I decided to bet on opposing teams. If I won, Guin would have to wear a big hairy fake moustache all day. If I lost, I would have to wear clothes from Guin’s closet to work, plus makeup. Basketball never ends in a tie, so we figured we were all good to go.

Arthur: Except this time, it did. The gym flooded during the first overtime and they had to call it a draw. Galahad laughed and told us we both lost, and, well... we couldn’t really argue with him.

Arthur: I’m sure I could pull off this look if it was tailored to me, but Guin and I are very different shapes and sizes. There’s bagginess where there shouldn’t be, and tightness where I need looseness. At least my face looks good. Guin’s good with makeup.

Arthur: I’d say Guin got off easy, but those fake moustaches tickle your nose and your face and they can start to smell. She’s not allowed to take it off except to eat and drink. I’ve never seen her go to the water cooler so often.

..............

Tristan: I got a text from Lancelot warning me about a stupid failed bet between the boss and his wife. I don’t know what I expected, but Arthur in a badly-fitting women’s suit and skirt combo and Guin with goofy facial hair wasn’t it.

Tristan: I don’t think I’ve heard Lamorak laugh that loudly since Kay used the fake name ‘Hugh Mungus’.

Tristan: And for some reason, Guin’s been inspired to speak in a French accent when the moustache is on. I think I’ve heard her switch to just plain speaking French a couple of times.

Tristan: Today’s going to be an interesting day.

............

Lancelot: ...

Lancelot: I live with these people.

............

Percival: I was hoping for a very professional environment when I started my internship. A lot of people building their careers with focused energies and smart attitudes.

Percival: And yet...

Percival: Somehow I feel more productive today than yesterday. I feel more productive and focused right now, after Ms. Guinevere came up to myself and Galahad, talking in an accent, saying she ‘moustache us a question’.

Percival: I guess there’s a lot about adult life I have to learn.

Galahad: ...

Galahad: Perce, you’re fourteen.

..........

Lancelot: I live with these people.

...........

Merlina: I don’t mind it at all, actually. I much prefer this to most of the others things I see and hear.

Merlina: It’s entertaining! Unlike hearing plans for what I’m pretty sure are felonies, and never being sure if people are serious or not.

Merlina: I do feel bad for Arthur. He looks so uncomfortable whenever he sits down or stands up. That jacket’s bunching up around the shoulders and armpits and that can’t feel good.

...........

Dindrane: I’m so glad I had a beret buried in my bag.

Dindrane: Long story, not important why it was there.

Dindrane: But I lent it to Guin and now she’s going full French. Enid gave her a scarf to complete the look.

Dindrane: She pulls it off? I can’t explain it, but she does? Moustache included.

Dindrane: ...I wish we had a visitor from corporate doing an inspection today, that would have been perfect.

..........

Guin: *twirling the end of her fake moustache with one hand and adjusting her beret with the other*

Guin: Pamplemousse.

...........

Lancelot: I live.

Lancelot: With these people.

............

Bors: I gotta say, I didn’t expect Arthur to walk around in heels so well. The man’s barely stumbling at all.

Bedivere: Walking in heels is less difficult than most would expect.

Bors: ...You’ve tried it?

Bedivere: Yes. Once.

Bedivere: ...You haven’t?

Bors: ...

Bors: ...I can never find any my size.

Bedivere: Ah.

..........

Gawain: Remind me to never make a bet with either of them in my life.

Gawain: They’re too creative.

Gareth: Actually, I found these to be pretty tame.

Gawain: ...What.

Gareth: You should have heard some of the dares and bets I’ve made and did when I was in college.

Gawain: ...

Gawain: I’m sorry, WHAT--

............

Lancelot: I love those two. Make no mistake.

Lancelot: I would run into high speed traffic for Guin without a second thought.

Lancelot: And Arthur is like the sun in my sky.

Lancelot: ...But I live with these people.

Arthur: *slinging an arm over Lancelot’s shoulders, to the best of his ability* Yes, but you love it.

Guin: *mirroring Arthur from Lancelot’s other side* Tant pis pour toi si tu veux dire que tu n’étais pas amusé aujourd’hui par nous.

Lancelot: ...

#Office AU.#Smash speaks.#Finally had an idea after 5000 years.

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agentdagonet · 5 years ago

Note

For the Eggsy sees Ghosts series. Roxy and Merlin's deaths in Golden Circle.

So, you’ve created a monster. For now, have this version, where everyone lives. Cos, you know, the whole series is telling moments in both directions. I promise I’m working on the one that’s more canon-aligned, but figured you’d like this humble offering in the meantime.

Already up on AO3, feel free to subscribe for when I eventually get to finishing/posting the second version.

Eggsy wasn’t really sure if he should be thanking or cursing whatever strange powers-that-be gave him his ability to see ghosts, most days. For a few reasons, actually, starting with not everyone stayed behind, obviously, and often the people he wanted to see most were those who moved On without pause. Which meant that he didn’t always know if he was waiting for a ghost or should be looking for an injured friend, in the wake of tragedy.

And, unfortunately, tragedy was far too easy to come by in Kingsman; this made the concern a constant thought in the back of his mind.

He’d been at dinner with Tilde’s family, pretending to know a lot more than he did because that was the only way he could remain in her life, when James had simply appeared where he hadn’t been a moment before. His face was contorted in a way Eggsy knew spelt disaster, and a moment later Alistair was just beside him, shock in every line of his features.

Needless to say, Eggsy had made his excuses and practically ran from the room before locking himself in the first bathroom he stumbled across.

‘Fuck, Perce, I am so sorry-’

‘Save your apologies, Eggsy and get your arse back to Kingsman.’ James had never spoken to him so curtly, and that alone was enough for him to spring into action, sprinting out the door while sending an automated text Tilde’s way. Kingsman, sorry, got to run was definitely not the sort of text Tilde enjoyed receiving, but it was a common enough one to have been added to his automatic responses- and it was one of the thousand reasons they hadn’t succeeded romantically.

He didn’t really want to think about the source of James’ stress, but as Kingsman flickered in and out of his periphery he couldn’t help but keep note. Percival, Bors, Kay, Geraint, Lamorak, Bedivere, Pelleas, Dagonet-

‘Shit,’ Eggsy had already set the jet to make its way to the Manor as quick as possible, and had pulled a set of glasses from a cabinet with shaky hands, ‘come on, come on, come on.’ He flicked through channels at a frantic pace, not letting himself connect the static he kept running into with the ghosts surrounding him. At least that’s what he told himself.

He landed next to a crater, smoke and dust still billowing up from within, and scanned the rubble with disbelieving eyes. Kingsman (no, he corrected, the mansion) was gone. Nothing but dust and smoke and the taste of ash on the wind.

‘-ggsy… Eggsy! Get your arse over here.’ Eggsy shook himself to awareness and found himself bounding toward James without consciously deciding to do so. He followed his gesture with his eyes, and found himself looking at a handle and a mostly-covered door. There was a faint thudding, and for a moment Eggsy was convinced that he was hearing rubble fall like chunks of iceberg into the sea, before he connected the sound to the source.

‘Fuck,’ Eggsy breathed before leaping into the crater, heedless of the sharp debris, ‘hold on, hold on, I’m coming!’ He yelled the last, hoping beyond measure that the definitely-panicking person trapped within could hear him. Would know that someone was coming for them. He didn’t let himself guess as to who had survived the attack while he moved anything he could nudge away from the door, didn’t let himself listen to the murmering behind him even as it grew with more voices, more layers, more-

The door swung open, would have hit Eggsy full on had he not been able to jump out of the way. Well, more trip backward over something he hadn’t been paying attention to in his bid to remove himself from the trajectory but either way he was (mostly) unharmed as someone came out, coughing.

‘Galahad, are you there?’ It sounds like it’s coming from far away despite the glasses still being on his face. It’s said with the kind of resignation Eggsy’s heard from telemarketers, from people passing flyers on the kerb. The one that says “I’ve been at this for a while, I know you won’t answer, but I have to keep trying.” Merlin’s voice was in his ear, Harry was supposed to be watching Daisy for the day at his mum’s place back at the Estates. He’d never been more thankful for his mum’s stubborn streak than he was at this moment, somehow certain that the manor was the least of Kingsman’s losses, going by his spectral entourage. He’d flown here straight from Sweden as the behest of James and Percival which now that he let himself think about it could only have meant that-

A small, solid, body knocked him right back off his feet and tears (and no small amount of sweat, and perhaps a bit of blood) soaked through his shirt at an alarming rate. He ran a hand from the top of the head pressed to his sternum to their neck, both to check for swelling and just to reassure himself that they were solid. Present. Real. Alive.

‘I’ve got you,’ Eggsy whispered, hiding his own tears in her hair, as the embers of Kingsman continued to die around them.

