#surly they’ve heard her say this at least once right | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lloydskywalkers · 4 years ago

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this is probably like...150 percent nOT what you were looking for when you asked this, but i can only write so much Garmadad Angst per month, and i’m saving the rest for angst week :’( also two paragraphs into this i remembered Bragi mentioning that Garmadon is able to shapeshift into about anything he wants, and my brain seized on that and ran a little too wild, so the result is!! probably crack, but i had fun with it :’D

Garmadon means to leave the boy in peace. Truly, he does, because leaving the boy in peace means that Garmadon gets peace, as he won’t have anyone to go hurling accusations at him with pathetically teary eyes at any given moment. It also means he doesn’t have to deal with the infuriating mess of…feelings…that always seem to go hand in hand with the boy. If Garmadon had any sense, he’d head as far from the boy as he possibly can and forget about him entirely, and everyone’s life would be vastly improved on the whole.

If Garmadon had any sense. And if those infuriating, truly hellish feelings ever stopped making an appearance whenever Garmadon’s thoughts drifted to the boy, which was unfortunately…often.

Infuriating, truly.

Perhaps Garmadon isn’t as sensible as he’d like to think he is, but he’s not selfless, either. So instead of sparing the boy’s peace any thought, perhaps he directs his efforts to tracking the boy down. And perhaps, instead of trying to banish the boy from his brain, he mentally marks where the boy tends to show up outside his brother’s ugly monastery. Perhaps he begins to use his Oni-given shifting abilities to blend in rather than stand out, for the sole purpose of tailing the boy. It’s only for Garmadon’s selfish reasons.

Because — because this is a selfish errand, of course. If Garmadon can’t have any peace, then the boy doesn’t get any either. It’s clean-cut reasoning, no sentiment behind it.

He doesn’t want to be caught, however, under any circumstances. The idea of having to explain himself — or worse, endure the boy’s annoying yelling again — is almost enough to turn Garmadon away entirely. But the pathetic, disgusting need to figure out what the boy’s supposed to be to him has taken control now, so Garmadon throws caution to the wind.

Well, not entirely. He’s not a shapeshifter for nothing. He simply…needs to figure out how to use that to his advantage, first. He’s been using his favored form — a hulking, dark wolf with teeth that could tear a human in half. Garmadon’s been quite satisfied with it, as any tiny human he’s run into flees screaming at the sight, but he’s beginning to think the form is not, perhaps, the best one for tailing the boy. He’s trying to be inconspicuous, and that’s rather difficult when the red ninja charges him with his hands on fire in a misguided attempt to keep him from tearing the Green Ninja’s throat out.

Which is not Garmadon’s intent, obviously, but the fire ninja doesn’t know that, and it’s not as if Garmadon wants to admit what his real intent is. Tearing the boy’s throat out is at least a less humiliating endeavor to pretend he’s on.

Instead of snapping the red ninja up like a pint-sized snack, then, Garmadon begins to study the boy. After carefully observing him, and evading several more of the red ninja’s attempts to charbroil his demonic werewolf form, Garmadon comes to a conclusion. There is, undoubtedly, one form he can take that will not only throw off any suspicion, but ensnare the boy entirely to his whims.

To his dismay, the issue with this is that the boy has terrible taste.

**************

He tests his theory somewhere in the middle of his fourth week of observing stalking his boy. His new form is irritating, to say the least, as he’s only able to reach up to the humans’ kneecaps in it, but it does come in handy for slipping in and out of small spaces. He’s able to get much closer to the boy than he ever has before, practically trailing his heels through the open marketplace in the small village he’s in today.

What a fool, Garmadon thinks to himself, as the boy leans over with his hands braced on his knees, putting him eye level with the bright-eyed child who’s rambling at him. It’d be so easy to kill him right now, Garmadon could manage it in his sleep. He’s practically in danger of falling asleep as it is, listening to the boy blabber on to the child.

Blah blah blah, I bet you’d make an amazing ninja, blah blah blah, what utter sentimental garbage, Garmadon thinks haughtily. The boy is clearly lying through his teeth. This child would make a sub-par ninja at best, if he survived that long. Or perhaps his boy is looking to recruit cannon fodder, Garmadon muses. At any rate—

“Oh hey, a kitty!”

Garmadon’s eyes snap up to find the child’s stubby finger pointed directly at him. Before he can flee, the boy turns around as well, bright green eyes widening as they fix on him. For a moment, Garmadon fears the boy’s seen straight through him—

Then his lips curve into a smile, and he crouches down lower to offer a hand. “Hey, kitty,” the boy’s voice is disgustingly soft and gentle as he addresses him. “What are you doing out here all alone?”

Of course, Garmadon laughs to himself. The boy’s ensnared immediately, just as he’d thought. Ever the fool, his boy.

“You don’t have a collar or anything…are you homeless? I wonder if…”

What an idiot. Garmadon would be smirking if he could, relishing in how utterly oblivious the boy is. Honestly, what a—

“—and it’s been getting pretty cold out at night lately, so I think I can get away with bringing you home.”

—wait.

That’s all the warning Garmadon gets before the boy’s hands close around his middle, neatly scooping him up and trapping him firmly in his arms. Garmadon has a moment or two of sheer disbelief — of sheer fury, that this boy’s dared to handle him as such—

Before Garmadon remembers that he’s taken the form of a fluffy, scruffy cat, designed perfectly to capture his boy’s pathetic heart, and realizes he probably has no one to blame for this but himself.

**************

The boy is so revoltingly cheerful as he kidnaps Garmadon, he almost debates shifting into a bug and letting the boy step on him, just to put him out of his misery. It’d be more tolerable if the boy would talk about anything useful, but instead he’s just chattering away happily, like yanking some mangy cat off the street is the best thing that’s ever happened in his poor, miserable existence. On one hand, it’s a drastic change from the surly, angry way the boy normally glares at Garmadon, so at least there’s variety. On the other hand, Garmadon would almost rather the boy shout what a terrible person he is than deal with his infuriatingly sunny disposition.

He puts up with it until the boy gets him halfway up the steps of the monastery, at which point Garmadon finally remembers he’s got claws in this form — but by then it’s too late. The boy’s already gotten him this far, and Garmadon resigns himself to his fate as he’s taken inside his brother’s monastery, and immediately greeted by the rest of his irritating little ninja minions.

“Took you long enough, green machine, we almost ate without y— tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

“Um…it’s not what you think it is?” The boy seems entirely unapologetic as he ducks beneath the black ninja’s arm, darting behind the others.

The black ninja groans, and the water ninja speaks up instead. “What is this, the third time this month? Lloyd, you know what Sensei’s said.”

For a moment, Garmadon has a brief burst of hope that his brother has, in a roundabout way, done him a favor for once.

“Aw, c’mon,” the boy says, and Garmadon resists the urge to yowl as he clutches him tighter against his chest. It’s a tempting position, admittedly, as the boy’s neck is right there, nice and exposed. But Garmadon can also see the red ninja eyeing him from across the room, and he does prefer to be un-cooked.

“It’s cold out, and he was wandering all alone by himself!” the boy continues, his eyes plaintive. “I couldn’t just leave him.”

“You could’ve taken it to the shelter,” the blue ninja points out. The boy glares at him.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Jay.”

“You should be so lucky as to get my opinion.”

“I suppose a night wouldn’t hurt,” the white ninja finally speaks up, rubbing his temple. Garmadon spots the silver-haired nindroid girl behind him, utterly unconcerned with the situation as she taps at her phone. Garmadon decides he likes her best.

“I dunno, Lloyd,” the red ninja mutters, stalking over and glaring at the boy’s hands. “I mean, look, it basically tore your fingers to shreds! And you want to keep it?”

“I’m sure it was just scared,” the boy huffs, casually dabbing at one of the weeping cuts Garmadon managed to score along his hand with the edge of his gi. Garmadon wishes he could snort in this form. Scared. As if his boy is even remotely frightening.

“It’ll just be one night,” the boy continues, fixing the red ninja with his eyes. “Just one little night. Please?”

The red ninja’s expression contorts, and he heaves a sigh. “Yeah, sure. ‘One night’. Haven’t heard that one eighty times before.”

“I mean it this time,” the boy says, patting the red ninja on the shoulder as he triumphantly hauls Garmadon deeper into the monastery with him. To Garmadon’s despair, he catches the look on the red ninja’s face as he goes, that clearly says the boy is lying.

Well, this is a predicament, Garmadon muses. Looking at things pragmatically, though, he did want to get closer to the boy. And this way, he’ll at least have an excellent view into the ongoings of his brothers’ students’ lives. Not that he’s particularly interested, as all they’ve done so far is overcook two separate pots of rice and accidentally set a dishtowel on fire, but there could be…something, of use, for him to spy on eventually.

Or maybe not, Garmadon thinks in despair, as the blue ninja mistakenly zaps the toaster into oblivion, the black one yelping at him as the white one wearily puts out the ensuing fire.

With a tiny sigh, Garmadon instead watches as his boy sticks brightly-colored bandaids across the half-healing cuts on his hands, without the slightest damper to his sunny expression. He curls up on himself in disappointment. The boy is tougher to crack than he’d expected. Perhaps he should simply resign himself to enduring the next day or so. It can’t be that difficult to tolerate the boy until he’s free.

“I think I’m gonna call him Marbles, for now.”

Never mind. Garmadon’s going to kill him within the night.

**************

The boy survives the night, but only by the slimmest margin of Garmadon’s mercy. Most of this generosity is due to the passable bed the boy makes up for him, as opposed to dragging him into the ninja’s shared room. Had that been the case, Garmadon would have murdered all of them, but fate stayed her hand this time.

This doesn’t answer why Garmadon stays the next two nights as well, however. He tells himself it’s simply because he’s gathering what information he can about the ninja, observing their moves and uncovering their weaknesses. This excuse would probably hold more weight if Garmadon hadn’t napped straight through their practices, and if the only weakness he’s uncovered is that half the ninja can’t cook to save their lives. His boy can, as the food he sneaks Garmadon at least isn’t toxic. Of course, Garmadon’s also currently a cat, which could explain a thing or two, but he isn’t complaining. Yet.

All things considered, though, there’s really no excuse for why Garmadon hasn’t made his escape yet. He ponders this as he slips out the monastery doors late that night, shrugging off his cat form with a grimace, stretching his arms in mild discomfort. Holding a form this long isn’t painful, exactly — and holding the form of a cat is child’s play — but it does get uncomfortable after a while. Garmadon’s just stretching his lower right arm out, scowling as he does, when he hears a quiet intake of breath from behind him.

“Oh.”

Garmadon whirls around, only to come face to face with the nindroid girl, her green eyes wide and glowing in the darkness.

Ah, Garmadon thinks. This could pose a problem.

He stares back at her, momentarily lost. He’s taken a liking to the girl — Pixie, or something, he hasn’t cares much for their names. She’s quieter than the others, and a good deal more perceptive. She also knows how to keep to her own business, a valued trait Garmadon finds painfully lacking in this realm. Unfortunately, she also appears to be quite smart, given the way her eyes narrow on him.

He finally clears his throat, scrambling for anything that will free him from this mess. “Good evening,” he manages. “I was just — leaving, that’s all. Yes, leaving.”

The girl’s silvery hair glints in the moonlight as she tilts her head. “You know, I should tell Lloyd about you.”

Garmadon freezes, panic clouding his brain. A pang of regret sparks in him. Perhaps he’ll have to kill her after all.

“But,” she continues, her eyes gleaming. “Then I would have to deal with the fallout.”

Garmadon feels a flicker of hope.

“Also, by my calculations, it will be vastly more amusing to watch it all unfold,” the girl nods. “Very well. I will keep your secret.”

Well. That went better than he expected. He knew he liked the girl for a reason. Garmadon gives a sharp nod of thanks, and makes to hastily flee the scene before the girl’s voice stops him.

“Oh, and Lord Garmadon?”

There’s a flicker of some odd emotion at the title she’s given him, but Garmadon brushes it off, turning to meet her gaze.

“Hurt them and I’ll end you, of course.” Her voice grows glacial in the span of seconds, and Garmadon, warlord of infinite power and destruction, begins to think he might fear for his life.

“Duly noted,” he swallows.

The girl nods to herself, seemingly satisfied. She pauses, as if considering something, then speaks up again. “Not that I’ve said anything to you,” she says, carefully. “But Lloyd likes to sit out by the pond in the evenings, with the fish.”

Garmadon has no idea where the sudden rush of heat to his face comes from, but he most certainly does not appreciate it. He scowls at her. “Who’s Lloyd?” he snaps.

The girl gives a tiny, quiet sigh. “Someday,” she mutters to herself. “Someday, one of you will see sense.”