—

Eggsy stared at the laptop blankly, Harry sat beside him in a similar state, and Roxy in their ears trying fruitlessly to get their attention. The battle had been over for a handful of moments, but they hadn’t known what to do afterward. They’d thrown a man into a meat grinder (and who that person was had Eggsy’s stomach twisted into pretzels. He’d doubted Harry after everything and what kind of an agent, let alone friend, did that make him?) and saved the world and now that all was said and done they were able to… stop.

To let themselves realise what had happened, what they had lost, from the bombing of the mansion to their breaking in to PoppyLand and-

‘The fuck are you mourning for, you daft prick,’ Eggsy steeled himself to turn and face a ghost he never wanted to meet. Just another in the seemingly endless list of people he’d lost in the last couple weeks. James and Percival were back with Roxy on the jet, the rest of Kingsman had thought better of following them into battle, correctly assuming that they would be a distraction far more than they could be a help. ‘I’m right here.’

‘You lucky bastard.’ Harry replied, and Eggsy forgot to breathe for a moment.

‘I was trying to tell you, Eggsy- Merlin’s vitals didn’t stop, though they did flicker for a bit. He’s stable, if a bit shorter than he was before his rousing performance.’ Roxy’s voice was shaky, tight, the way it got in the midst of crying and Eggsy felt no shame in adding his tears to the lot.

‘Galahad?’ Eggsy took a steadying breath before turning toward Harry, and thus Merlin. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t Harry on his stomach like a teenage girl at a slumber party, resting on his elbows next to Benny and Jet’s doggy doors and Merlin-

Merlin was a sight that Eggsy could have gone without seeing. His suit was torn and dirty, he had a multitude of cuts, his fingers were bloody (fresh blood, new blood, from dragging himself from the explosion) and his legs. Well. They weren’t. Eggsy wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw up or faint but neither was an option, and without conscious thought he had thrown himself from the stool and slid to the side not occupied by Harry. He lifted a shaking hand as if to touch him, to reassure himself that Merlin was alive, but it seemed that Eggsy’s arrival had been enough for Merlin to allow himself to lose consciousness.

‘Hamish!’ Eggsy and Harry reacted in sync, as they had been their entire time in PoppyLand, one hand each going to Merlin’s shoulders and the other to the small of his back, and moved as one to the counter. They unceremoniously knocked the briefcase-laptop over the edge, neither caring that the fall was broken by the madwoman’s body, and set Merlin down as gently as they could.

‘How are we getting him home?’ Harry didn’t answer, face pale and eyes wide, one hand resting not-so-casually over a pulse point. With how it was trembling it likely wasn’t very useful, but Eggsy was never one to tell others how to cope.

‘You need to fix his tourniquets, but I have medical assistance on the way.’ Roxy whispered in his glasses, and both men spring into action- Eggsy grabbed a couple aprons that were hanging nearby and tore the ties clean off as Harry checked the makeshift-triage while glaring at the dirty stumps as if they had mortally offended him. Which, honestly, it wasn’t that far off- the loss meant that they hadn’t imagined the explosion, but it also meant he was alive-

There was a flicker of blue, so quick Eggsy was convinced he imagined it, but then it happened again and Eggsy’s heart went into overtime.

‘How long ‘til help gets here, Rox?’ Eggsy cursed in his mind, not wanting to alert Harry to the precarious situation before them. Not wanting to make it any worse than it already was. This was his burden to bear.

‘Fifteen minutes out now, Galahad.’ Eggsy nodded to himself, and leant forward to pull the strips of cloth from Harry’s hands. Harry continued to look back and forth from Merlin’s face and the remains of his leg, watching for any signs of further distress, but Eggsy busied himself with pulling the cloth taut and steadily ignoring the rhythmic blue that he immediately knew matched the pulse Harry was desperately monitoring.

He’d never hated his ability more.

He’d been there for someone coming Back, he’d been there for someone moving On, had spoken to ghosts centuries old who had long since forgotten what they had come Back for, he’d been there for all the moments in between; but he had somehow managed not to be there as someone struggled to Stay.

Eggsy looked around the room for something, anything, that would help more than the haphazard tourniquets they’d fashioned. There was a first aid kit in the corner, but knowing Poppy it would only have what the 50s considered necessary for a kit and as much fun as that could be it wouldn’t solve Merlin’s problem. It wouldn’t even vaguely help.

But that could. It was a stretch, it wasn’t made for this, but anything was worth a shot at this rate.

Eggsy ran to the first aid kit, and on the shelf next to it were packets of Statesman Alpha Gel. Three or four sets, wrapped in gaudy yellow fabric with fucking bows but they were there and Eggsy snatched up the lot before sprinting back to Merlin and Harry.

‘Harry. Oi, Harry,’ He looked up from where his finger had been running along the seam of the tourniquet, ‘think this’ll help?’ Eggsy dropped them to the counter before pressing one to Harry’s chest

‘Well,’ Harry began, throat obviously tight but trying to play it off, ‘I’m fairly certain that legs aren’t quite as complicated as brains so it should stabilise him at the least.’

Eggsy wanted desperately to be doing anything else, but pulled the elastic stuff firmly across the open wound before stabbing the plungers just below the tourniquet and Harry did the same. Eggsy let himself crumple gracefully back into a bar stool when it looked like everything would hold, and Roxy let them know that Merlin’s vitals were slowly stabilising. He watched with bated breath as the elements merged, as the gel seemed to do what it had when he’d used it on (traitorous) Whiskey only a short while ago.

What was it about Kingsman that fucked with time passing?

‘You did good.’ Eggsy looked up and locked eyes with his dad, the man was on the other side, forearms resting on the counter top, and Eggsy gave him a shaky grin before he reached a hand out to Harry, and pulled a limp hand into his own and squeezed it tight.

‘We win. Shit’s fucked, but we’ll figure it out as we go. Together. Ain’t that humanity’s great superpower? Teamwork? We’ll get it done.’

Prompt me, send me random asks, let’s chat!

#dagonet writes #kingsman fic #fanfiction #eggsy sees ghost #leeef

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modreduscycle · 5 years ago

Text

Green Knight Pt. 2

Gawain stared out at the snow blowing outside. For some reason, the thought of going out in it didn’t bother him. It was probably the last snowfall he’d get to see.

It had been a good year, tournaments, quests, hunting, and just the general mayhem of the round table had kept him occupied. He wondered if heaven would have any of those things.

Gareth helped adjust his fur cloak, sniffling. “Don’t go, please don’t go,” he begged.

Gawain smiled sadly and ruffled his hair. “You know I have to. Hey, look at me.” He lifted Gareth’s chin up. “Be good, okay? Or I’ll come back to life just to kick your ass. That goes for all of you.”

Mordred rolled his eyes. “If you are still alive after all this, come back immediately. Don’t let us worry for longer than we need to.”

Agravaine glared bloody murder at his little brother. “If he survives getting his head chopped off?” he demanded incredulously.

“Did Aunt Morgana ever figure out something?” Gawain asked. Mordred had written to her earlier in the year, asking for help. He’d put it off until the last week of summer due to his usual reluctance of involving Morgana’s “assistance” with their problems, considering how overboard her solutions tended to be. Mordred hadn’t said anything about her response earlier, which didn’t bode well, but he could still hope.

Mordred let out a heavy sigh. “Yes and no. It’s… Goddamn it, it’s so stupid.” He rubbed his temples and sighed again. “Look, I told her I wouldn’t tell you what she’s doing so just… just act like you usually do.”

“When were you going to bring this up?” Gaheris demanded.

“I’ll tell the three of you everything two seconds after he leaves. I just can’t tell him,” Mordred explained, not answering his brother’s question.

“So… then Agravaine and Laurel don’t have to start trying to make an heir?” Gareth asked. Agravaine smacked him over the head with a closed fist. “OW! What? If Gawain dies, you’re next in line!”

“Laurel and I are not having sex, period,” Agravaine snapped. The other four fell silent and stared at him for a full minute. “What?”

“What about on your wedding night?” Gawain asked.

“You do remember our marriage was purely for convenience, right?” Agravaine asked.

“So you have never consummated your marriage?” Gaheris demanded.

“My wife likes men in exactly the same way Aunt Morgana does. Trust me, it would not be fun for either of us,” Agravaine deadpanned. He shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like anyone can prove we didn’t.”

“Then you’re a virgin?” Gareth piped up.

Agravaine’s face turned red. “Why are we talking about this? Gawain’s about to die!”

“But Mordred implied he might not,” Gareth piped up, grinning. “So let’s talk more about your love life.”

“Shut up, you brat! How many girls were you getting serving in the kitchens?” Agravaine snapped.

“Try saying that to Uncle Kay’s face, see how that goes,” Gareth retorted.

“Uncle Kay doesn’t care, he’s less into romance than freaking Dinadan, and that’s saying something.”

Mordred shook his head and pulled Gawain into a hug. “I am so sorry for not telling you what’s about to happen. And I am so, so sorry our entire family is so goddamned stupid.”

Gawain snorted and pulled the rest of his siblings into the hug as well. “Be good you four and if I don’t come back… well, you can tell me about everything you get up to when we meet in heaven. A long, long, long time in the future.”

“Considering our family history of violent death, that’s not likely,” Gaheris pointed out dryly.

“If I die and I see you again within ten years, start running,” Gawain warned. He shook his head. “This was supposed to be touching, goddamn it. You’ve all ruined it.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” Gaheris hugged his brother one more time before stepping away like the others. “You are the best older brother I’ve ever had, and I will never forget you.”

“Hey!”

“I meant what I said, Agravaine.”

Gareth rubbed the back of his neck, looking away as he tried to keep from crying. “I wish we could’ve been knights together for longer. I’ll make you proud, Gawain, I swear it.”

Gawain barely held back a sob as he pulled Gareth in for another hug. “You already have.”

Agravaine looked at the ground. “I…” He clenched his fists. “You’re the best big brother any of us could ever have and I hate that you’re throwing your life away on some stupid game but you’re my older brother and you’ve always looked out for me and I love you.”

They all stared at him. “Holy shit,” Gareth muttered.

“No one say a damn word about this,” Agravaine warned. “Mordred, say your goodbyes, then get the hell out of here, Gawain.”

“Yeah, I’m good. You have fun, try not to freeze to death on the way. I’m going to help Merlin with his research,” Mordred said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and backing away.

“I… alright,” Gawain replied lamely. He assumed Mordred’s reaction was because of whatever Aunt Morgana told him, but he could not think of anything that she could say that would make Mordred this lax about it. “Well, bye.” With that, he stepped out into the snow and mounted the waiting Gringolet. He’d have to ask the Green Knight to take care of him after he was dead. He was such a sweet horse, regardless of what Agravaine, Gaheris, Gareth, Mordred, Arthur, Kay, Lancelot, Bedivere, Percival, Tristram, Galehaut, Dinadan, Bors, Lamorak, and Palamedes said. Even with how capable Gringolet was, Gawain wasn’t sure if he’d make it in the wild. With a heavy heart, he set out.

….

Mordred had a point about him being stupidly lovestruck, Gawain had to admit. Maybe if he hadn’t been so smitten, he would’ve remembered to ask for bloody directions! He had learned from locals on his way the general direction, thank God, but that didn’t help now when he was lost in the middle of the woods, snow was flying around him, his hands were freezing even in his fur gloves, and Gringolet was tired and shivering. At this rate, he’d end up missing the Christmas deadline not through his own fault, but because of his shit sense of direction.

He winced as a gust of wind blew flakes into his face, showering his hair and freezing his face. Snow blew around him, the wind lifting up the drifts on the ground to mingle with the snowflakes in the air. His breath came out in visible puffs and it hurt when he inhaled. He was going to die of hypothermia before he’d ever reach the Green Chapel at this rate.

Gringolet lifted his head and snorted, then broke into a canter. “Whoa, hey!” Gringolet refused to listen to him for a good minute before Gawain finally got him under control. “What is up with… you…” A flicker of light in the distance caught his eye through the blackness of the night. “You genius horse, I will give you all the carrots in the world once we’re—” Gawain stopped. He almost said, “Once we’re back in Camelot.” He swallowed heavily, then started Gringolet in the same direction, toward the light.

It took them nearly half an hour to get there and it was with a frozen fist that Gawain banged on the front door of the castle. A servant opened it and Gawain nearly got down on his knees begging him to ask his lord or lady. The servant looked surprised and immediately dragged him inside, ordering another servant to go attend to his horse and gear. He was stripped of his armor, bundled into furs, and shoved in a comfy chair before the fire. He really, really hoped the lord or lady of the castle was okay with him staying there because otherwise he’d be having a very awkward conversation.

The servants were behaving oddly as well, rushing to attend to his needs. He noticed one had been frantically sent off earlier to get their master and it almost seemed like they had been expecting him but he had come too early. The logical part of his brain told him that was ridiculous, but the thought was still there.

The fire crackled before him, warming him up slowly. He could start to feel his fingers and toes again. The tenseness left his shoulders as he sank into the chair, the soft comfort of the furs and the warmth of the flames lulling him into a torpor. He just wanted to go to sleep right here. Or have the Green Knight chop his head off right here, at this point he didn’t care which.

“Wouldn’t you rather rest in a bed after you’ve had something to eat?” a voice whispered just behind him. Gawain nodded sleepily before he realized he was talking to someone. He sat up and looked behind him, and felt his heart skip a beat. Two people stood behind him. One was a lovely young woman, with vibrant red hair that had small flowers littered throughout her wavy, curly locks. The second was a giant man, easily as large as the Green Knight, with darker red hair and a beard. The woman, who had spoken, offered him her hand. “Come on, how about we sit down and have a meal together?”

#so yeah Mordred knows the whole situation and what's going on #Morgana just made him promise not to tell #also Agravaine's way more upset than he's letting on he's just not great at showing it #arthuriana #king arthur #Arthurian #Arthurian legend #gawain #gawain and the green knight #green knight

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katzuyas · 7 years ago

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dazzle me with gold

from the start | ao3 | previous part

"We shall leave at dawn," Victor says as they sup. "There is a good two days ride between us and the Nekola estate, what with the carts slowing us down measurably, so we need to utilize as much of the daylight as we can."

As he says, they do.

The world is still dark when they rise, and it is still dark when they leave the tent. Servants rush past them, loading everything onto the carts that stretch as far as Yuuri's eye can see. Among the hustle, they make their way to the stables where Tristan greets them with a soft nicker, but Lamorak ignores their presence until Yuuri steps into his pen and begins to saddle him. He acknowledges Yuuri only with one dark eye that glares at Yuuri as if searching for any weakness in character, but Yuuri doesn't hesitate in his work. That would only provoke another test of strength between them and it isn't the time for it, Yuuri knows.

"He seems to have taken to you," Victor says.

Yuuri thinks he means Lamorak and turns to smile at Victor, but once he does he notes that Victor's gaze is trained on Kenjirou instead. The boy has flushed upon their entering and bowed low to Yuuri even before he acknowledged Victor's presence at all.

Yuuri himself can feel a flush come onto his cheeks at the memory of it.

"I'm not certain why," he says. "But I don't mind his vigour. He's young and excitable, that much is true, but somehow it's refreshing to be around him."

Victor hums at that. "I can't blame the boy for his affections. He is right to admire, because there is a lot to find utterly irresistible about you, my Yuuri."

"Stop that," Yuuri tells him, heat on his cheeks. "He's only a boy. When I was his age I didn't even know what love was, much less be interested in finding it. Especially with men that much older than me."

"Oh?" Victor turns to Yuuri from where he was observing the saddling of Tristan. His blue eyes sparkle over the pen wall and Yuuri can tell that he will be teased before Victor even opens his mouth. "I would much enjoy hearing about your first affairs, if you wish to share. I can tell you about mine, as well. You see, the first time I–"

Yuuri makes a choked sound before words tumble from his lips in a stream of denial.

"No, no, no, I don't wish to know!" he says quickly. "Please. It's unnecessary, my lord. It is a matter of the past, so let us leave it to rest there."

Yuuri steps away from Lamorak and takes one of Victor's hands over the wall. He slots his fingers between Victor's. They align as if they were sculpted to fit, but Victor's are pale, light, unblemished, while Yuuri's are darker, worked, thicker as well. Yuuri squeezes Victor's hand and gives him a smile that finds its mirror on Victor's lips.

"Is it something that could change what we have?" Yuuri questions. "Because I don't believe it will. You are yourself, and I am myself. My Vitya, your Yuuri, no?"

Victor's face lights up like the sun itself. Yuuri remembers when he called him the moon, but there is more of the bright light of the sun, warm and healing, in Victor now – he's glowing with it when he pulls Yuuri closer to the pen wall by their joined hands.

"Your Vitya, I like the sound of that," he whispers as his forehead gently touches Yuuri's.

"I thought you might," Yuuri admits, just as softly.

They would probably share a kiss, maybe more than one, but a squeak somewhere to the side makes them break apart. It's Kenjirou, Yuuri notices by the flushing face of the boy, who has his hands thrown over his eyes, but still peeks between his fingers at the sight before him. He squeaks again when both Yuuri and Victor turn their attention to him.

"I– I apologize, my lords, I did not mean to interrupt," he rushes to say, bowing low once, twice, every other word. "Tristan is ready, and Lord Orlov has requested your presence, my lord. It's important, he said."