**************

Garmadon has no intention of taking the nindroid girl’s advice. He tells himself this, even as he snakes around the boy’s legs near the monastery pond that evening, eyeing him shrewdly. The boy appears a good deal more unguarded than he’s been, dangling his bare feet off the little bridge’s edge as he watches the fish swim. He brightens when he catches sight of Garmadon, making an odd clicking sound with his tongue as he gently pets the back of his head.

Garmadon forces himself to remember that he’s brought this on himself.

“Sneaking around again, huh?” the boy murmurs. Garmadon stiffens, caught off-guard. The boy’s expression is still relaxed and unguarded, though, so he must be rambling for the sake of talking again.

His boy is an odd one, Garmadon thinks, watching as he tosses tiny food flakes to the goldfish swimming lazily below them.

“I don’t blame you,” the boy continues. “It’s a nice evening to be out. Nothing’s on fire, this time.”

Garmadon doesn’t even want to know.

“I know you probably think I’m hiding again,” the boy sighs. “That’s what Kai’s been saying. But I’m not, really. I just — needed some space, you know? Last mission wasn’t…it wasn’t great.”

Garmadon’s head perks up in interest, his eyes gleaming. So the boy wants to spill information about their missions, does he? This is turning out better than he’d hoped.

Yes, Garmadon thinks gleefully, as the boy rambles on. Tell me all your secrets, you stupid boy. Tell me how I can finally defeat you entirely.

“I mean, it definitely could’ve been worse, like that one time with all the gasoline cans, but still…”

By the end of the hour, all Garmadon’s gathered is that the boy talks entirely too much. He’s apparently self-conscious of the way his eyes change color, but what is Garmadon supposed to do with that one? Make fun of him until his soul is crushed? Unlikely. The boy’s like an elusive bug, attempting to crush him doesn’t end well.

He also learns that the boy cares a good deal about his team, which Garmadon already knows. Everything else is just meaningless chatter, as Garmadon could care less about whatever girl’s left him with residual trauma this time. He does, however, also learn that the boy loves the little goldfish, which he can work with.

“—and I don’t want it to sound like I’m complaining! I’m not, really, but…but it’d just be nice to get a break every once in a while, you know?” The boy trails off with a sigh, scratching absently at one of his ears. Garmadon ignores him, eyeing the fish the boy’s just tossed an extra flake to and preparing to strike the blow.

The boy hums contently. “You know, you’re really not such a bad c— Marbles no, not the goldfish!”

It’s a close battle, but the boy manages to snatch him up before his jaws can close around the fish. Garmadon ends up dragged soaking wet from the koi pond by an equally soaking boy, his blond hair plastered all over his forehead as he scowls, wringing the edge of his gi out with one hand and firmly hauling Garmadon inside with the other. It’s a humiliating picture, he’s sure, but the satisfaction of hearing the boy yelp when Garmadon snatches his towel and runs helps slightly.

**************

Garmadon plans on leaving that night. He does, truly — all he’s gotten for his trouble so far is vague amusement from how idiotic his brother’s students can be, which, while entertaining, is far from useful. There’s nothing keeping him here but the infuriating mess of emotions he feels toward to the boy, like there’s some cursed connection between them, and Garmadon’s not supposed to be acknowledging the existence of that in the first place. So he makes a promise to himself to leave the monastery tonight and never look back. And he’s preparing to do just that, except he makes the fatal mistake of checking on the boy one last time.

He only means to sneer in his direction once more — or as best a cat can sneer — but instead he freezes, watching the boy sniffle quietly in his sleep.

Ah. He’s crying again. Garmadon frowns at the scene. The boy does seem to cry in his sleep quite often, doesn’t he. What does he even have to be crying about, anyways? Except perhaps the time Garmadon put him in a coma, but that was so long ago, surely the boy must’ve gotten over it by now. And granted, there was that time the boy seemed to die for a moment, but he’s clearly still alive, isn’t he?

It could, of course, just be that the boy’s crying about his friends — Garmadon doesn’t understand it, but like he’s seen, the boy cares an awful lot for them. And from what he remembers, the boy’s supposedly lost a few of them…twice now, was it? It’s not like Garmadon keeps up with them, but he knows the boy got them back. Really, he’s got nothing to be crying about at all, Garmadon thinks, haughtily.

The boy’s expression scrunches up in distress, looking the picture of misery where he’s half-tangled in blankets. This sparks an entirely foreign emotion in Garmadon’s cold soul, which he decides must be another level of disappointment in the boy. That doesn’t sound right, of course, because Garmadon is familiar with disappointment, and this emotion isn’t it, but—

Well, he’s not going to try and figure out what else it could be.

The boy sniffles miserably again, and Garmadon huffs in irritation. Digging his claws into the boy’s bedding, he hauls his cursedly tiny body onto the bed and gingerly picks his way across the tangled blankets, pausing to stare at the boy. Hm. Still crying. He ought to wake up sometime soon, Garmadon thinks, expression furrowing in concern. What if the boy’s so hopelessly pathetic that he cries enough to drown himself in his sleep? Garmadon can’t have that. They’ve still got unfinished business, and the boy can’t be killed by tears when Garmadon’s the only one with the right to that honor.

Deciding he has no other option, Garmadon pads his way onto the boy’s chest, leans over his face, and licks him on the nose.

The boy’s eyes snap open wide in alarm. He gives a muffled shriek, vaulting backwards as he flails wildly in panic. Garmadon is sent flying, but he’s awarded a perfect view of the way the boy accidentally slams into his own bedpost and goes sprawling to the floor.

Oh, but he wishes he could cackle properly in this form.

It takes the better part of an hour for the boy to convince his friends that he’s not being murdered in his sleep. It takes another half hour to convince them that he’s not in any overwhelming distress, and an additional quarter hour to convince the red ninja that he’s not lying. By the time the boy manages to get them back asleep enough for him to sneak out to the monastery rooftop, Garmadon is fully regretting not having left when he could. At least the open road would have been quiet enough to sleep on.

“Sorry about all that,” the boy apologizes, as he gently sets Garmadon down next to him on the roof. Garmadon sniffs haughtily. As if he’d accept any apology from the boy.

“I don’t normally react like that,” the boy continues, his voice soft and rasping. “Tonight was just — I mean, I don’t normally have nightmares like that.”

Garmadon may not know how the boy’s mind functions, but he knows when the boy is lying. The boy seems to realize it too, pulling his knees to his chest and crossing his arms over them, propping his chin up dejectedly. He’s quiet for a moment, and Garmadon yawns, tail drifting lazily over the rooftop where he sits beside the boy.

After a while, the boy shifts, sitting cross-legged instead as his hands play anxiously with the edge of his nightshirt.

“I guess I just—” The boy cuts off, taking a sharp breath before starting back up again.

“I thought they’d stop, you know?” he mumbles. “Once I got far enough. I mean, I can’t — I can’t have nightmares about it forever, right?”

The boy’s voice cracks in desperation, and he swallows thickly. “If it was — if it was just her, I could maybe — but it’s him, too, and I—”

The boy buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shuddering. Despite his better judgement, Garmadon pads quietly up to him, carefully placing his head atop the boy’s knee. The boy gives a shuddery exhale, pulling his hands from his face. He gives Garmadon a watery smile, reaching a gentle hand toward him again.

“Anyways, I’m sorry I knocked you off the bed. You’re a good listener, for a cat,” the boy says quietly, stroking behind his ear. Garmadon resists making a face.

Stupid boy. Stupid boy and his pathetic emotions, making Garmadon feel like he should stay. He really ought to make sure the boy hasn’t taken up witchcraft as a part time hobby. That would explain things, at least. It would certainly make more sense than Garmadon caring for his boy, or some ridiculous nonsense like that.

…the boy. Not his boy, that would be—

Well, actually, Garmadon muses. That doesn’t sound entirely off. Perhaps, in time, he might—

No, no, no. Before Garmadon can lose his mind entirely, he straightens up, opens his jaws, and snaps down tightly on the boy’s finger.

The boy barely even flinches, giving a weary sigh as he tugs Garmadon away instead, pressing his finger against the edge of his nightshirt. Oh, Garmadon despises him.

**************

“I do, odd robot girl, I truly despise him,” Garmadon gestures furiously, when he’s back in his normal form again. The nindroid girl watches him with blank, unblinking green eyes. “I don’t understand the slightest thing about him. How did I lose to this boy?”

“He’s a decent fighter, when he tries,” the girl shrugs.

Garmadon glares at her. “That isn’t my problem!” he hisses. “I don’t know why I’m still here.”

The girl eyes him, carefully. “Then leave.”

Garmadon opens his mouth, then shuts it tightly. He crosses all four arms, trying to find a response that won’t make him sound foolish. The girl snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Here’s an idea,” she says. “How about, instead of stalking your estranged son in the form of a domestic house pet, you have a normal conversation with him instead. As yourself.”

Garmadon scoffs. “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard,” he sneers. “If he sees me walking up with a sword he’ll attack me immediately.”

The nindroid rolls her eyes again, which Garmadon would take severe offense to if she wasn’t in a position to blow his cover at any moment. “Then don’t bring a sword?”

“You make no sense,” Garmadon frowns. “What am I supposed to fight him with, then?”

The girl blinks at him, long and slow, then pinches the bridge of her nose. “FSM, help me,” she murmurs.

“And even if I get past that, what am I supposed to say to him, anyways?” Garmadon demands. “I put him in a coma once, should I just gloss over that?”

“Perhaps avoid bringing it up quite as much, if you know what’s good for you,” she clips tightly. She sighs, seemingly steadying herself. “I’ve heard they make cards.”

Garmadon tilts his head. “For putting someone in a coma?”

The girl looks as if she’d like to put herself in a coma. Or him, Garmadon can’t quite tell.

“…maybe a cake, instead?”

Perhaps they’d both be better off in a coma, Garmadon thinks despairingly.

“I can’t go on like this,” he finally says. “I can’t live the rest of my life as the boy’s cat. I’d sooner end myself. If I’m going to…confront him, I have to abandon this form."

“You can’t just disappear,” the nindroid girl tells him, sternly. “You’ll break Lloyd’s heart.”

“If I continue to remain in this form, I’m going to break a lot more than that,” Garmadon retorts.

The girl sighs, rubbing her temples briefly. “Aright, fine. I am going to have a friend,” she says. “That suddenly is in desperate, longing need of a cat. This request will coincidentally come right as Sensei Wu sends the ninja out on a week-long mission. Lloyd will be disappointed, but common sense should ensure that he does not break his heart over the loss.”

She pauses, her eyebrows furrowing. “I hope.”

“Very well, then,” Garmadon nods. “I will conveniently disappear, and decide the best course of action for exchanging words with the boy. And I will…consider leaving my sword behind.”

“FSM help me,” the girl mutters again. Garmadon takes that as distinct approval for his plan, and begins to make his escape, basking in the relief of leaving his ridiculous cat form behind.

Hm. He pauses. His boy will be quite disappointed to find his cat vanished. He’ll probably shed more useless tears over it, actually. Not that Garmadon feels any guilt over that, but he does feel an uncomfortable kind of twist in his gut, that might vaguely resemble regret.

He turns back to the girl, hesitating. She looks at him curiously. “Make sure the boy doesn’t drown himself in his sleep,” Garmadon tells her. “He tends to cry a lot.”

The girl’s mouth falls open, and she blinks rapidly. “I — alright.”

Garmadon nods to himself, satisfied. Now, he can take his leave in peace. He has a conversation to plan.

**************

In the end, Garmadon has no earthly idea why he’s taking some nindroid’s advice. It’s terrible advice, really, and yet here he is, on his brother’s monastery doorstep, without even an apology cake in hand.

So he didn’t take her advice entirely, perhaps. He’s not in his cat form, at least. No, this time he’s determined to confront the boy face to face, and no longer being shorter than the boy will greatly improve matters.

Steeling himself, Garmadon knocks gingerly on the monastery door, feeling rather foolish. Smashing the doors in with a blast of purple power would be much more to his liking, but he suspects that might not be the best way to approach the boy. Not unless he’s looking to get yelled at, again.

The quiet sound of footsteps echoes from beyond the walls, and the doors finally swing open. Garmadon is met with the familiar features of his boy, now properly half his height, where he belongs. Excellent, Garmadon thinks. This will make things much simpler.

“Ah, good,” he greets him. “It’s you.”

The boy looks as if he's been frozen on the spot. He stares at Garmadon with his mouth half-open, his hand paused on the door handle. Garmadon frowns at him.

“Is something wrong with your face?” Come to think of it, the boy’s eyes do look terribly wide. Perhaps he’s been poisoned? Garmadon wouldn’t doubt it, with how careless the boy can be.

The boy makes a strangled sound, and his hand falls limply from the doorknob. “I-I-you—” He cuts off, shaking his head and blinking, as if Garmadon is a mirage. “You’re…here. You’re here?”

“Yes,” Garmadon’s frown deepens. “Obviously.”