Victor gives a sigh as if Lord Orlov has done him a great disservice. He lifts Yuuri's hand and kisses the palm of it. Warmth spills over the spot and reaches all the way to Yuuri's heart in a wave so pleasant Yuuri almost sighs with it. He smiles and nods instead: there is no need to ask or give permission here, they both know.

"Will you keep an eye on Tristan until I return?" Victor asks.

"Of course," Yuuri smiles.

With a final squeeze to his fingers, Victor lets go and leaves from where they came. Watching as his back disappears, Yuuri can't help the thought that being a noble, being a lord, so someone that many other lives depend and count on to make sound and fair judgements, seems not to be as easy as the drunkards at the town's tavern make it out to be. It's hard work and moments of pleasure stolen away, interrupted, but all the more fulfilling for their fleeting nature.

Yuuri's eye catches the slack-jawed look on Kenjirou's face as he turns around to Lamorak. He smiles kindly, mainly to tell the boy that he did nothing wrong, but it has the opposite effect: Kenjirou only blushes harder in his flustered state.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, my lord, please forgive me!"

And he runs away, fast enough to leave Yuuri blinking in surprise. The last thing Yuuri notes is the flush covering the back of the boy's neck and he chuckles to himself, because he might not have been interested in love at Kenjirou's age, but from that reaction he knows that it will be different for this stable boy.

Yuuri only hopes that his first love will be kinder than his own was to him.

#yuri on ice #victuri #victuuri #viktuuri #minami kenjiro #bc he's a cute muffin and I love him #my fic #dazzle me #with this chapter this fic has officially hit the 50k mark yall #what the actual frickety frick frack #?????????

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hadjalterdoneanythingwrong · 4 years ago

Text

TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]

PARTIES: Seven [7]. One Heroic Spirit, Class [REDACTED], designate Jeanne Alter [jb]; One Heroic Spirit, Class Saber, designate Artoria Alter [aa]; One Heroic Spirit, Class Saber, designate Artoria Pendragon [ap]; One Heroic Spirit, Class Saber, designate Mordred Pendragon [mp]; One Heroic Spirit, Class [REDACTED], designate Medusa [mg]; One Heroic Spirit, Class Shielder, designate Mash Kyrielight [mk]; One Master, designate Ritsuka Fujimaru [c]

ASSOCIATIONS: Sonic the Hedgehog; Pendragon, Artoria; Muramasa, Senji; du Soleil, Gawain; du Lac, Lancelot; du Cygne, Percival; Kyrielight, Galahad; Kyrielight, Mash; de Listenois, Lamorak; Alter, Jeanne; Fujimaru, Ritsuka; Avtalos, Ayamari

//AUDIO PRESERVED//

//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[c:01] Someone go get Toria! I'll get Mordred!

[mk:01] Senpai...? What's...

[audible yawn]

[mk:02] What's going on...?

[c:02] It's the Sonic Direct, Mash. It's in just a few hours!

[mk:03] Is... Is it really a "Direct" if it isn't-

[c:03] That's not important, now come on, we need everyone in the rec room ASAP!

[mp:01] Yo, what the hell is everyone shouting about? It's not even 6 in the-

[c:04] Sonic Direct.

[audible thunder]

[mp:02] You had me at "Sonic Direct".

[mk:04] That's... literally all she said...

[ap:01] What's the meaning of- unhand me, you blackguard!

[aa:01] Sorry, Master's orders, deal with it.

[ap:02] Ritsuka, why are-

[c:05; mp:03; mk:05] Sonic.

[audible wind]

[ap:03] Very well. I shall go acquire the concessions. How long do we have?

[c:06] Until 9.

[ap:04] Understood. Son?

[mp:04] Don't have to ask me twice.

[audible thunder, rain, and lightning and wind]

[aa:02] Okay, so we've alerted the blue one, the kid, the prodigy- hey, is Silver awake in there?

[?k:06] Don't call me that ever again.

[aa:03] Cool. Anyway, I think Medusa's playing Hades in the rec room, so we'll have to go through her if we want to use the big TV for this.

[c:07] She'll understand. I just hope the Pendragons bring enough snacks for her... hair... snake... things.

[aa:04] You know them. They'll grab enough to feed a whole theater.

[c:08] For this morning's sake, I hope you're right.

[some time passes]

[c:09] Medusa, we need- oh, damn, perfect timing. Was that Malphon?

[mg:01] It was.

[mg:02] Jeanne told me of your situation. I'm done for the night.

[mk:07] "The-" ...How long have you been up...?

[mg:03] Don't ask questions you'll regret knowing the answer to.

[audible door sliding]

[mp:05] Yo, Rits, we got the shit.

[c:10] Oh, that's- ...that's a lot of snacks.

[ap:05] Only the finest for receiving news about the Knight of the Wind.

[c:11] That's... okay, fair enough.

[audible hissing and rattling]

[mp:06] Don't worry, Jeanne told us you were here too, we got you donuts.

[mg:04] ...Good.

[c:12] By the way, Mord, were the rest of the boys just not interested in seeing this?

[mp:07] Too early for them. Couldn't get 'em outta bed. Fake fans.

[audible door sliding]

[c:13] Oh, Jeanne! You're- ...you brought Da Vinci?

[jb:01] I just brought her in to get her to turn off whatever bullshit she's using to record our conversations.

[c:14] Again!?

/...END TRANSCRIPT//

Okay everyone, it's almost 5am, I'm heading off to-

...what was that, Jeanne?

...

What do you mean, "the Sonic Direct is in about four hours"?

Wait-

That's today???????

#(I really let this happen huh?)#long post

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deepfriedtwinkie · 7 years ago

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Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. VIII)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2,300w

It’s four of them left at the end. Harry, Hamish, and their final hurdles, Derrington and William. He thinks back to the moment they stood there, proposing agents at their shoulders, and listened to Arthur inform them they’d reached the final stage.

Everything had rung in his ears for the remainder of the night. Possibly it might’ve had a thing or two to do with being drugged, but there’s plenty reason enough to doubt it was only that. Surreality, for one thing. Utter surreality.

One sentence, and his goal was within reach. No other candidate craves this the way he does. They haven’t had the chance.

He’s finally reached the stage that’s going to change his life forever. One way or another.

Harry glances anxiously around the drawing room where he was told to wait, kneading his hands, minding Mr. Pickle at his feet. He’s trying to conjure up a focused mental review of his past twenty-four hours with Martin. There’d been plenty of advice, he was sure. Peppered with years of a seasoned field agent’s wisdom, cautionary tales, and all sorts of things like that. The problem is, the only thing he can seem to remember is the proper way to make a martini. Ice, gin, vermouth, shake, pour, garnish. It’s not very helpful at the moment.

His gaze jumps up when the door opens, expecting Arthur. Instead, it’s Hamish, Ainsley loping obediently at his heels. He shuts the door behind him and comes to sit, settling on the far end of Harry’s divan.

The two hold a shared look for a beat or two, capped off with singular nods. It’s a heavy moment, and that’s acknowledgment enough of that.

Until it isn’t, because who are they to kid themselves at this point.

“Are you nervous?” Hamish asks quietly. It’s the most pensive Harry’s ever heard him.

He can’t give that anything but honesty. He lets his head bob. “Yes. Very much.” Then he looks left, watching his friend contemplate his hands. “You?”

The silence lasts far longer than he expected it to. Hamish doesn’t look up. He hardly moves at all, in fact. It lasts until Harry is tempted to ask what the matter is.

Then, without preamble, he doesn’t have to.

“My aunt died three years ago,” Hamish says.

Immediately, Harry’s empathy is lead in his stomach. He wouldn’t dream of prodding this time.

“I was just a tyke when my parents’ car wrecked in the highlands. Didn’t even think twice before she took me in.”

He has to pause. Harry’s overwhelmingly compelled to let him off the hook.

“You don’t have to tell me any of this,” he insists softly.

Hamish’s head shakes. His hands cover his knees, and his glance finds the window. He continues. “We lived in Edinburgh. Got by all right on her pension, and she’d patch up the neighbors’ clothes for a discount whenever we needed a little extra. Worked her fingers to the bone for me, she did. Then, one day… Pneumonia. Ten days in hospital, and that was it. It was foster homes after that. Four, maybe five of them. Shit ones, mostly.”

The more of this he says out loud, the more vulnerability his stoic face betrays. Harry knows what’s coming. It doesn’t take a genius to get there.

“I turned eighteen a week ago,” Hamish reveals, and it’s the softest part of all. His eyes drift somewhere far away. “If this…”

He doesn’t say any more. They both know he doesn’t have to. Harry works out the rest on his own. There won’t be another foster home. Or any funds to follow his intern work to Berlin, either.

There’s nothing left for Hamish out there. Nowhere to go.

Maybe he’s not the one who wants this the most after all.

Harry wracks his brain for something to say. It takes several moments, but he lands on something he thinks might hit the right note. His inspiration licks her paw.

“Is Ainsley named after her?” he asks.

Hamish nods again. It’s hard to spot at first, but one side of his mouth shows signs of twisting toward amusement. “What’d you study at Oxford, anyway? Let me guess: psychology?”

“Political science major with a minor in entomology, specializing in lepidoptery.”

“Lepi-what-the-fuck?”

“It’s the study of butterflies.”

“I was right, you’re something the fuck else.” Grinning faintly now, Hamish sighs, and he retraces his mental steps, idly scratching behind his bloodhound’s ear. “Mrs. Ainsley. Her and my mother’s maiden name. That’s what she liked everyone to call her. God help the sod who didn’t. It was Aunt Ainsley to me, too, no exceptions.”

Hopefully it’s in good taste to ask questions again, because he can’t resist poking at the pattern he’s seeing. He’s a shit, after all. “Why was that?”

“Oh, her first name was Agathe. She fucking hated the thing.”

Harry’s urge to laugh slips free before he can temper it. Slowly, it catches, and by the time Arthur appears in the doorway, the two of them are confusing the hell out of the dogs, employing sleeves to rid the tears from their eyes.

“We’re ready for the both of you,” Arthur says. “If and when you’re quite finished.” He gives nothing more to their antics past a single peaked eyebrow. It’s very evidently not his first foray, but he looks like he’d love for it to be the last. Harry straightens quickly, aware of Hamish doing the same.

The adjacent doors have opened as well. One to the right, the other left. Lamorak is framed in one. Lancelot in the other.

There’s one order of business left before he takes his summons. Standing tall, Harry protrudes his hand to Hamish.

“Good luck, friend.”

Hamish clasps it, shaking heartily.

“And to you.”

Whatever awaits, may we both be Kingsman when it’s through with.

Turning apart, they go their separate ways. Harry hears the shutting of doors behind him, comforted by Mr. Pickle’s loyal trot as he meets Agent Lamorak, entering a sunlit parlor. It’s the sort of room he’d love to read a book in. Maybe he will, once he’s an agent. Because he’s going to be an agent. He’s going to be.

“Have a seat,” Martin instructs. Harry does, and so does Mr. Pickle. Just look at you. You couldn’t possibly be better behaved. I hope you know how much I appreciate you making me look good on this.

After all this time, he knows better than to expect his instructions straightforwardly. He knows to wait for them. He’s still waiting when Martin reaches into his jacket, pulling out his handgun. Extending it to him.

“Take it,” he says.

The sinking feeling in the pit of his gut knows something that he doesn’t. He wishes it would tell him sooner than later. Harry takes the weapon cautiously, eyes plastered to the agent’s face, seeking out the answer.

“That’s a full clip.”

It seems a little obvious to point out. You don’t say? I’d have expected most Kingsman to carry around empties for the fun of it. The fact that he’s deflecting even in his own head is a fairly severe warning sign.

Something is wrong. Something awful is coming. He just doesn’t know what.

Until Martin calmly finishes his sip of liquor.

“Shoot the dog,” he says.

Harry’s world narrows to a single frame, zooming nauseously to a point, and that point is Mr. Pickle’s trusting face. He wants to retch. He wants to turn the gun on Martin, just for the suggestion, and fuck all he’s done for him. All he can do is stare at him in shock.

How can this be what you want from me? How can this be what you’re asking?

He wonders if his mother would fault him if he left this room and never looked back. He wonders how long it would take him to fault himself.

He rips his appalled gape away from Lamorak, landing it where it belongs, letting it soften to something between pure love and despair. Mr. Pickle shifts his weight patiently to new paws, unaware of any of this. Unaware that he… That this could…

He can’t even think it. He can’t imagine a world in which obeying that order is okay. In which he can live with himself in the aftermath. Every suit would be blood red to him. Every one of his triumphs tainted with the sickest form of selfishness, the murder of something that had unconditionally loved and trusted him, who hadn’t done a thing to anyone. A completely–

Harry’s mind reboots itself.

A completely innocent being.

A Kingsman only condones the risking of one life to save another.

Things begin to click faster than he knows what to do with them.

The net in the gorge.

The bombs that stopped at zero.

Why specifically tell me the gun was loaded, unless…?

The danger was never real. All this time, it was never real. We were only meant to think it was.

Martin isn’t asking mindless obedience. Kingsman aren’t killing machines, and they don’t want them. He’s asking for comprehension. He’s asking if he’s understood.

Harry bolts to his feet, hands quivering. He has to do it before his nerve fails him. He has to do it now. It has to be now.

His trembling aim rises. Then steadies, by force. Mr. Pickle’s amber eyes glint up at him from over the barrel. His revelation didn’t end his insides’ churn, and neither does that.

Please, please God, let me be right. Don’t let me hurt this dog. Please, I beg of you, don’t let me have gotten this wrong. Don’t let me be wrong…

He fires.

The pellet bounces off Mr. Pickle’s fur. He staggers backward with a whimper.

Nothing more.

The gun is on the ground and Harry’s dog is in his arms before he registers, even remotely, that the sound of his gunshot was doubled by the room across the way.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, did that nasty thing hit you?” Mr. Pickle is wriggling like mad, stretching to reach his face and lick every inch of it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Laughter bubbles out of him with tears, and it’s hard to tell which came first. “Oh, yes, I know. I know. I would never hurt you. I would never, ever hurt you, Mr. Pickle. Not for all the money in the world. Not for a thing.”

Martin rises while Harry’s still pressing soothing kisses to Mr. Pickle’s scruff. After another half-dozen or so, he finally senses he should pay attention, and looks over in time to see Martin replace his weapon, straighten his jacket, and offer his hand.

It’s then that it happens. He’s unprepared to commit it to memory, but he’s going to anyway.

“Welcome,” says Martin, “to Kingsman. Agent Galahad.”

Welcome to Kingsman.

Gently, Harry plops Mr. Pickle back to the floor. His eyes are full this time, and he makes no excuse for them. Reflex takes Martin’s hand for him. He barely feels his arm move.

Thank you, sir. His brain sends the command to his mouth. “And Derrington…?” is what incredulously comes out instead.

Please don’t let there be a chance of losing this. Don’t let there be an asterisk.

“Shot the dog, too,” Martin says, pumping his hand. Harry’s heart nearly stops, and so does the handshake. It’s Martin’s look that saves it. “Then thought the blank must be some mistake. Tried to take Geraint’s sidepiece and finish the job. I hear Molly bit him. No one stopped her, either. He’ll be on his way home once the dart wears off.”

Harry exhales so heavily his lungs might as well be raisins. Never in his life has he been so grateful a human being turned out that depraved.

“You’ve done it, Harry,” Martin confirms with a grin. “We all knew you could. Your mother will be extraordinarily proud.”

Mother… He’s got to phone her. He’s got to get to a telephone. He’s got to…

No, not yet. Not yet.

There was a second gunshot.

He grabs his mentor’s hand again, rattling away at his elbow like a lineman in a lever factory. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, I’m honored. I… May I be excused?”

There’s something knowing in Martin’s expression, and he nods. “Go on.”

Scooping up Mr. Pickle, Harry all but throws open the door. The one on the other side is already open, framing Lancelot again, only this time, smiling in the background. Hamish is already charging to the middle of the drawing room.

Grinning ear-to-ear.

“William?” Harry demands.

“Couldn’t do it; Kay sent him home.”

“Ainsley?”

“She’s all right.”

If there’s anything his memory allows him to keep about this day, anything that holds its clarity instead of fading to the blur of awe and adrenaline, Harry wants it to be this. The moment that he extends his hand again, this time brimming with the glee of a ten-year-old boy, standing tall in a Kingsman agent’s shoes.

“It’s an honor to be working with you, Merlin.”

No one else knows the relief on his friend’s face like he does. Hamish shakes, blinking back tears of his own. “And with you, Agent Galahad.”

“Agent Galahad!”

There’s no parrot in the room. It’s Martin again, emerging from the parlor holding a sheet of fax paper, radiating alarm.

“Don’t get comfortable. I’m going to need backup. Come with me. Your suit’s on the plane.”

“Merlin, to the control room, quickly. Arthur will meet you there,” Lancelot orders.

There’s only time for a sharp nod each, and Hamish claps Harry’s shoulder. Then the two of them are off down the corridors, scored by the sound of a piped-in radio broadcast.