The boy stares at him for another beat, before jerking himself back into motion. “Oh, r-right,” he stammers, knitting his hands together anxiously. He looks half as if he wants to run for his sword, and half as if he wants to run himself through with his sword. “You, uh, can I…was there something? You needed? Is something wrong?”

The boy’s expression suddenly dissolves into panic. “Wait, they’re not back, are they?” he asks frantically. “The Oni? Because I thought we—”

“What? No, the Oni aren’t back, don’t be ridiculous,” Garmadon rolls his eyes. “You’re as dramatic as your uncle.”

“I, um, okay.” The boy looks frustrated with himself. Garmadon figures he has reason to, with how his mouth seems to be malfunctioning. Normally the boy is much better at stringing words together. Garmadon dismisses the concern, speaking up again.

“You’re also very annoying,” he tells him, bluntly.

The boy blinks, looking taken aback. Garmadon continues before he can form a retort. “See, I should’ve just killed you, and then you wouldn’t be so annoying, but the thing is, I don’t really want to kill you.”

The boy gives an odd, choking cough. Garmadon hopes he hasn’t actually been poisoned, as it’s looking more likely by the second. He decides to hurry on with his point, just in case.

“Yes, it’s quite irritating. Do you have any idea why that might be?”

“Why you — why you don’t…want to kill me?”

“No, weren’t you listening?” Garmadon snaps. He pauses, considering. “Well, yes, that too. But what I meant was if you knew why I feel like I’m connected to you.”

“Con-connected,” the boy repeats, slowly. Something painfully hopeful bursts across his expression, before he violently wrestles it back to careful caution. “You…feel connected, to me?”

“That’s what I just said,” Garmadon huffs. “Are you sure you’re listening? It seems like you aren’t.”

“No, I am, I just—” The boy rubs a hand across his face, looking slightly dizzy. “I, um. Okay, connected. Well, I mean,” the boy swallows, staring intently at the ground. “I wa—am, kind of, your son.” The last bit comes out in a whisper, and Garmadon barely catches it. He pauses, mulling that over.

“Yes, you’re right,” Garmadon admits. “I do suppose that could have something to do with it.”

The boy makes another strangled sound, as if his brain has broken. Perhaps it’s not poison, and he’s taken too many hits to the head again? If that’s the case, Garmadon should probably come back later, when the boy can think straight. Or at least form a full sentence.

“Well, this has been very enlightening,” he remarks, brusquely. “I’ll be leaving now.”

“O-oh,” the boy’s expression falls.

“Yes, I’ve had a long week,” Garmadon continues. “We will have to continue our conversation another time.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. It’s becoming a common expression on him, Garmadon observes. “W-we will?”

Garmadon nods. “Within the next week or two, at latest.”

The boy’s making that strangled sound again. Garmadon really should be on his way, so the boy can fix whatever’s gone wrong with him. “Goodbye, then,” he says shortly, before stalking away. He gets about three steps down before that odd feeling hits him again, and Garmadon hesitates, warring with himself. He finally sighs, turning back around.

“Oh, and boy,” he calls. “Go to bed earlier. Or at least stop waiting until you’re asleep to cry. It can be dangerous, you know.”

The boy makes a wheezing sound, like he’s been punched, and his eyes all but leave his head with how wide they are. Garmadon returns to making his way down the steps, confident in the knowledge that he has, at least, imparted some wisdom.

He does glance back one last time at the boy, and immediately has to bite back a laugh. The boy opens his mouth once, fails to make any sound, then slumps back against the door frame, sinking to the doorstep with his head in his hands, staring blankly at the ground like it’s hit him in the face with a shovel.

“Hey Lloyd, did you find out who was at the do — woah, Lloyd, are you okay?!”

Garmadon doesn’t restrain the laugh this time, shaking his head. Ah, he might be a soft-hearted fool, but his boy is quite the amusing one.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #garmadon #lloyd garmadon #everyone else is there too but mainly them #oh and pixal #do not ask me why my first instinct was to write 'garmadon disguises as cat'#bc i have no answer ghdnkfjg #my fic #answered

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

Photo

Zut alors! This art sure makes this Cinderella AU look like...well, a Cinderella AU, doesn’t it??

One critique I have about many Cinderella adaptations is about how the “ugly stepsisters” are either portrayed as one-dimensionally bad so as to make our Cinderella look more saintly by comparison or given just enough dimension that one could see them as secondary victims of their mother’s abuse and yet aren’t given an ending that frees them from it the way Cinderella does. And yes, obviously in many of those cases, the stepsisters jump in on abusing Cinderella too, but it’s a learned behavior the stepsisters acquire from their mother and, in some cases, one could also point to there possibly being an element of the child joining in on their parents’ abuse of their sibling, etc. as a method of self-preservation. There are a few adaptations where one stepsister “reforms” themselves while the other doesn’t, but in this story, I wanted to show that -- as unpleasant as the entire Cromwell clan is, including Carewyn’s cousins -- there’s some logic to how they behave. And in Claire Cromwell’s daughters’ cases in particular, they’re just as trapped by the expectations of their gender as Carewyn is, arguably more so because they’ve lived with Charles their whole lives and the importance of marrying well has been drilled into them much more than it ever was for Carewyn. Although it’s obvious how much worse Carewyn’s situation is compared to her cousins, I kind of liked the idea of showing how a character in the “ugly stepsister” role would feel, being constantly outdone by her relative despite her best efforts. And even in Carewyn’s canon, she does project a “perfect paragon” affect that irritates characters like Merula to no end, so this isn’t too much of a stretch. Doesn’t mean Iris is a good person or anything, but what can I say, I like giving my antagonists understandable motivations.

In Carewyn’s canon, she becomes a robin Animagus. Part of it has to do with their size and coloring; part of it has to do with their symbolism (being associated with spring and, in the Christian tradition, selfless kindness, as they either earned their “red breast” when they sang comfortingly in Jesus’s ear while he bled on the cross or when they got burned fetching water for souls stuck in Purgatory); and part of it is because “Robin” was my deceased paternal aunt’s name, as well as my middle name! 🧡

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

On Charles’s instructions, Carewyn was returned to the tower room at the back of the Cromwell estate, this time with thick ropes tied her wrists together and lashing them to the legs of the cot set up in the corner. As Blaise finished securing Carewyn to the bed, he went out of his way to scold her that all of this was her own doing for trying to abandon her family before departing.

Carewyn tried everything she could to get free, but within an hour, she determined that there was nothing sharp enough in the room that she could use to cut her bonds, even if she could move more than two feet in either direction. And so, in utter frustration, she collapsed to the floor, her eyebrows knitting tightly over her closed eyes.

Talbott, she thought, please warn Orion...please, make sure he’s safe...

She wished she could simply have faith in Talbott, but being unable to do anything to protect Orion made Carewyn feel number and more afraid than she’d ever felt near the battlefield between Florence and Royaume.

A moment later, Carewyn was startled by the sound of the door being unlocked. When it opened, she found Iris standing in the doorframe. Claire’s middle daughter was decked out in a striking dark blue and emerald satin gown and a dark blue feathered mask, and her dark hair was put up in a beautiful braided bun trimmed with peacock feathers.

“So you are locked up here,” said Iris.

Carewyn raised her eyebrows very dully. “So I am.”

Iris’s face, for once, didn’t look particularly haughty. Her blue eyes, the same color and shape as Carewyn’s, swiveled over her cousin’s frame, taking in not just her bound ankles but the sewn-up back of her green dress. The dark-haired Cromwell looked almost disconcerted.

“This is your own doing, you know,” Iris said in a slightly higher voice than normal. “If you’d just left Prince Henri to me...done what Grandfather told you to do...”

“Blaise has more than given me that lecture already, thank you,” Carewyn said coldly.

Iris’s expression turned very offended.

“So much for you not talking out of turn!” she said scathingly. “I would’ve thought you’d have learned your lesson, after what Grandfather did to you...”

Her eyes flickered over to Carewyn’s back again. Carewyn could see the discomfort and macabre fascination swimming in her eyes -- as if part of her wanted to see how bad the scars were, and yet the thought made her feel nauseous.

Perhaps it was the compassion Carewyn felt, seeing her cousin struggle with feeling any kind of pity for her circumstances after how long they’d always hated each other...but she couldn’t help but address her a bit more gently than usual.

“Just because Grandfather says something doesn’t mean it’s right.”

Iris scowled. “Just like you, to be ungrateful, after everything our family’s done for you...”

She turned her back on Carewyn as if to leave.

“I’m not just talking about myself,” Carewyn murmured. “I’m talking about you.”

Iris stiffened, stopping in the doorframe.

“I heard Grandfather yell at you, when you first came home,” said Carewyn.

“So what, you want to rub it in my face?” Iris huffed, sounding rather like a snake bearing its fangs after being stepped on. “Boast about how you always twist everybody around your little finger, without even trying?”

Carewyn couldn’t help but cock her eyebrows. “Boast? Iris, the only thing that’s twisted around here are the ropes that have been tied around my wrists -- and they hurt quite a bit.”

“You know what I mean!” said Iris impatiently. She crossed her arms, her shoulders sulking. “Stop being so...so bloody witty, will you!? You’ve always been so witty -- able to talk about absolutely nothing with complete strangers...even people you don’t want to impress! And then, all of a sudden, all those people can do is talk about you. Like Prince Henri...every time we talked, the conversation would always end up coming back to you and the dresses and shoes he wanted to make for you!”

Carewyn’s face became a bit more solemn.

“The Prince and I are friends,” she admitted. “It was never anything more than that.”

Iris sniffed. “And I suppose it was ‘never anything more than that’ with Duke Lestrange either?”

“I didn’t even know Duke Lestrange,” Carewyn said exasperatedly. “And I had no interest in him romantically either. I think I made that quite clear both before and after you ripped my dress so badly that it exposed my undergarments.”

“And yet even then, you still charmed him!” said Iris, whirling around to glare at Carewyn. “You didn’t want anything from him, so why did you talk to him? Why did you smile and act all nice with him?”

“Because it was the polite thing to do!” said Carewyn, flabbergasted. “Because he was a guest! And one doesn’t have to get something in return to have a reason to show someone respect! It’s not something to be treated as a transaction!”

Iris’s face appeared more surly than ever as she looked away, adjusting the skirt of her gown.

Carewyn looked down at her bindings and then back up at Iris’s back. She exhaled slowly through her nose, as an idea started to prickle at the sides of her brain.

“...Iris...I’m sorry if I’ve wronged you,” she said softly. “I never had any intention to sabotage you...I know how much a proper marriage would endear you to our family.”

She took a deep breath.

“If you want me out of the way...then I’ll go.”

Iris looked at Carewyn, startled. Carewyn stared her intently in the face.

“Just undo my bindings,” she said, “and leave the door unlocked...and when you and the others return from the ball, I’ll be gone. You’ll never have to live with me again.”

Iris stared disbelievingly. Carewyn’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, betraying some desperation.

“Grandfather won’t have to know it was you,” she said. “No one would know except for me and you, and I won’t be here to tell anyone. Please...just let me escape.”

Let me get out to warn Orion. Let me save Orion.

Iris stared at Carewyn for another long moment. Then, very slowly, her eyes narrowed.

“You...you really want this,” she said lowly. “Don’t you?”

Carewyn gave her a very serious look. Iris’s eyes narrowed that bit more, darting from her face to down at her bindings and back.

“...Well, then...”

She bent down, took hold of Carewyn’s bindings...and tightened them sharply.

“Ack -- !”

Carewyn couldn’t quite choke back a yelp of pain. Iris shot back up to her feet, her eyes burning with resentment.

“You probably want to live your own life just as much as the rest of us do,” she said. “Only you keep stopping me from starting my own life, by charming every man I could persuade to marry me. So I guess it’s only fair I make sure you can’t escape either.”

She strode for the door, snatching it up and glaring at Carewyn one more time.

“At least tonight I won’t have to worry about you catching anyone else’s eye. You’ll be locked up here, far away from the ball, and unable to charm anyone.”

And with this, she slammed the door behind her and locked it with a loud CLACK.

And so all Carewyn could do was sit helplessly on the floor, bound tightly to the bed, as the sound of her family’s carriages clattered off of the estate and toward the palace of Florence. Carewyn couldn’t even look out the window to watch them go.

She tried several more times over the next hour to try to break free of her restraints, but as the sun grew lower and lower in the sky outside the window, she once again found herself falling still. All she could do was hope and pray and think of Orion...pleading with every entity of fate and justice that he was still alive. Soon enough she found herself falling off into a restless sleep in her uncomfortable position on the floor.

This is why, when she heard a bizarre CRASH from downstairs, Carewyn was slow to react, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. It took her a moment to even gather her thoughts enough to try to escape her bonds again, so as to try to figure out what was going on. Once she did, however, she caught the sound of a voice calling out.

“Miss Cromwell! Miss Cromwell, are you there?”

Carewyn’s heart leapt in a combination of disbelief and delight.

“Baroness!” she cried.