For those of you just tuning in, the date is Wednesday, twenty-nine July, and what a beautifully clear morning for the wedding of the century…

pt. IX

#Kingsman #Harry Hart #Agent Merlin #Kingsman: The Secret Service #Kingsman: The Golden Circle #fanfic #oh look Aud did a thing #p.s. nobody asked but in case anyone's wondering: his mother's Peggy Carter of SHIELD and his other one is Angie Martinelli #it's @faeriviera's fault and now it's law so there #I leave it vague in this on purpose so y'all can speculate however you want but there it is so have fun

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icharchivist · 3 years ago

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This is a random thought that came to mind but I wonder what Percival's reaction to learning Vane's background would be, since... I don't think Vane has really told the details to anyone? Their relationship has already progressed to more friendly banter levels by now, but I wonder what Percival would think if he found out that Vane went through a similarly traumatic experience as him and still manages to be such a cheerful and positive person. I feel like there's a lot of potential there.

oh god you're SO right??? so so so right!!

I don't think Vane ever mentioned what happened to anyone other than Lancelot, or like, especially the details (which now that i think about it - an incident involving a carriage? oof just enough to hit with Percival as well)

and it's true that while they've grown friendlier, and well, Percival kind of respect this part of Vane, even if he's annoyed with it at times (especially when Vane is acting like that specifically toward him)

But yeah the specific knowledge that, just like him, Vane watched his parents die in a carriage incident caused by outside forces and that his survival was because his parents tried to protect him, and they told him to hold on to his kindness, which boils down to similar to Percival's experience, would really make for a specific bonding ground there.

imo i think it also just adds more that, i think Percival's trauma and everything is mostly amplified by the fact he went through it with his brothers and he mostly had to handle his brothers mishandling their trauma (mostly because none of them heard their mother's last words unlike Percival) and on top of the royal future pressure on them and the political implications of their mother's death (which is in itself the reason why Percival wants to create a country without war, and that Aglovale became... *waves hand* that), so there's still differences on this ground which is why Percival couldn't get this cheerful and positive growing up. (honestly i think there's ground to talk about neglect within the Wales family after the death of the mother - between the father focusing on the Otherworld which Aglovale followed suit, Aglo's hatred of all humanity, Lamorak leaving first for his training then never coming back, and just the way Percival seems emotionally stunned and struggles to share stuff about his feelings, i just. think there's a lot going on there as for why the healing hasn't been doing so great.) (sorry i get emotional when i think about Percival's trauma and especially the framing of the huh, "multiple traumatized people mishandling it ending up adding more trauma on each other's shoulders than if they were alone through it", the idea that the trauma isn't just the grief itself, but the way it broke the family afterward and how all of them lashed out in different ways hurting each other)

Vane is of course also traumatized i'm not undercutting his trauma, i just want to point out that Vane probably had a better support system which allowed him to grow more healthily (though of course this also comes with its own set of issues i think? Like how easily Vane could develop the survival guilt of feeling like he is imposing to his grandma while she takes care of him, which may also be why he overcompensate by wanting to be as useful as he can be so he doesn't have to be a burden just because he survived and people had been nice to him yaknow? Like Percival came out of the death of his mother seeing everything going wrong around him and he had made a promise to his mother to make things right, so he holds on to what he can do to make things right knowing he survived for this. But for Vane i could see instead this idea of survival guilt linked to him feeling like a burden and so how he's constantly trying to make himself less of a burden. Just so to clarify that just because i expend on the reasons the trauma affected them differently doesn't mean i think one got it better than the others).

and i think it would be a great conversation for the two of them to have because like.. i think Percival can't even imagine that there WAS an alternative way to deal with what they went through, that his family could have been a better support, ect. And being able to see what it does when a similar trauma is taken care of, receive the actual care that is needed, allowed Vane to grow into a person that's cheerful and soft and still trying to help others around him.

I think it'd add some more admirations toward Vane (if i recall in the Sauna event Percival does mention there's parts of Vane he admires but he would never admit it to his face? i skimmed through that event so i'm not too sure but yeah i still think Percival will still be a tsun about it DLKFJD) and perhaps even the possibility to rely a bit more on him.

and considering how much Vane takes confidence when he hears how he has helped his companions and the fact that even when Percival tries to huh, cheer him up in his 5*, he's still trying not to show how much he actually cares, i feel like if they managed to have this conversation, if Vane can help Percival through it, and if Percival would therefore be able to express his gratitude toward Vane, could be also a major boost in Vane's confidence in adding in the instances that shows that he's not a burden and he impacts people positively.

This is like my dream wishlist but like... if we want to overread on it, for exemple in BFAF the fact Vane is the one to stand in the way and take the blow for Percival when Percival gets beaten up by his brother's orders (which can represent how Aglo's own mishandling of his trauma just hurt his brother instead), can be, on more of a thematic level, a representation of the way of which this sort of "shared" grieving Trauma Vane has in common with Percival and Aglovale instead had him become a protector and is now protecting Percival right? Which, back to my dream wishlist, i would love to see developped with like... when they'll finally address the fact that the bros still haven't exactly discussed their pain, that Lamorak is still doing *waves hand* and the fact Aglo's FE mention that he is yearning for the time his brothers could end up healing together, it would be nice if the story that would set it in motion would involve Vane supporting Percival through it and giving this hindsight. Like thematically wrapping up that, if Vane was there to protect Percival physically the first time this trauma had a repercussion on Percival in the story, that it would be neat if he could protect him emotionally the next time, by this time being able to share what they have in common and eventually being able to give a better way to deal and cope with those feelings.

what i mean is Vane in focus during the Wales event being an important supportive force. that's what i want.

and i think Percival may be taken aback by the fact Vane and him have so much in common but probably would soften a lot from hearing that, and while i don’t see him give up his tsun ways with Vane, he’d probably be kinder to him in general too and i would love to see it being the direction they take.

And yeah so the fact their trauma are similar but the coping so different could make for a great way for them to bond and for eventually a better healing. and meanwhile with luck Percival also being slightly kinder to Vane (even if indeed it's been going better as of late).

but. yeah. I have. too many thoughts about Percival so this is just me going brr about it, but yes this is a fantastic idea and thank you so much for sharing it. lots of thoughts.

#something something and it's why i think that the way Percival never really got support over his trauma #is also why he reacted this badly at Lancelot shutting him up when he finally opened up to him about the Sieg situation #and also maybe why he lashed so much on MC considering the amount of times he accidentally gets vulnerable near them #and MC actually ends up being a support he never had before #listen you come at me talking about Percival this could only lead to me crying #i don't know if this post makes any sense i see percival's name i start crying and then my fingers do the rest #ichareply #infullmoon #ichafantalks gbf #ichablogging gbf #ichablogging 4kishi #ichablogging gbfhcs

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icharchivist · 3 years ago

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ok i’m out of my liveblog tag now so lmao, highlights! sorry for the small gbf spam before it’s time for it

but yeah so i feel strongly for the Lamorak’s storyline. Like i go more in depth there about why i really love the Wales brothers storyline for personal reasons (......... which ironically if you follow me for a3, is the same reason i love Gekka so much)

but one of the thing that blew my mind with it is that like, I love doing theories and meta right? but the fandoms that get me the most worked up for that are.... generally frozen? like if we don’t count characters studies like i do for a3, i’m talking, actual theories like i do for dgm, or, hxh, which are all saga i made extensive Meta for, are all stuck in hiatus and we have little advancement on the stuff i can meta about. There’s DA that’s a bit different because there was at least one book that made my brain goes brrr and all but aside from that, i rarely get new content for the sagas i theorize about and so i get used to it, and i even less get direct answers that proves or disproves my theories.

but the fact gbf is always getting out some content meant that ultimately i had to face my expectations and metas in the eyes

.... and the Lamorak’s storyline was basically telling me “hey you were right to expect me and also you were right about everything bestie”

and like. The absolute VALIDATION of it all???

For the year i was into gbf about i was talking all the time about Lamorak to whoever would hear me. A character we only had seen in flashbacks at this point, before and during the incident that caused the major trauma both of his brothers went through and had to overcome as adult. And for a year, i would talk about everything we know about this kid, how he was before his mother’s death and how he would have coped with it, and how he would realistically appear again in the plot again.

i also remember theorizing something totally unrelated, knowing that Gawain was linked to the Wales storyline because he “blackmailed his influence into it” and back then i theorized that it could be something linked to Lamorak and “wouldn’t it be wild if Gawain and Lamorak knew each other actually” and it was totally a crack theory that was having very little foundation for it.

And then Lamorak was namedropped into the newest Percival FE and i kept thinking “okay next event Lamorak will happen. he’ll be there. I know it.”

......... and turns out. I was right. I was trying so hard to manage my expectation but here he was introducing himself in the Gawain centric event (at the time the Gawain involvement in the Dragon Knight saga was a secret kept in his 5* FE!! it was his first time into the Dragon Knights event!!), while also dropping in that indeed him and Gawain knew each other. And all of that while filling a fate i did expect of him and theorize about.