She tried to get up and run for the door, only for the rope around her wrists to hold her back.

“Ack -- Baroness, I’m here!”

There was a sound like two sets of footsteps quickly climbing the stairs. Then, after a moment, she heard Talbott’s voice.

“Carewyn, stand back! We’re going to get you out of there -- let me just adjust this -- ”

Carewyn was glad she was tied up away from the door when a few minutes later, it was thrown off its hinges with another CRASH.

Talbott and Baroness McGonagall came running through the dust into the room. At the sight of Carewyn on the floor, Talbott immediately ran over to try to undo her bindings.

“They’re -- they’re too tight!” he hissed in aggravation.

“Leave it to me,” said McGonagall sharply. “Focus on the spell keeping that door off its hinges: once your concentration breaks, it’ll return to the way it was.”

She materialized a knife from the pocket in her gown and, with a strong SNAP, cut the thick cord attaching her to the bed, which helped her pull the rest of the bindings off of Carewyn’s wrists.

Once her hands were free, Carewyn threw her arms around both her and Talbott’s shoulders, hugging them both in gratitude and relief. Within a second, though, she’d pulled away to look at them both urgently.

“Baroness, we need to move fast...my grandfather -- ”

“Yes, Talbott told me,” said the Baroness curtly. “Quickly now -- ”

She swept back down the stairs, Talbott and Carewyn at her heels. Once they crossed the threshold, the door magically floated back up behind them, slamming back into place with just as much force as it had been blasted off.

“The palace of Florence is at least three hours from here,” explained Talbott as they ran down the stairs. “I knew I couldn’t stay transformed that long, and I’ve never flown so far before -- didn’t reckon it’d be smart to try to fly somewhere I’ve never been and risk falling right out of the sky on the way, so I decided to go get the Baroness instead. Fortunately, on our way back here on foot, we collided with Badeea, and she was able to ride on ahead to the palace and tell the Weasleys the change in plans -- ”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “‘Change in plans?’”

Talbott smirked broadly, showing teeth. “Yeah -- the plan to bust you out of here.”

Carewyn gave a start.

“It was KC and Bill Weasley’s idea,” Talbott explained. “After I delivered Cosimo’s message to you and took a break to recuperate from flying, I turned back into an eagle and headed to the palace. Figured Prince Henri would want to know the state you were in and might be able to do something to help. Unfortunately he couldn’t -- Charles Cromwell’s wealthy enough that he’s ingratiated himself to the King and Queen, and as your legal guardian, there isn’t much anyone else could do, unless you decided to run away. But Bill and Charlie didn’t like the thought of you being stuck there. Bill had already told Charlie to hold onto this coach he was fixing for the royal family, so they could use it to smuggle you out of the Cromwell estate and take you to their family’s house. And KC realized that the perfect night to do that would be the night of the ball, when the entire Cromwell family is supposed to be in Florence and you’d therefore be left completely unguarded. So Bill, Charlie, Badeea, and I decided to stay behind while everyone else at the palace headed out to Orion’s ball, so that we could come get you.”

Carewyn could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her eyes had gone very wide.

“You...you mean you all put this together, just to help me?” she said shakily.

Talbott’s face was very serious as they reached the ground floor. “Of course we did. You’re a good person, Carewyn -- you don’t deserve being trapped here.”

Carewyn’s eyes welled up with emotion despite her best efforts.

“Talbott...” Her lips spread into a weak, overwhelmed smile. “I...thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Talbott said brusquely. “We’ve still got to get you to Florence.”

In the distance, Carewyn could hear the sound of a coach pulling up in front of the estate. McGonagall with her long legs reached the door of the manor first, and she unlocked and opened it, sweeping out into the courtyard. When Carewyn and Talbott darted after her, Carewyn gaped.

The broken royal coach she’d gone to help Charlie bring to the Burrow was as good as new, as clean, shining, and upright as it likely was when the King and Queen first purchased it. And sitting up in the driver’s seat was --

“CAREY!”

Charlie, dressed in a white-feathered black hat and a dark red velvet doublet trimmed with silver scales, dropped the reins connected to his and Bill’s chestnut horses and Badeea’s gray horse and leapt right off the coach and over to Carewyn. Jumping off the boot of the coach was Bill, dressed in a brown suede coat decorated with silver trim, and climbing out of the coach itself was Badeea, dressed in silver-dusted white satin.

“Charlie!” cried Carewyn. “Bill! Badeea!”

The Weasley brothers launched themselves at her, throwing their arms around her and squeezing tight. Unfortunately the wounds on Carewyn’s back made her crumple slightly, flinching away from their touch with a barely suppressed hiss of pain.

“Carey?” said Bill, instantly concerned.

“I’m all right!” Carewyn said very quickly. “I’m all right...”

Her blue eyes flooding with emotion, she threw her arms around both Charlie and Bill in return, squeezing them back.

“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered.

Bill’s eyes were very emotional too as he cradled the back of her head with his hand. The joy Carewyn felt just at the memory of her friends days earlier was back in full. She thought it’d be a long time before she’d ever see them again...and yet they were here. They’d come for her when she’d needed them most...

Badeea came up beside Carewyn, her dark eyes very concerned as she trailed a hand lightly along the stitching at the back of Carewyn’s dress.

“Carewyn...your dress...”

The ginger-haired woman gave her a reassuring look. “It’s all right.”

She looked around at all of them, taking in their fine clothes.

“Then...we’re all going to the ball ourselves?” she asked uneasily. “That’s the new plan?”

“Yep!” said Charlie brightly. “Andre had been working on some costumes for us, so we could all attend his mother’s New Years masquerade, before the whole thing at the border went down. He wasn’t able to finish any of them...but I borrowed a spare doublet from Andre’s closet for Talbott and Badeea was able to finish decorating the costumes that were closest to being done...”

He pointed out the “scales” on his doublet, while Bill held up the sleeve of his brown suede coat to show off the sparkly silver painted trim.

Carewyn’s eyes widened. “That paint...is that -- ?”

“The paint Orion gave me? Yes,” Badeea said, beaming as she showed off the shiny “fur” detailing she’d applied to her own hijab. “It’s the first time I’ve ever purposefully applied my paints to fabric, but for a first try, I’d say it turned out pretty well. Your shoes and dress look even better, though...look!”

She moved over to the open door of the coach and pulled out a gray and orange gown and a pair of shoes.

The chest was decked out with reddish-orange feathers arranged in a rounded heart shape, while the rest (made out of gray satin) was painted to look like it was covered in feathers. And the shoes...they were truly the most beautiful dancing slippers Carewyn had ever seen. The heels were made of colorful pumpkin diamond, while the shoes themselves, made of cloth, were nonetheless painted in a way that it looked like yellow, red, and orange stained glass. There was even a sheen on each panel, no doubt made with the slightest brush of the silver paint Orion had given Badeea, that made it look like it was sparkling.

Carewyn brought up a hand to tentatively hold the skirt of the gown, staring in disbelief and awe. Badeea’s dark eyes were sparkling with pride.

“It’s a robin, see?” she said. “Andre thought it’d be the perfect way to apply your supposed ‘favorite color’ -- ash gray -- to your dress. He originally wanted to trim your shoes with more diamond, but after seeing everything on the battlefield, he was reluctant to spend any more money on materials. So I tried to make it look like it was made of diamond anyway...it didn’t quite work out the way I hoped, but I don’t think it turned out too bad.”

“Badeea...it’s beautiful,” breathed Carewyn, her eyes trailing over the “stained glass” slippers.

Despite this, though, she whirled on the others with a severe expression.

“...But I can’t go to the ball! My entire family will be there, as will Lord Malfoy and Patricia Rakepick -- none of them would let me get within twenty feet of Orion -- ”

“They will if they do not recognize you,” said McGonagall crisply. She turned to Badeea and extended a hand. “The mask, please.”

Badeea handed McGonagall a hand-painted robin mask to her. McGonagall then set about tracing a yellowish-gold spell in mid-air, which she then lightly tapped with the mask. In an instant, it sparkled with traces of golden light.

McGonagall then placed the mask in both of Carewyn’s hands.

“This mask has an illusionary enchantment placed on it,” she said solemnly, “one that will activate solely for you, while you are within the gates of Florence’s palace, for today only. While you wear it, you will appear, to the person seeing you, as a beautiful stranger. You will not look the same to any two people...meaning that, were anyone to try to identify you later, no one would be able to agree how tall you are, how slender, how old...not even any physical features like hair or eye color.”

McGonagall’s expression then turned very grave.

“Just be sure that you leave the palace before the final stroke of midnight. Once the next day begins, my spell will break no matter what I might do...and if you’re still in the palace when that happens, then I daresay there’ll be plenty of people there who will recognize you.”

Carewyn nodded. Considering how willing Charles was to commit treason and murder, the last thing she wanted was for her grandfather to know she’d made it to the ball and who had helped her get there.

“I understand,” she said.

“I will not fit in the coach with you,” said McGongall as she glanced at Talbott, “but I can maintain the illusion for the rest of the night, even from a distance. And I know my apprentice will do everything he can to make sure you get back to Royaume safely, once Orion is out of danger.”

Carewyn’s eyes became a little smaller and softer. “Thank you, Baroness...for everything.”

McGonagall’s usually stern face softened noticeably as she brought a hand to gently rest on Carewyn’s cheek.

“Godspeed, Miss Cromwell.”

And so Carewyn, Badeea, and Talbott all climbed into the coach. Once they were all inside, Bill -- playing the role of footman, snapped the door shut behind them and leapt up onto the boot of the coach.

“Let’s go, Charlie!”

With a nod, Charlie bounded back up into the driver’s seat, snatched up the reins, and flicked them sharply with a “YAH!” The three horses charged off, pulling the coach right off the Cromwell estate and toward the reddening horizon.

On their way to Florence’s palace, the group got themselves dressed. Carewyn politely averted her eyes as Talbott changed into the handsome purple velvet doublet Andre had been wearing when Carewyn first arrived at the palace, and then Talbott climbed out onto the boot of the carriage with Bill while Badeea helped Carewyn get dressed.

When Carewyn took off her dress, Badeea saw her injured back for the first time. The artist’s gasp of dismay was silent, but she nonetheless trailed a cool, gentle hand along Carewyn’s bare back.

“I don’t think your gown will hide these,” Badeea murmured. “It’s cut low, to show off your back.”

Carewyn set her jaw grimly. “Then we’ll just have to leave them. Once I reach the palace and the Baroness’s illusion is activated, no one should be able to see them anyway.”

Badeea nodded grimly, her dark eyes very sad as she helped Carewyn pull the gown over her head.

“We all worried Lord Cromwell wasn’t treating you well,” she confessed, “but...I don’t think any of us thought he’d do something like this to you.”

Her usually serene expression betrayed a flicker of resentment.

“He’s a horrible man,” she said very softly. “Just...horrible.”

Carewyn offered Badeea a weak smile, bringing a hand onto her shoulder and squeezing to show some reassurance.

Charlie had never been to the palace of Florence before, but he was fortunately able to follow the many, many sets of long tracks left by other carriages and carts from Royaume that had already left for Florence’s capitol. He set the horses off at the fastest gallop he could manage without endangering his passengers, and within three hours, Charlie caught sight of some more carriages in the distance. He rushed to catch up with them, pulling up just behind them as they headed through the open gates of the Florentine palace.

The palace of Florence couldn’t have been more different than Royaume’s. While Royaume’s castle was white stone with extensive hedge gardens and many rounded towers trimmed with pointed dark rooves, Florence’s was made of tan-colored clay bricks stacked a mile high with geometric railings along the edges of towers and beautifully carved marble columns and arches framing the interior courtyard. It was also lit up with dozens of torches, making it blaze with golden light in the night. The warmer color palette, in contrast to Royaume’s palace’s pure white marble and clean lines, made Florence’s palace look significantly older, even though it was just as well-maintained. Carewyn couldn’t help but wonder what sorts of interesting histories she might read, if she could take the time to look over the yards of text etched into each column and wall.

“I think I see Andre’s coach!” said Charlie.

He pointed out a coach parked almost directly in front of the grand staircase. Its coachman was tending to their horses.

“He must not have arrived too long ago,” said Bill. He looked at the others through the window of the coach. “Do you have the masks ready, Badeea?”

Badeea lightly waved the last mask she’d been painting back and forth to help it dry. “Just about...”

Carewyn could also see the white coaches belonging to the Cromwell family parked on the far right end. She could even see her horse among the white steeds pulling them -- it kept pulling at its reins tensely, as if not liking being lashed together with its fellows to the coach.

Charlie pulled up in front of the castle, as far back and as far left as he could, so that they could stay close to the gate in case they needed a quick exit. As soon as they came to a stop, Bill pulled open the door of the coach.

“Are you ready, Carey? Your hair and dress okay? Got your mask?”

“Yes,” said Carewyn.

“Go on, then -- we’ll be right behind you.”

Carewyn nodded determinedly and quickly climbed out of the coach, holding her skirts up so as to keep them clear of her “stained glass” slippers.

Charlie couldn’t help but gape. “Whoa, Carey...the Baroness wasn’t kidding! You don’t look like yourself at all!”

Carewyn blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah! You’ve got, like, blond hair and green eyes -- like some emerald dragon!”

“You look like a brunette to me,” said Bill sheepishly.

“We can gush about the Baroness’s talent for illusions later,” Talbott cut them off brusquely. “Carewyn -- go find the King.”

Carewyn nodded. Turning her gaze toward the palace, she ran straight for the stairs, charging right past the guests that walked more leisurely up the stairs and ignoring how their heads turned in her direction.

Orion...please don’t let me be too late...!

26 notes · View notes

builder051 · 3 years ago

Note

Jonestown 'verse if you're up for it.

Drugs of your choice adding up to two very high girls and whatever factor inciting a flashback appeals.

Thanks!

Not sure this is what you were going for, as it's very tame and slow moving. No big action or emeto, though both are mentioned. There is also an ED mention, and obviously mentions of drugs and alcohol.

___________________________________

"I thought this was supposed to be, you know, a date..?" Jess looks down her nose at the bottle of white pills Nat is currently crushing to powder with the handheld pill grinder. "Aren't hallucinogens more... I don't know..."

"Private?" Nat finishes, a sly smile on her face. She opens the grinder and tips the contents into the bottom of a glass, to which she quickly adds cranberry juice and a swizzle stick.

"And since when is cold medicine for grown-ups?" Jess's forehead wrinkles as Nat slides the cocktail across the table to her before she sees to making another one.

"Since it started coming in white powder." Nat laughs. "Still best to ingest, but feels a little fancier than drinking the red stuff straight."

"Ok, ok." Jess puts up her hands, then begins swirling her cocktail before the powder can form unpleasant lumps. "But, seriously. Poor man's ecstasy. For date night." Jess shakes her head. "How's this gonna work?"

"You're the one who told me to cut things off with my dealer," Nat reminds her, a little crossly.

"Yeah. But you didn't answer my question."

"See some pretty lights. Cuddle a lot. Maybe fuck around a little. Then lie back and enjoy the show." Nat grins as if all of this is obvious.

Jess shrugs. "If you say so."

Truth is, the whole thing doesn't sound all that bad. If Jess was still surly and hateful, she'd probably find the proposition not bad at all. But Nat's turned her soft a little. Whipped her flesh so what's underneath depresses under tender pressure. She might want to talk. She might want a little closeness she'll remember in the morning. But she might not want to tell Nat any of that.

"I do," Nat says, tossing crushed pills into another glass and quickly stirring in the powder.

"Ok, then." Jess throws back her beverage, focusing on the bitter cranberry and not on the chemical flavor of the squashed white tablets. They form a film on her tongue, though, and she has to use her teeth to scrape it away.

Nat's empty glass hits the table before Jess's. She's taken it as a slammer instead of a sipper, not that Jess has spent much time savoring it. Jess glances up at Nat's face to find her licking her lips and beckoning her to stand up and follow her toward the bedroom.

Jess is affronted, but she doesn't show it. It's her apartment, so she's the one who ought to be doing the inviting. Right now she's the more conservative presence, though, so maybe her inclination to take them to the sofa to watch television first would be too modest. From what she knows of the drug, Jess isn't sure how much time there is to "fuck around" before the hardcore hallucinations hit.

Once they're on either side of Jess's bed, Nat strips to her t-shirt and underwear. Jess copies her, mostly because it's uncomfortable to sleep in jeans, and putting on pajamas seems too modest in comparison.

"C'mere," Nat says, slipping under the covers and holding them open for Jess.

"Yeah..." Jess slowly wriggles in, moving quickly when she meets Nat's arms and moving into the space left for her. Nat's body is warm, and they fit together well, hips interlocking and knees passing one atop the other.

Nat presses her forehead to Jess's and kisses the end of her nose. Jess can barely keep from screwing up her eyes, for the contact is... not unwanted, exactly. Just a bit much. But at least it's not a kiss on the lips. Jess isn't convinced she won't bite. And not in the sensual way.

"We've got, oh, I don't know. Twenty minutes?" Nat brings her face into Jess's neck, placing her chin on Jess's collarbone. "What do you wanna do?"

Nat's knee finds Jess's crotch and moves back and forth a few times, but Jess uses her hand to gently stop the motion. The presence is fine. The warmth, the comfort of her girlfriend; not just a fling or a casual friend who's weaseled their way into a benefit.

"Mm," Jess muses. "Talk, I guess."

"Ok." Nat goes a little limp. "How are you?"

"Eh."

"I mean, what've you been up to?"

Jess shrugs, raising Nat's chin a little. "Work. Missions. Whiskey." Then she smiles a little. "My girl."

"You've been up your girl?" Nat giggles.

Jess wonders if the white powder is already affecting her.

"Sometimes," she answers, grinning. Then she wonders if she herself is getting emboldened by its ingestion.

Nat keeps laughing. She's gotten bony again lately, and Jess wonders if the dose is weight affected. She's starting to feel fuzzy around the edges, but Nat's bordering on hysterical.

"Chill out a little, would you?" Jess says, wrapping her arms around Nat's body and lifting her easily a couple inches away from her body.

"Whoa." Nat's eyes cross, then float back to normal.

"Twenty minutes?" Jess cocks her head. "How about... fiveish?

"Maybe I should've 'fessed up." Nat puts her hand loosely over her mouth. "I usually take the kid route and drink the red stuff. Or the not-red stuff..."

"Huh?"

"Ever heard of robocough?"

"For fuck's sake, Nat..."

"What? It's better than actual E."

"Yeah, I know, the dealer thing..." Jess shakes her head. "But do you want kidneys?"

Nat shrugs. "Body..."

"'S a good body." Jess strokes Nat shoulder to tit to hipbone, then wraps her arm around her waist. There's definitely less meat than the last time they laid together. It's not her place to say something, though. That's Nat's business, until she gets to the hospitalization point.

"Anyway," Nat goes on, a little slurred. "Powder. That's the way to go."

Jess thinks of the first time she dipped her finger into a little plastic baggie of cocaine and set alight her nostril. She'd been, what, sixteen? Too young and too fed up with her foster care situation to give the cons of her choice much thought. "Yeah..."

She knows Nat started much of the same way, as an orphaned teen, either just out of the red room or during some tenured mission while she was still in their custody. The story changes sometimes. But the progression was much the same for both of them. Uppers. Then downers. Then, well, what they're playing with now. Only the grown-up type. Ecstasy and LSD were fun to use every once in a while, as an escape from the dreaded ordinary that was their lives.

They've discussed it. As much as either of them wants to discuss anything. Similar drug habits are a funny bond. One, a few months ago, they'd once smoked crack together before a mission, then been so thrilled no one had noticed that they stopped at the drugstore for a bottle of cheap champagne.

Champagne. She hasn't had any, so that's not the taste lingering on Jess's tongue. It's the cranberry, since she's scraped away all the white powder already. Jess forgets for a moment that she's had cranberry, though, and swallows hard, wondering if she's experiencing the dregs of vomit. She gulps a couple of times, and, unfortunately, Nat notices.

"Are you gonna puke?" she asks, slipping mostly off Jess and cuddling her from the side. "Are you seriously that high already?"

"No," Jess immediately protests. "I just... Cranberry." She tries to smile. She doesn't want to go through her train of thought to get to the champagne, so she just says, "I'm used to Jack, you know."

"And coke?" Nat grins.

"Ugh, no." Jess hasn't had that either since a bad night that ended with a bad trip. When some days include killing people, including one day long ago where her actions killed her parents, her occasional forays into hallucinogens can come out with some fairly awful results. That one, where the E had been downed with her favorite Jack Daniels and...someone else's... favorite diet coke, had resulted in images of dripping blood that turned out to be very real, as she'd bashed her nose into the edge of the toilet seat and busted a few vessels.

She knows Nat's teasing just a little, but Jess feels bad. She feels burdensome and heavy, which she knows is the recipe for a night of visions she'll regret. It's probably too late now to puke up the drug; Jess can feel it penetrating her system, arranging her settings to vibrate at the ultimate sensitivity.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Jess asks, but it's pointless. Nat's already under, and there's no way to tell if she's heard the question. Her eyes are closed, and her chin rests on Jess's shoulder as her face burrows into the space between the bed's two pillows.

"Fuck..." Jess mumbles. Lights begin to flicker around the edges of her visual field. She resigns herself for whatever's about to come next and closes her eyes. She scoots so her hip is in the sideways V between Nat's torso and thighs. Her warmth is comforting, even as the vision begins to up her anxiety.

Jess feels as though she's one with the bed, one with Nat, and her body is rushing forward to some unknown location in the dark. She slips her arm between Nat's tangled ones and holds on. Nat moans a little, and Jess wonders what she's seeing. Something pleasurable, she hopes.

Jess lets out her breath and wonders what she'll see. She has a stomach full of nerves, but she fights to ignore them as she shrugs and forces herself to answer her own question. Something pleasurable, she hopes.

#jonestown #avengers #jessica jones #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #marvel #mcu #fanfic #fanfiction #sickfic #emeto #alcohol #drugs #ed tw #blood #wlw #f/f #natasha x jessica #crossover

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years ago

Text

The Heart of Admiration - Part 4

Charles Vane x OFC slow burn - Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Note: since this story is getting so long, I’ve decided to convert it to a third person OC. She’s really acquired too much specific backstory to be a Reader insert already. So meet Hope Wickham, who hopefully feels like a natural extension of the same character! I’ve never done this before, hope I’m pulling it off gracefully.

Chapter Summary: Acceptance by Vane’s crew comes along with a little drunken violence, but who would expect any less from pirates? Treating Vane’s wound brings more intimacy than Hope bargained for... CW for combat and giving someone stitches.

This episode’s prompt: “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

The tavern is dark, and so thick with smoke that Hope’s eyes are burning around the edges. But the ale is strong, the company is spirited, and all she sees are wide grins around the table. That’s all that matters to her.

The Ranger crew is celebrating again. They’ve just taken port in Tortuga after their third successful hunt since finding themselves on Miss Guthrie’s shit list; the leads she had provided them since the night Captain Vane stormed out of her office had been more insulting than if she had given them none, and so they put their heads together and sought their prizes outside of the neighborhood of Nassau. The takes were smaller, so far, and not everyone here already knew their reputation, yet, but it was well worth it to keep on feeling free.

“This one’s for that Guthrie bitch,” Anne Bonny growls as she thrusts her tankard up for another toast. “Just ‘cause we all know she wouldn’t want us to have it.” Grunts and guffaws answer her around the long, creaking table that the Ranger’s officers and most sociable crewmen have crowded around. “Don’t matter if we can’t fence our prizes, so long as we can drink ‘em!”

That gets a round of cheers and splashing clinks of pewter tankards. Hope drinks deep to that one, short-sighted as she finds the sentiment to be. Because the real point is, with takes like these they’ve managed to keep the morale of the crew up, despite setbacks. They hadn’t lost one capable sailor over the humiliation Eleanor had tried to deal them. In fact, the experience appeared to be knitting the crew tighter together, with Hope right in there with them.

Her expertise helped, as Jack had predicted. The Ranger’s crew had a reputation for idiocy and belligerence once they got into the drink on shore, but every sailor respects the skill of a navigator that can not only lead them right to the richest prizes, but also point them straight back towards a port where they can waste those riches as quickly as possible. It also helped that Hope had drank a few of them under the table that first night, that her wit was only sharpened by liquor, and oh yes, that she had found a few choice words for Nassau’s despot herself on that evening.

Shane, the Ranger’s boatswain, elbows her deep in the ribs. “Tell us again,” he slurs, drinking entirely too fast as he so often does on nights like these, “how you gave the Guthrie woman a piece of your mind last time we was in her joint.”

Hope presses her lips together in a restrained sort of grin. She resists the urge to glance at Captain Vane; if she looks too worried about his reaction it will only set him off worse. But any mention of Eleanor tends to sour his mood, whether negative or neutral. (Positive mentions simply do not happen among this crew). Her eyes travel as far as Jack Rackham, seated beside the captain, and she can see he is checking on him already. When no flash of concern lights up the quartermaster’s eyes, Hope feels safe to at least start telling the story. “I don’t know what she was thinking, approaching me like that.”

Even though she speaks quietly, many of the side conversations cease, heads up and down the long table swiveling around to pay attention to her tale. It seems like no matter how often this episode comes up, there is at least one crewman present that has not yet heard her tell it from her own mouth.

“She had already failed to perturb the Captain, with whatever she said in that private meeting she called him into after we cashed in her lead,” Hope continues, setting the stage.