It was like. so wild to me. More than just seeing Lamorak again which i had wanted for a lONG TIME, it was that the way i interpreted and read Lamorak made so much sense that it was the plan. That ended up being the plan.

even for stuff like DA where i still get content to examine, i don’t have answers yet, just more clues and more questions.

but GBF told me “hey you were right about those things”

And it’s so validating??? to think that all of my overreading, all of my theorizing, all this time i spent rambling on and on.... was because i caught the right clues, or, if they hadn’t planned this far, that i understood the character enough to be able to reach the same conclusions as the writers when it came to deciding how he will join the story.

Like i always think i read too far into it, that i’m getting my expectations high, that i’m wrong and i’ll be disappointed. and since i am not in sagas that get answers, i am constantly pushing down my expectations. (which is also why a3 is soothing bc characters analysis don’t come with the crushing expectation of theories lmao). So Being told that actually this is exactly how it was meant to be? for once i have an answer to my overthinking and it rewarded me for it. Unparalleled.

So yeah the high from the Savior of Dalmore event is unmatched. I will never forget it. Also the fact i managed to go in totally unspoiled and not knowing Lamorak was in it.

So that’s basically “10 times i overanalysed pieces of media (and One Time they told me i was right)” the event story. Forever vindicated.

#ichablogging gbf #ichablogging 4kishi #anyway. what a day. Was already one year ago huh...#eDIT: WITH ALL OF THAT #I FORGOT I HAD THEORIES FOR H//Y///PMI///C #THAT GOT CONFIRMED AFTER I STOPPED FOLLOWING IT CLOSELY #my power actually #gbf is the only one in which i was still involved when it was confirmed i guess???#man i completely forgot about how much i used to overthhink h//y//p///mi///c #and the fact it got enough content to confirm everything i thought #well... on the band i was focusing on lmao but well #one day maybe i'll get back....#i was just too exhausted with the hunting for translations stuff #anyhoo

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teamxdark · 5 years ago

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Office AU round 3

Galahad: Explaining my home situation is always weird. I try to keep it as vague as possible.

Galahad: It’s easiest with Dad. He’s my dad.

Galahad: Arthur’s pretty easy too, he’s my dad’s boyfriend. Usually people are okay with that... usually...

Galahad: Once we get to Guin it gets weird because now I have to explain my dad’s boyfriend’s wife. And then there’s Omega, my dad’s boyfriend’s wife’s pet lizard. I bring him up whenever people talk about their pets because I want to feel included and I want Omega to like me. He only lets me feed him if Guin’s there with me.

Galahad: Explaining Mom is even weirder because I have to explain that Mom was Dad’s sister and no, it’s not like that, I was adopted twice, and also she’s dead.

Galahad: That makes people uncomfortable but to be fair, they asked.

..........

Lamorak: People always seem surprised to learn that Percival’s my sister. Might be the age difference, might be the looks, might be how she’s a stick in the mud who plans out everything down to the last breath, while I’m just a cool, fun dude.

Lamorak: Some people actually ask me how we’re related, and I give them the same answer every time.

Lamorak: *clears his throat*

Lamorak: When a hawk and a cat love each other very much...

...........

Enid: Geraint’s started planking. It’s an old school meme but we all have to start somewhere.

Enid: I have over 100 pictures on my phone of this man planking anywhere he can find in the office building. On the ground. Between desks like a bridge. On the conference table. I’m allowed to use them for my projects.

Enid: Some of them have him so well-hidden in the background that it’s like a game of Where’s Waldo.

Enid: Just yesterday Geraint found out about the selfie olympics of yesteryear and now I get selfies that I’m pretty sure shouldn’t exist under any circumstances.

Enid: *loudly sighs and rubs his forehead*

Enid: I think I’m in love.

............

Guin: One of the reasons I married Arthur was to get citizenship.

Arthur: Guin and I were penpals for years before she moved to this country to work. When she was running into legal trouble, something about a problem with her work visa, I stepped in and lied about being her fiance.

Guin: Which, unfortunately, wasn’t enough to keep them from trying to send me away. So we talked about it for... maybe ten minutes and then publicly announced our engagement on social media.

Arthur: We lied and said we were secretly dating for years, just in case we were reviewed. Got married a week later. There’s more to this story, like the whole thing with Lancelot, but long story short, that was our first miracle avoidance of consequences despite having no idea what we were doing.

Guin: I still don’t know how we’re managing as well as we are. Arthur’s a branch manager, I’m a project manager with citizenship pending, no one really cares that we’re in an open platonic marriage...

Arthur: Gareth doesn’t even complain about our supposed lack of professionalism.

Guin: *filing her nails* I don’t understand why anyone would call us ‘unprofessional’, babe.

Arthur: *sliding an arm around her* Me neither, babe.

............

Kay: Sometimes the interns hang out in the parking lot when there’s nothing for them to do.

Kay: I supervise them, and it’s the same thing every time. They talk and then the boy gets a bunch of dead leaves and the girl sets them on fire one by one.

Kay: I would stop them but I get it. I used to do the same thing. I can tell she knows what she’s doing.

Kay: The next generation is going to be very powerful.

............

Tristan: It’s not easy being the impulse control of most people in this office.

Tristan: Yesterday Lamorak came right up to me and told me he was going to fill the water cooler with vodka.

Tristan: At first I didn’t know why he was telling me this. Didn’t he know that I was going to stop him? And then I realised... that’s exactly why he told me.

Tristan: I am the impulse control of most people in this office and they come to me to tell them to fucking stop and think.

.............

Gareth: Merlina’s a sweet girl. A lot stronger than people give her credit for.

Gaheris: She faces all of our nonsense with a brave face, but we can tell it’s wearing down on her.

Gareth: So Gaheris and I got her a cake to take home.

Gaheris: *brings out a cake that says ‘Sorry This Place Is A Nightmare, You’re Doing Amazing!’*

Gaheris: We hope she likes it.

...........

Arthur: Merlina is sobbing over a cake and I have no idea why.

...........

Lancelot: Today Arthur made a paperclip chain with every paperclip he has in his workspace. In case that’s not clear, that’s a lot of paperclips.

Lancelot: He flung one end out of the window and tied the other end to the desk. Said he was fishing for employees.

Lancelot: *rubs his temples*

Lancelot: They say love is blind, and I agree, because I swear Cupid slammed me with at least twenty arrows when it came to this idiot.

Lancelot: Fishing for employees... what kind of nonsense... *stands up and leaves*

..........

Arthur: So Lancelot yanked my paperclip chain from my window, dragged me into a hallway, and kissed me for five minutes, and I don’t know why but I’m not complaining.

Arthur: Except I am. Why mess with my chain?

...........

Bors: I’m half tempted to replace Vere’s coffee with decaf.

Bors: There’s only so many Naruto Shippuden openings at 3am that I can handle.

Bors: Also I’m pretty sure that he’s going to die if he keeps this up, and that’s not a conversation I want to have with Elyan. That boy loves Vere like a second dad.

Bors: And he’s my friend too, damn it.

...........

Bedivere: I think I can hear colours now.

Bedivere: ...

Bedivere: Shit.

............

Gawain: I hate my coworkers.

Gawain: You fall for ‘updog’ ONE TIME...

#Smash speaks.#Office AU.#long post

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deepfriedtwinkie · 7 years ago

Text

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. VI)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2kw

note: this is the only part without any Merlin in it BUT IT’S IMPORTANT FOR LATER OKAY (don’t cry, Harry will think you don’t like him)

pt. I | pt. II | pt. III | pt. IV | pt. V

By now, the compound has been home for so long that Harry is almost enamored to see London again. It’s easy to forget how much he loves these streets, the shops, the throngs of people going about their days. Easy to forget, but easier to remember.

He walks primly at the elbow of his proposing agent, a man named Martin Turner. The same who’d first met him as a ten-year-old, enthralling him with images of the world of gentleman spies. A world he’d never known to be real, until then, even with what his mother did for a living. Gentlemen were a much rarer breed in her work, after all. Some of her stories could turn a woman to the nunnery.

As Agent Lamorak, Martin has been kept away for nearly the whole of Harry’s training so far, busy with some mission or other, always jet-setting this way or that. They’ve spoken only a couple of times, but it’s no bother. Obviously, it’s more than understandable. All the more reason to take him up on his sudden invitation, delivered in person this morning in the training room, clear out of the blue.

They enter the tailor shop, Martin holding the door. Harry smiles, hands in his pockets, taking in the atmosphere for the first time through a proper candidate’s eyes. His last visit here felt like a new world. This time, it feels like coming home. He’s quite ready to get used to that feeling.

“’Morning, Simons,” Martin greets the headtailor.

“Good morning to you, sir.” The old man’s only movement seems to be the quiver of his mustache. “May I be of assistance to you gentlemen?”

“Yes, in fact, you may, Simons.” Martin’s head tips toward him. “I’d like for you to meet Harry Hart, my proposal for one of the open positions.”