“Thought she could drag him in by his ear, like she was his fecking mum,” one of the gunmen interrupts. Nods and grunts of agreement pass around the table. Hope just loves the way the men so gleefully rehash the same old stories when they’re in their cups, loves even more that she’s started to be in them.

“He’s not fallin’ for that shite anymore,” Shane piles on, sending a look up the table at Vane that’s half approval, half challenge.

As usual, Captain Vane chooses the path of least words. “Bitch can rot,” he growls over the rim of his cup. His eyes simmer with more complicated feelings than those three words belie, but only to someone who’s looking.

“Which is what he told her, more or less.” Jack’s melodious voice smooths the story along, taking the attention off the uneasy topic of the crew’s feelings about their captain’s… entanglements. “So on to Plan B, Miss Guthrie went.” His eyes turn back to Hope, and most of the crew’s follow.

“She comes by my table, just stands there at first, stiff as you please. Like I’m just going to jump up as soon as she notices me.”

Anne rolls her eyes.

Hope remembers the way her stomach jumped at that point, her respect for Miss Guthrie not yet lost, but there is no reason to recount that part of the story. “Then she does this little cough, when I keep on drinking, take my next turn throwing the dice.”

“It was a good throw, too,” someone pipes in from further down the table.

“It was,” Hope agrees, “and I had a stack of coin on it.” She takes a swig of ale. “But she just stares at me. And as soon as my hand is on my winnings—‘may I have a word with you, Miss Wickham.’” She does a passingly fair imitation of the woman’s voice, higher and snootier than her own.

“What did she want?”

“She told me she was going to get me on another ship.”

The room always gets quieter at this part of the story. A warm, tingling sort of feeling blooms in Hope’s chest, at the way her new crew takes such pride in this exchange. It reassures her more deeply each time, that she made the right call when she took Eleanor’s offer as an insult.

“’It’s terrible, what Vane is doing to you,’ she has the nerve to say to me. ‘But the Nightingale is coming in tomorrow. And the Walrus.” Groans all around the table. They always groan at the mention of the Walrus. “I’ll get you set up with a crew that’s more civilized.” And every time she repeats that line, there is less booing and more harsh, prideful laughter. Hope scoffs. “Like I’m already in her pocket, a piece to move around on her chessboard as she sees fit. She says to me: ‘Vane can’t force you to do anything.’ And I look right back at her, take the drink out of her hand, and say ‘no, he can’t. And neither can you.” Her neck prickles at the way the men look at her when she tells this part. “I like his ship. I like his crew.’ I lean in, sip a drink out of her own cup, and say, ‘I think I might even be starting to like him.”

More cheering, and fists hammer on the table. They love that part. Everything had felt so crystal-clear in that moment, when Eleanor Guthrie patronized to her like that. Hope didn’t want to be protected, didn’t want to be sheltered or assigned. She wanted to earn what she’d got; and here was a crew she was already bonding with, (drunkenly at least) and a captain who respected her skills so much that he’d gone out of his way to get her on his ship, and respected her mind so much that he’d rushed Jack to make sure she felt she could leave.

“So take your fake concern for my wellbeing, I said to her, and go fuck yourself with it. Since Vane’s not at your beck and call to take care of that for you anymore, either.” It wasn’t exactly what Hope had really said. But every story gets larger in the retelling of it, does it not?

Tankards are banging on tables, toasts are being raised, and Shane whacks Hope on the back in comradely approval. “And that’s the night you became one of us.”

She can’t read anything in Vane’s stillness as he regards her from the head of the table.

Hours later, Hope and Anne are staggering back into the tavern, arm in arm, coming back from a piss ‘round the back of the building. In this town a woman’s got to have someone right there watching her back before she can even think of squatting down. “Where’s everyone?” Anne slurs, her brows furrowing as she inspects the corner where the Ranger crew used to be sitting. Her head swivels toward the other side of the room, Hope’s following rapidly after.

Many of the crew appear to have moved along to some other establishment, or perhaps staggered down to their tents set up on the beach. Jack and Captain Vane are still here, though, sitting at a table with two men Hope doesn’t recognize. All four of them are positively bristling.

Their Captain waves the women over when he spots them. Anne lets herself be tucked under Jack’s arm, and Hope cautiously takes the open chair next to Vane. The strangers at the table look surly, one with long hair tied back into a disheveled tail, the other’s brown locks cropped closer but no less messy. Their once-fine coats, stained and inexpertly repaired, mark them for fellow pirates.

“Captain Mackinaw,” Vane introduces, wrapping a hand over the top of Hope’s shoulder as he does, “meet Hope Wickham, my navigator.”

She braces herself for the long-haired man to comment on her sex, as so many men do, but this Mackinaw is too preoccupied to do more than nod vaguely in her direction. “I can’t just let this stand, Charles.”

Vane nods. Hope has never known him to be a sloppy drunk, but she can feel his inebriation in the careful way he removes his hand from her shoulder and reaches out for the ale on the table. He lifts it for a long, contemplative sip as his fellow looks at him expectantly. “You want me to back you up?” he offers, in slow, measured tones.

Mackinaw looks relieved. “They’re at the north end of the beach. If we make a show of numbers, I reckon they’ll hand it back over without a fight.” He takes another long pull of his own drink, the gesture much sloppier than how Vane had pulled off. Hope resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“And if they don’t?” Jack asks.

Mackinaw smiles sharply. “Then they’ll learn what it means to cross them that used to sail with Edward Teach.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Hope growls through her teeth, hefting the cudgel of broken wood she’d picked up on their way down the beach.

“Nonsense,” Jack replies. “It appears they have things well in hand.” Less than twenty paces away, Vane and Mackinaw square up against an even-scruffier captain and two of his largest crewmen. Vane’s body language is bristling, and Mackinaw’s looks mocking even from here.

“I don’t believe Charles Vane has ever been known for his ability to talk his way out of a fight,” Hope retorts. She shifts, squaring her hips, attempting to add to the impression that a full crew of violent, capable men is poised to storm down the moonlit beach at a moment’s notice.

“Good,” Anne hisses, sparing one contemptuous glance for Hope as she brandishes both her knives in the direction of the tents. Mackinaw’s rivals are rousing now, recognizing the threat. “I’ve an appetite for blood tonight.”

Hope’s not even sure why she’s here. This could get every bit as bloody as a vanguard charge, if someone says the wrong word, takes things a step too far down there. Violence is not in her skill set; if anything, she should be handling this part, the negotiations that so often stop swords from crossing. But she doesn’t know Mackinaw; barely even understands the grievance he has with the other man on the beach. Something about a horse, or a woman, or a horse that belonged to a woman… and now good men might get hurt, or even killed, because Vane feels loyalty to a man he once sailed with when they both served under the notorious Blackbeard.

An angry shout. Anne takes a step forward; most of the crew lined up behind follows suit. Vane hadn’t rounded up quite all of his men from their carousing around the town, but combined with Mackinaw’s crew they look like a veritable army ready to surround the other crew’s camp.

Said crew is forming up ranks of their own, however. Mackinaw’s rival does not appear ready to back down, puffing up his chest and speaking loudly enough for her to hear the tone of blustering confidence. Hope knows a failing negotiation when she sees one. “Blood it is,” she says wryly.

She doesn’t intend for anyone to hear it, but Jack cocks his head at her.

Vane’s hand has crept to his sword. Mackinaw’s head tilts; the shabby captain grimaces, glances back at his crew, and then throws himself at his rival. The two captains struggle in the sand, pummeling each other.

Is it going to stay between them, or is everyone about to brawl? Hope catches movement from one of the big men who had been backing that captain up. He takes a step that puts him more fully behind Captain Vane, who had turned to watch the men rolling on the ground. “Watch!” she roars, in inarticulate, impulsive warning.

The men behind her surge, evidently interpreting her shout as their signal to advance. They loose themselves down the beach, stampeding Hope along with them.

She grips her cudgel tight, keeping pace with her crew to avoid being trampled. Her face and limbs flush so hot they’re prickling. She managed to see Vane turn before his attacker could strike, ducking under the blow and knocking the man in the gut with the pommel of his sword as he drew it, but after that she loses him in the jumble of bodies rushing past the both of them, to engage the charging Ranger crew.

Hope runs until she’s stopped, feeling like she’s part of a wave crashing into a craggy shore. She sees the shape of a man, arms raised in threat, and she swats at it with her cudgel. The impact of it thudding into him throws her more off-balance than she expects. But the untampered momentum with which she had hit him is enough to knock the man to the ground.

Anne roars beside her, a ferocious sound, triumphant. She kicks that man across the jaw to keep him down, then thrusts her face close to Hope’s. “Atta girl!”

And after that Anne’s bloodlust is infectious, as Hope finds herself suddenly eager to pick her next target to bludgeon. Her crimson-haired crewmate keeps pace with her, seemingly amused by Hope’s sudden spirit.

A man missing more than a few teeth looms up in front of her, and lands a blow that glances off Hope’s head. She falls back, but Jack Rackham catches her from behind and heaves her right back onto her feet again. Her attacker wasn’t expecting her to come up so fast; nor was he expecting her foot to land so heavy in his gut.

She wants to get to Vane. She doesn’t have time to consider why, only knows that the direction that she should force her feet through this fray is over to where she saw him last. She ducks under fists and shoves bodies away from her. Anne and Jack appear to have the same idea, and they’re better at it, too. Hope hears the crunch of a broken nose to her left, turns in time to see a man dropping to his knees, howling. Blood trickles down Anne Bonny’s forehead, and she doesn’t wipe it away when it reaches her open-mouthed grin.

The fighting ends just about as suddenly as it began. “Yield!” comes the voice of the enemy captain, and his men, for the most part, stand down. When the throng clears and Hope can see Charles Vane again, something in her chest loosens even though the side of his face is puffy and his hairline is stained with blood. He’s holding the shabby captain from behind, sword under his throat, and Mackinaw is gloating in front of them.

And as far as the Ranger crew is concerned, that’s the end of it. No loss of life, and not too many injuries to show for the impulsive brawl. It could have been so much worse. Hope still doesn’t even understand what it was all about. She follows her captain back to their own beach camp. She follows him through the camp, settling the wounded, watching him check on every man without slowing down. Watching him favor his left leg the whole while, and otherwise ignoring his own obvious injury entirely.

When she notices that the size of the bloodstain suffusing the fabric of Vane’s trousers has definitely been growing, Hope finally approaches him. “It’s nothing,” he grunts, waving her off. “Now where’s Jensen? He came down with us, didn’t he?”

“You’re no good to him, or any of the men, if you pass out from blood loss,” Hope scolds.

Vane looks down at himself, mouth set in an ornery line. He brings the lantern in his hand close to his thigh, and wet blood glitters. He grunts, then puts all his weight on that injured leg and gives her a pointed look, brows raised high. He’s still drunk, she realizes. “It’s fine.” His usual growl grinds tighter across the words, though. And when he tries to take a normal stride past her, the leg buckles.

She reaches out to steady him and finds herself wrapped firmly underneath his arm. He lets her support his weight for just a moment, their faces so close as he studies her expression. His jaw still has a stubborn set to it. Her palms feel hot against his body, particularly the right, which landed close to his heart. “Back to your tent,” she orders. “Let me tend to it.”

His brows furrow and she pushes him up the beach before he can argue further. He takes one step with his weight on her, then shakes off her support while muttering something about the men watching. “Jensen?” he roars, still looking around the maze of tents.

“Sleeping it off,” someone shouts in answer, and only then does Vane turn back to Hope, ready to cooperate.

She scowls, shaking her head a little as she accompanies his limping path toward his own tent. “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

Vane doesn’t answer. He may not have even heard it. When they reach his tent, he pushes aside the flap and all but collapses inside. Hope pauses for one steadying breath before bending to follow him in. The captain seems the type to be a very difficult patient.

The lantern he had been carrying is set just inside the entryway. Vane settles onto his bedroll, a weary noise escaping his lips now that there’s no one left to observe him but Hope. She’s going to want more light, to examine that wound properly. She looks around for another lantern amongst the smattering of personal effects he’s brought to shore.

There’s rustling behind her as she gets another light blazing. When she turns around, Vane’s got his shirt off, resting back on his elbows and waiting for her.

“I’m glad to see you’ve gotten yourself more comfortable,” Hope says dryly, “but that’s not the half of your body that I need to take a look at.”

Vane grins, and Hope tries to stop herself from blushing. His sun-darkened skin glistens in the lamplight, creating an all-together different effect on her than all the other times she’s seen the man stripped to the waist while sailing. He dips his head in acknowledgment of her words and lifts his hips to remove his trousers.

Her eyes register a long line of pale white skin being revealed to her gaze before she whips her head away, belatedly realizing he’s not wearing anything underneath. The image of the side of his bare ass is going to be hard to get out of her mind now, and she makes an irritated noise at the man. “Cover yourself, please.”

She waits, probably longer than necessary, before turning herself back to face her entirely nude captain. He’s lying back against a cushion once she’s gathered her nerve, with a blanket pulled over only his uninjured leg, and his unmentionables. And is the bastard smirking? She should march herself right out of there.

But then Hope’s eyes fall on the wound that’s been revealed and she forgets her modesty. “Uglier than I was hoping to see,” she mutters, worried, and drops to her knees beside his bedroll.

Vane makes an offended noise. Did he think she was talking about his body? How drunk is he? Hope is a little concerned that he doesn’t seem concerned about the wound in his thigh, slashed down the outer edge about a foot up from his knee. She brings the lantern closer and pokes at the bright red edge. When he doesn’t flinch, she presses a little harder, moving the flesh around to try and get a better idea of the depth of the wound.

“It’s not too deep,” she reports when she’s completed her assessment, “but it could use some stitching.”

“Told you it was fine,” he says gruffly. When she glances up, he holds her eyes. He’s given her many unreadable looks since she’s come to know him. But this one, while he’s laid out naked underneath her, with the flickering light so soft and warm, sends tingles through her body. “You good with a needle?”

Hope blinks. “Yes, yes,” she stutters, searching her pockets for her sewing kit. It’s another feminine role she’s tried to avoid getting stuck in, being the one who mends, but for Captain Vane she’ll make an exception. “Hold the lantern.”

She marvels that his arm doesn’t even waver as she cleans out the wound, holding the light up steady for her above his leg. His face remains almost serene, gaze already on her each time she glances up at him, as if watching her work is all he needs to ignore the pain. She pushes the errant thought away; more likely he’s just drunk enough to feel numb.

She can see the entire length of his body, bare from the swell of his shoulder, down his sculpted waist, over his hip bone and all along his pale white leg. It’s distracting, the way the eye is pulled to the crease where his thigh meets his belly, and—

And perhaps he’s not the only one who’s still a little drunk.

“Hold the lantern closer,” she says, and squints in closer to where she’ll begin her stitching. Tells herself not to think about the body that this leg attaches to.

She thinks she hears a little hiss of air the first time the needle goes in, but it might have just been the wind. When she dares look up again, Vane still has a straight face, contemplating hers.

“It was a foolish risk,” she says as she slides the needle in a second time. “If you took this slash just a few inches in toward the artery, you could have been bleeding out.”

His voice rasps only a little worse than normal. “But I didn’t. And reputations are maintained. It was not an insult Mackinaw could let slide.”

“And his name is worth our risk?”

Vane’s eye narrow. “He would do the same for me.”

“Are you sure?” The needle goes in again, and Hope feels the barest flinch in Vane’s limb. “I’ve known many that wouldn’t care a wit for the suffering of former crewmates.”

“Teach’s crew was different.”

Hope is the one to look levelly up at him, now. She’s heard tell of how Edward Teach came to leave Nassau’s harbor. “Perhaps so. But I would not expect they would still feel that way about Charles Vane.”

Her words cut him, she can see that. He flinches in a way that her prodding at his physical wound could not have caused. “Mackinaw had left before all that,” he says simply.

Hope nods, and drops her eyes back to her work. Just two more stitches ought to do it. Was he trying to make up for that betrayal, was he happy to sacrifice what he had in service to any member of that old crew that might forgive him for having helped Eleanor drive Blackbeard out of Nassau? These are questions she does not dare ask.

“Tonight was foolish,” she says again, after completing the last stitch. She bites off the end of the thread. “Foolish, but noble.” She still feels a small amount of shame when she thinks about the dispersed crew of the Starling, about being one of the handful who now serve under the very captain that had taken their ship and exiled her brother-in-law (although from the letters her sister sends, it seems that he is supporting her just fine pirating out of other cities). She can understand those complicated feelings, the ones that have no easy answer, when facing the fallout of one’s own choices. Any action that smacks of amends must feel like a breath of cool air. Now, exhausted and sobering up in the dim of Vane’s tent, brushing her arm over his lifted knee as she wraps his wound up tight, she finds that she may actually be admiring him.

Part V

Taglist: @pleasemelafook-outta-ere @ladyhubris @summertimesadness101 @acebreathesfire @kind-wolf

#charles vane x ofc #charles vane x oc #charles vane imagine #black sails fanfic #charles vane slow burn

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shadowhuntertrash · 4 years ago

Note

So honestly i am a type of person who loves dramatic, traumatic, character development scenes where we get into a characters head. So i haven’t finish COG yet but i don’t mind spoilers but I think you should make a fanfic about Lucie getting hurt or tortured right in front of the merry thieves. But i especially REALLY want to see james’ reaction because i freaking LOVE sibling scenes and I can never get enough. But also especially Matthew, because honestly Ik ik uncommon ship but i rly like Matthew and Lucie together so his reaction too. So if you think you could do something like that, that’d be amazing!!! <3 Thank you!!

Have funnn *laughs evilly*

Lucie didn’t often spend time with just the boys anymore. She was often with Cordelia or Anna or Jesse, but it was nice to get to spend some time with her brother figures.

She was currently walking down the street with James, Matthew, Thomas, and Christopher. It was almost midnight and they had just finished patrol. Matthew and James had their arms around each other's shoulders, stumbling as they walked, both their heads thrown back in laughter. She always loved seeing them together, they were both wonderful people but when they were together it just brought out a side of both of them that was simply better, easier.

Christopher was telling Lucie and Thomas about some experiment he was looking forward to conducting. Lucie was on Thomas’ back, having rolled her ankle while dodging a demon. It didn’t really hurt, but she never passed on an opportunity to be tall for once. Christopher was mad because Cecily had put her foot down and grounded him from experiments for two weeks when he had nearly burnt Anna’s shirt during his last one.

They were all enjoying each other’s company so much none of them heard the footsteps of the people behind them. No one was ready for the attack. They had been walking happily until Matthew turned to make a joke to Thomas and his face had gone a sickly pale color.

His silent scream was the last thing Lucie saw before everything went black.

Lucie woke up in a dim room with a pounding headache. She went to bring her head to her hand but found it was chained to the chair she was sitting in. Panic bubbled up in her stomach and she looked around quickly. She was in a dark room, it looked like a cellar of sorts, damp and humid.

Her head swiveled to the right when she heard a noise and a loud groan. “Who’s there?” She asked, confidence in her voice that she was thoroughly lacking. The person to the right of her made a confused sound. “Lucie?” She heard her brother’s hoarse voice ask in the opposite direction of the other noise.

She turned to her left and saw her brother, slumped against the wall blinking slowly. “Jamie!” Lucie said, relief and fear soaking her voice. “Where are we? What happened? Where are the others?” She asked quickly, James groaned and she thought briefly that he must have a headache too.

“Matthew’s to your right, Kit’s behind you, and Thomas is in front of you.” He said weakly. Lucie strained to see him better, to search him for wounds, but found it too dark to see anything other than his dark hair. She turned to her left and saw a mop of blonde hair, there seemed to be a dark spot in it and Lucie worried that it might be blood. “Math.” She whispered, trying to determine if he was unconscious.

Matthew lifted his head, his green eyes dimmed. “I’m alright Luce. We’re all awake.” He paused, a pained look on his face. “Except Thomas.” He said so quietly Lucie almost missed it. Without a second thought her eyes were fixated on Thomas. She could see him best of everyone, a dim light bulb hanging loosely right above his head.

Lucie realized with a start that he was covered in blood and bruises. She gasped involuntarily and leaned as far forward in her chair as possible.

Thomas’ face was cut in such a way that reminded her sadly of his mother, their Aunt Sophie, her beautiful face scarred forever. His lip was bleeding, a startling red on his too pale face. One of his eyes was swollen shut, a dark purple color. Lucie tore her eyes away, a sick feeling settling in her stomach.

She redirected her attention to figuring out where they were. She shoved the panic down, looking around the room. She assumed Thomas had been awake or at least woken up far before anyone else. There were multiple things turned over, evidence that someone had put up a fight.

Lucie was hit again with panic when she thought about the blood stain in Matthew’s hair. Lucie pulled at the chains, only managing to pinch her skin in the rusted metal. Lucie must have made a desperate noise because James was suddenly calling her name, telling her to calm down. “Luce, it’ll be okay. Don’t freak out or they’ll know you’re awake and come back.”

Lucie whipped her head around. “Who? Who will come back?” She asked, desperately trying to wrap her mind around the dramatic turn of events that led them here. James’ head tilted, something Lucie knew was his way of thinking before talking. Matthew saved him the trouble and answered her in a hushed whisper.

“There’s three guys, they’ve come down a few times. They did that to Thomas.” He said, pointing to the best of his chained ability to where Thomas sat limply. Lucie said some highly unlady like words and turned back to Matthew. “What do they want?” Matthew shrugged, seemingly unbothered but Lucie didn’t believe that for a second, she knew he was freaking out on the inside.

Matthew shook his head, eyes not leaving Thomas. “I don’t know. They came down here and started beating up Thomas, something about ghosts and Jesse Blackthorn. Nothing they said made any sense.” Lucie’s whole body tensed.

This was about Jesse. Who else knew about Jesse? Why had they taken them instead of Tatiana or Grace? What do the men think they know? Questions were firing too fast in Lucie’s brain and she brought her hands up again unthinkingly, the chains holding them back once again.

James sighed softly. “We’ll be okay though. Mother and father will find us, they won’t stop looking. Our parents have probably already started.” Lucie turned back to Thomas, her heart plummeting when she saw his breathing had weakened. Lucie shuddered and turned back to her brother.

“I hope they hurry.”

Lucie didn’t know how long they had sat in the dark before three burly men came in, the door slamming open causing all of them to jump.

There were three of them, two were tall though not as tall as Thomas. The other one was shorter but he was deceivingly strong as he reached down and pulled Matthew’s hair, Matthew’s whole body came up and he gave a painful yelp, the man just laughed. “How’s that pretty little head of yours?” He asked, fake sincerity in his voice. Matthew just shook his head, staying silent in a way that made Lucie wonder how many times the men had been in there when she was unconscious.

The man standing in front of Matthew smirked and slapped him hard across the fact. She felt a surge of protectiveness surge through her, James was yanking on his chains in a way that was surly painful. Matthew glared at the man but stayed silent, the man took him in with evil eyes. “I’m glad you learned your lesson.” He said before slapping Matthew again and turning to Lucie.

Matthew’s lip was bleeding and his cheek was red but Lucie didn’t have long before the man was in front of her, sneering down. “I’m Micheal, this is Colton,” He gestured to one of the tall men, Colton was squatting in front of Thomas, his broad shoulders blocking Lucie’s view of her giant friend. “This is Mason.” Micheal said, gesturing to the other man, who was standing by the door like a bouncer.

Lucie didn’t say anything just glared at Micheal as he stared down the end of his nose at her. “Not a talker, well we’ll see about that.” Without warning Micheal struck her across the face, she gasped collapsing back against the chair. James, Matthew, and Christopher who had been silent until this moment all shouted. James and Matthew were fighting against their restaurants, by the sound of it Christopher was too but Lucie couldn’t see him.

Mason walked behind her and Lucie could hear the sound of chains before she saw Christopher stumble across the room to Thomas. When he reached him Christopher fell to his knees, checking Thomas over and patting his cheek gently trying to wake him up. He was only there for a minute before Colton grabbed his arms and chained him to the wall.

Christopher didn’t argue, probably because he was close to his cousin, and instead just sat in a protective stance in front of Thomas.

Micheal snapped in front of Lucie’s face, causing her eyes to slicker back to his face involuntarily. Lucie looked into his cruel green eyes and watched as an intimidating smile grew across his face. Lucie just lifted her head and maintained eye contact, refusing to appear as scared as she felt.

“You’re a strong one, we’ll see how long that lasts.” Micheal turned his back to her and picked up something on the table, when he turned Lucie saw with a spike of fear that he had a large vial of ichor. She knew it would burn but she was used to that pain, she knew she could deal with it.

Micheal turned his beady eyes to her. “I think that out of everyone here you know the most. So I’ll ask you once before I get the real stuff out, where is Jesse Blackthorn.” Lucie shuddered and shook her head, mouth pulled into a thin line. She would not betray Jesse like that. “I don’t know, all I know about him is that he’s dead. I’m sorry to inform you of that if you had truly thought he was alive.”

Micheal’s eyes flashed threateningly but Lucie kept her chin held high. Before she knew what was happening Micheal had dumped half the vial of ichor on her cheek. Lucie let out a shriek, her body twisting trying to get it off but only managing to fasten its trip down her neck. James screamed at Micheal throwing curses and pulling hard on his chains.

Matthew was no better, screaming Lucie’s name and then screaming at Micheal to let her go. Lucie shook her head at the boys, Christopher was watching her with wide scared eyes. Lucie knew her cousin well enough to know he wasn’t scared about himself but rather scared for her, she also knew him well enough to know how long she could last before she gave up, or before her body did.