As he was raised to do, Harry gives his hand, and the headtailor accepts. They shake. “How do you do, sir,” Harry says with a smile.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Simons here is nothing less than the best this business has got, Harry,” Martin boasts. “You’ll be taken good care of with him.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, sir.”

Then he blinks so rapidly he may have to blame the mothballs.

“Wait, sir… ‘Taken care of?’”

Simons politely withdraws his hand, which is fine, because it leaves Harry’s free to drop to his side like the dead weight it is. The way Martin is looking at him makes him wonder if perhaps there’s a television camera hidden somewhere, and his own expression will be plastered on newsstands and billboards by morning.

“You didn’t think I’d let you finish out the program without your own Kingsman souvenir, did you?” Martin grins. “The hell with that. It’s time you were fitted for your first proper bespoke. Unless you object, of course.”

“No sir!” Well, that could have been less of a yelp. He swallows, tempers himself, and tries again, managing formality despite his whole face splitting ear-to-ear. “I mean…no, sir. Thank you, sir. I’d be quite honored.”

“Mmhm. That’s what I thought.” The agent points to a heavy door of oak, off to Harry’s left. Simons comes out from behind the counter, a cloth tape measure hung over his shoulder, and Martin claps him on the back. “Give him the works now. This young man is our honored guest.”

“Of course, sir.” Simons does his best impersonation of a five-star doorman, motioning Harry into the room. “This way, please, Mr. Hart. Fitting room one.”

It’s the last thing on earth he’d have to be asked twice. He hustles forward, grateful it doesn’t turn into a cartwheel.

“I’ll be out here when you’re through,” Martin calls.

The fitting room is one of the plainest cubicles of space ever knocked together by man, little more than patterned wallpaper, brass hooks, and varnished wainscoting, but it takes Harry all of four seconds to decide that he loves it every bit as much as the rest of the place. He’s patient with Simons’s meticulous taking of his measurements, lifting arms on command, turning this way and that, holding various swatches of fabric to his chest for God knows how long. That’s the difference between the Kingsman Tailors and anywhere else. When he works here, he’s going to have to do something kind for Simons. A thank-you note, perhaps, with something for his trouble inside. Cinema tickets or something. It’s terribly kind of him to go out of his way for this.

In good time, the tailor excuses himself, returning moments later with a garment bag draping both tabled arms. “Try this, sir,” he bids, hanging the bag on one of the hooks. “It should give you a fair idea. If you find it’s to your liking, then we will proceed with alterations.”

He’s never stared so reverently at a bag before. “Thank you… Thank you kindly.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

This is it. This is the moment he’s imagined since he was a ten-year-old boy, pinning horrible drawings of suits between the butterflies on his walls. The concrete start of his new life.

The garment bag is shed to the floor before Simons is even fully gone. His brain suggests some analogy to a chrysalis, but he can’t be bothered to spare a thought to connect it. He strips to briefs and socks, dressing quickly, his back turned staunchly to the mirror. Stealing a glance too soon will ruin something about this. He isn’t sure what, but it matters.

In a moment, it’s done. He feels the places that need taking in—cuffs at his knuckles, rumpled elbows, puddles at his feet—but he doesn’t care. It’s the most comfortable thing in the world.

He turns around.

The suit is blue, he notices properly. A very, very dark navy blue. Fine pinstripes crawl the length of it. Simons has picked him a tie to match. Navy, with a slim white stripe, centered with a slimmer note of red. He takes in the two rows of handmade buttons. The press of the lapel.

Harry blinks the blur from his eyes. It is the most exquisite thing he’s ever worn.

We’ve done it, Mother. I wish you could see your boy now.

He’s making a mental note to phone her as soon as possible when another tap comes on the door. “Pardon me, sir. Agent Lamorak requests to have a look, if you’ll oblige coming out for a moment.”

He’s absolutely bursting to show someone, anyway. Lamorak will do wonderfully for now. Harry turns the heavy knob, consciously matching his stride to the elegance a suit like this commands. His expression, on the other hand, is under no such control.

Martin stands from the couch, letting out a long whistle. “You’ve outdone yourself, Simons. A few tucks and it’s a work of art.”

“Very kind of you to say, sir.”

“And this comes in the lot, yes?”

“Already ordered to your specifications, sir.”

“You’re a fucking gem.” Martin smiles Harry’s way, holding out a finger with each next word. “Bulletproof, water-resistant, flame-resistant, and conceals up to thirteen highly-classified armaments. There’ll be nothing you can’t do in this, believe you me.”

He believed it already. In front of the showroom mirror, Harry gives a crisp tug to the jacket, straightening his posture even further than it was to begin with. “I really don’t know what to say, sir. I can’t possibly thank you enough; I know this isn’t typical for only a candidate…”

“Nonsense. You’ve earned it.” His mentor takes a pull from a rock glass he’s been holding. Gin, it looks like. “Your weapons and written test scores were absolutely phenomenal.”

Yes, they were, weren’t they? He can’t help it. He’s had a feeling.

“And I’m not permitted to tell you specifics, but I can say that you’ve earned Arthur’s attention on almost every one of your practical tasks.”

That reminds him to ask. He makes eye contact through the mirror, rather than twist round in the suit. “If I may, sir, what was in those parcels we retrieved on the mountain, anyway?”

“In the envelopes? Those were floppy disks.” Swallowing another sip, Martin makes quotations with his hands. “‘Encrypted files of critical importance to international security.’ That’s this year’s bullshit for ‘Arthur’s Doctor Who fan club mailing list.’ Gives him an excuse for missing the last fifteen meetings.”

“You’re kidding.” Of course he isn’t.

“Of course I’m not.”

Why did I ask?

He’s basking in the jovial moment until Martin’s demeanor goes stony, his gaze laser-focused through the window. His tone changes in the drop of a hat.

“Harry, do as I say. Whatever you do, don’t counteract or seem suspicious,” he mutters levelly. “Time to prove your place in the family business.”

The miniature bell above the door jingles. In comes a portly man in an expensive windbreaker, lighting directly on Lamorak. Harry watches, indifferent neutrality on his face, as the newcomer ignores Simons entirely, no acknowledgment—sorry, Simons, he’d do well to remember you’re a person, too—and instead, steps up to grasp Lamorak’s hand.

They shake cordially. “Mr. Kuznetsov,” Lamorak’s far brighter with his greeting than he might’ve been. “On schedule as always.”

“Mr. Evansbee.” An alias; his name is Turner. And this man’s accent is Russian. “How could I miss one of our treasured conversations?” Lamorak set this meeting. Not the first, or the tenth, either. What kind of conversations?

“Please, allow me to introduce a star pupil of mine from the university. I’m helping him to look his finest when he represents us at St. Hugh’s next month. Oliver Greene, this is Mr. Kuznetsov, one of my trustworthiest colleagues.”

Harry doesn’t need a cue. Seamlessly he adopts his new self, shaking the hand he’s offered. “How do you do, sir.”

“I get by.”

He sends Lamorak the most innocuous look he’s got. “Shall I leave you to it, Professor? You’ve been more than enough help already.”

It’s the right decision. Nothing he gets in return suggests a forthcoming reprimand. “Yes, good lad, Oliver. You can go and get your things. I’ll see you in lecture on Monday.”

“Very good, sir. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Kuznetsov.”

“The pleasure is all mine, of course.”

Whatever you do, don’t counteract. His only move is to beeline for the fitting room, then, the outing finished just as quick as it began. The last he sees of Martin, he’s hooked an arm around the Russian’s shoulders, leading the way to the sofas, carrying on a lively discussion in whispers.

So this trip was no coincidence. Harry is implicitly careful as he removes each piece of his suit, hanging one at a time for Simons to collect. He isn’t disappointed. It should have occurred to him from this morning. Whatever Lamorak’s working on must be drawing to a close.

Besides. He could have met the contact here alone. No part of that required having a custom suit made.

Be grateful you were invited in the first place, and don’t ask why it’s over.

Well. He can’t make promises about the second part.

“Good-bye, Simons,” he says aloud near the exit, after saying a silent one to the suit in the fitting room. “I’ve left everything sorted for you.”

“Wonderful, sir. Good-bye.” It’s almost their last exchange, until the tailor catches himself. “Oh, and one more thing, sir?” He’s scribbling in a leather folder.

Harry stops, halfway through the door jamb, hoping it doesn’t count as counteraction. “Yes?”

Simons looks up, beaming friendliness. “I’ve located your file with us to store your measurements. Isn’t today your birthday, sir?”

Yes, it is. He’s all but forgotten that for the past ten minutes.

Harry smiles back. “Twenty-first,” he confirms.

“Happy birthday, sir.”

It’s certainly shaping up to be.

pt. VII | pt. VIII | pt. IX

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