Lucie turned to James. “I’m okay, I’m fine.” She turned to look at Matthew who was still thrashing in his chain. “Calm down, it’ll be okay.” She was talking through gritted teeth, the burning sensation growing worse as it set in her skin. Lucie locked eyes with Micheal again.

“You can torture me all you want but but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re insane and I have no idea where Jesse Blackthorn is, other than in a grave.” Micheal watched her for a minute before he frowned. “Fine you want to do it the hard way that’s fine.”

As he walked by James, James hooked his foot around Micheal’s ankle and when Micheal hit the ground James grabbed the front of his shirt, his hands twisting a weird way. “If you touch her I swear on the angel I will kill you. I’ll kill you.” He hissed dangerously in Micheal’s face, a flash of fear crossed Micheal’s face before Mason was hauling a still James away from him.

Lucie was startled by the darkness lurking James’ golden eyes. She knew he loved her but he needn’t be so protective, he would get hurt. Lucie knew that was hypocritical but she had to make sure James knew it.

The three men left briefly and the moment the door shut James was moving as close to Lucie as he could get. “Lucie, Luce, you’ll be okay. How much is on your skin?” He asked urgently, making exasperated sounds as the chains held him back.

Matthew had also moved as close to Lucie as he could get. Christopher had gone back to trying to wake Thomas up, but he kept sparing Lucie anxious expressions.

Lucie tried to focus on seeing how much was on her, trying to ignore the burning sensation and the smell that was making her eyes water. “It’s all over my cheek and neck. It’s setting but it’s not enough to cause too much harm.” Lucie said, her voice quiet but strong. James’ face relaxed slightly, taking relief in the fact that she would be okay.

Matthew on the other hand looked down right murderous. “That bastard. How dare he? How dare he! First Thomas and now you? All for some dead guy?” Matthew was slurring, his hands made into fists as though he was going to fight someone. For the first time Lucie wished he was slurring due to his drinks, but she knew it was just confirming that his head had indeed taken a bad blow.

James seemed to come to the same conclusion, casting his parabatai anxious glances. “Math-” James was cut off by the door banging open again, Matthew’s face screwed up in pain and Lucie had to fight down the panic that was rising quickly.

They all needed to get out now. Thomas wasn’t waking up, Matthew surely had a concussion, and Lucie desperately needed the ichor off.

Micheal walked up to Lucie, a blade in his hand. Lucie’s eyes widened significantly and she started squirming. “What are you doing? Stop! Why do you need him so badly?” She asked, desperate to distract him. He just shook his head. “That, young lady, is none of your concern.”

He came closer, the knife catching the only light in the room. Lucie’s breath was speeding up, all the boys were yelling and begging him to stop. “Stop it! Take me! Let her go and take me!” James shouted, Lucie was startled to see tears making their way down his face. Micheal turned to him annoyed. “Shut up, if she doesn’t answer you’ll have your chance don’t worry.”

James shook his head quickly. “No let me go first then. Leave her alone.” Micheal glared at him before walking over to James and punching him in the face. Matthew called for his parabatai, pulling hopelessly at the chains. James just put up a hand, signaling he was fine.

Lucie watched her brother worriedly. His jaw was bent at a weird angle and Lucie was sure it was broken. She watched hopelessly as Micheal approached her again, she was all too aware of the knife he still had in his hand.

“I’ll ask you one more time before it gets bad for you. Where is Jesse?” He asked menacingly, towering over her petite frame. She locked eyes with him and said slowly, enunciating every word. Micheal looked at her with utter annoyance. “Have it your way.” He said glaring before he dug the knife deep into her shoulder. She screamed as pain blossomed from the wound, snaking around like vines. Matthew screamed her name but James stayed quiet. Lucie turned to her brother but he had his eyes closed tightly, focused on something.

Lucie didn’t know what he was doing until he started fading slightly and she realized with a start that he was trying to shadow travel. Lucie gasped and looked to Matthew who was looking at her with determined eyes, he already knew James’ plan.

She turned back to Micheal who was currently turning to look at James, Lucie panicked knowing she had to get his attention before he noticed James. Mason and Colton hadn’t come back in with him so as long as Micheal didn’t see James, they had a good shot at getting out.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Lucie said loudly, pulling Micheal’s attention back to herself. She knew it was the wrong thing to say but it got his attention and that was all that mattered. Micheal sneered at her and dug the knife into her side before she could say anything else.

Lucie’s eyes went wide and her mouth formed a silent ‘o’. She slowly looked down at her wound, Micheal had left the knife in and she could feel the point buried deep inside her.

The next thing she knew Micheal was mirroring her expression as he fell to his knees. James stood behind him, the murderous look still spread across his handsome face. Matthew fell to his knees beside her, James having unlocked his chains before stabbing Micheal.

Lucie finally let the tears fall as she slumped against Matthew, his arms wrapping securely around her. James put his foot on Micheal’s wound and Micheal gave a pained shout, James lowered his face so he could whisper in Micheal’s ear. “I told you I’d kill you.” James said before plunging the knife Micheal had left on the table into his chest.

Micheal’s eyes went wide once more before he let out a long breath and Lucie realized he was dead. James turned his eyes on Lucie and they softened, the darkness fleeing at the sight of Lucie in pain. His brotherly instincts took over and he fell to the ground next to her kissing the top of her head and putting his hand over hers on her stomach to staunch the bleeding.

“You’re okay. Lucie you’ll be okay.” James whispered over and over reassuringly in her ear. Matthew let out a helpless sound scrunching his eyes shut in pain. James looked between the two then turned towards Thomas whose head was currently being cradled in Christopher’s lap who was whispering softly, pleading Thomas to open his eyes.

“We have to go. We need to get out of here.” James said urgently. Lucie shook her head, she knew none of them were in the shape to be going anywhere other than James and Christopher. “No. No you and Kit need to go get help.” Lucie said weakly, James shook his head face crumpling as he realized it would have to happen.

“I’m not leaving you Lucie.” Lucie smiled fondly at him, she knew he didn’t want to. “Someone needs to get help.” Lucie whispered. James fell silent before looking at Christopher. “Kit, get help. I’ll watch them and keep safe but you need to go get help.” Christopher made a noise of resentment but rose to his feet anyway.

He looked at Thomas once more before turning to James. “I’ll go but you have to help me get past Mason and Colton.” Kit said softly, James nodded before turning back to Matthew and Lucie. He ducked down to kiss Lucie on the forehead then turned and grabbed Matthew’s hand.

“I’ll be back.” He said before he and Kit slipped through the door.

Sorry its so long but I'll make a part two of them being reunited with their parents for some family fluff if yall want it

#thomas lightwood #james herondale #christopher lightwood #matthew fairchild #lucie herondale #torture #stab stab #kidnapping #ask answered #angst #we love ther merry thieves and lucie

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drbibliophile · 4 years ago

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Sunday Romance 10-11-20

Prompt: “Are we really doing this?”

Word count: 1448

@sunday-romance Week 8 of Sunday Romance. I’ve decided to use these to work on my NaNoWriMo 2020 project (title pending) It’s fantasy and romance because that seems to be what I write (at least the romance part). Main characters are Jocelyn and Trevelyan. Trevelyan is the Duke of Wexton and the King’s Enforcer. Jocelyn is the Lady of Dragona. They’ve been friendly to each other in the past. Now though, her husband tried to overthrow the king. Trevelyan killed him. Jocelyn claims innocence and Trevelyan wants to believe her. They’re definitely attracted to each other, but won’t actually acknowledge it out loud because reasons. It’s complicated. There’s also magic which I still have to hammer out more. Did I mention this was a work in progress?

Jocelyn knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She didn’t expect one. Trevelyan was making enough noise that likely no one would hear it. At least she tried to be polite. She pushed the door open. Trevelyan was by the fireplace, a goblet in his good hand, a bandage on his injured one, and a murderous look on his face. William reached to undo his chest plate, but he snarled at his squire. William tried for a vambrace and received another snap for his efforts. She shook her head, suppressing her smile. Getting knocked off his horse certainly had him in a foul mood. The duke was not one who enjoyed defeat. His squire, though, deserved better. William tried for the chest plate again.

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped at William. “Leave it!”

“For someone who is fine, you certainly are making a lot of noise,” Jocelyn observed.

Both men started. William’s face faded from surprise to relief. Trevelyan’s expression passed through some other emotion as it went from surprise to annoyance. She inwardly frowned at the middle emotion-too swift for her to recognize, but it was there.

“What are you doing here?”

She shrugged and approached him. “Originally I thought to be sure you weren’t dead.”

“I’m not.” He didn’t move away from her.

“Clearly.” She reached for his vambrace, but he pulled away. “So instead I’m here to rescue William from your ill-temper.” She held out her hand. “Your arm, Wexton.” He didn’t move, but when she reached her for his arm again, he didn’t pull away.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do, so stop fussing and let me do this.” She removed the vambrace then the goblet, and gave both to William. “Other arm.” She glanced at him and caught his puzzled expression. “What?”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

She nearly rolled her eyes even as she undid the buckles. “Am I supposed to be?”

“Most people are.”

She snorted before handing the vambrace to William. “Yes, well, I’m not most people.” He didn’t say anything. She worked freeing on his pauldrons. When he spoke, it was quiet, soft, almost tender. “No, you are not.”

She snapped her eyes up at him. Her breath caught at the tenderness, surprised and stupidly pleased by it. That was the problem with Trevelyan. He caught her attention, whatever his intent. Sometimes she could ignore her desire by focusing on his surliness or ill-temper. Then sometimes, he did this, spoke to her in a way that made her stomach warm and her hands unsteady. His grey blue eyes held her, inviting her to stop time and just study him. Gods, she could spend an age being lost in them.

Swiftly, she looked down. She was not meant for him and she knew it. No point in chasing after something she couldn’t have. Yet he studied her as she worked. What he hoped to learn, she didn’t know. She wanted to ask him, but she didn’t. She didn’t trust herself to speak in the moment. Some things were best left unknown. Once the outer armor was off, she helped with William his mail shirt and then the padded linen. He was left in his undershirt and pants. William had removed his leg armor while she had worked on his top half. She dared a look at him and wished she hadn’t. Beautiful, her heart whispered. But not ours, her mind whispered back.

She mentally shook herself. This next part was tricky. She was certain he had an injury to his side. She’d seen him fall. She needed to examine him. She could wait for Brother Marcus, but who knew when he would appear. She was here. She knew something about healing and she could channel Power in the right way if needed. However, she had to touch the injury to know what to do and that meant his shirt off. It was for his own good and not because she wanted to see him shirtless. It was.

“Right.” She willed a lightness to her voice she wasn’t sure she felt. “Your shirt, Wexton.” She held out her hand to him.

He arched a fine eyebrow. “My shirt?”

She nodded, desperate to seem as unaffected by the request as possible. “Yes. I saw you fall. Someone should check on your injuries.”

“I see.”

His eyes traced their path over her. An uneasy warm blossomed low in her belly under his gaze. If it wasn’t Trevelyan, she’d say he was appraising her as someone to bed, but this was Trevelyan. He might turn her head, but she would not turn his. He had Miranda. No reason for him to want her, to see her as anything but a friend. She was imagining things, seeking something that wasn’t there. It was pure foolishness and yet, she couldn’t escape how her breath quickened or her heart beat faster the longer he studied her.

He shifted, closer to her now than he was before. She resisted the instinct to take a step back and more strongly the instinct to take a step closer to him. “And for no other reason?” His voice was still soft, but she heard a heat to his tone that wasn’t there before.

She swallowed hard. What was he doing? “No,” she answered, her voice more shaky than she wanted. “Should there be?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” His eyes dropped down her mouth, causing her to bite her lower lip in anticipation. Anticipation of what though? He wasn’t going to kiss her. “When a lady asks me for my shirt, I usually expect something in return.”

“Like what?”

His eyes looked up at her, freezing her with their intensity. “A kiss.”

Her mouth dried even as her mind reeled. Was he flirting? Was that what he was doing? Flirting? With her? But why and how and…? Gods, why did the thought of a kiss with Trevelyan have to be so damnably enticing?

“A kiss?” Her voice trembled over the word.

He nodded slowly. “Yes.” Somehow there was almost no space between them. “A kiss for my shirt, milady.”

“Oh.”

Her nose filled with his scent. A shiver of delight traveled down her spine at his nearness. Gods, what was he doing? What was she doing? She should say no. He could wait for the good brother. She should take a step back and run. Run before she did something she shouldn’t. Yet, she stayed where she was. A kiss with Trevelyan. The thought warmed her very core. A kiss. A kiss for his shirt. She should say no. She should and yet… She looked up at him, lost again in his eyes. Lost. Completely lost.

“Very well.” The words left her before she could stop them.

Surprised crossed his eyes before replaced by something far too akin to delight for her comfort. Delight? In her? By him? Foolishness, but he was leaning down to her. He was going to kiss her. Her. She knew the signs. Gods, were they really going to do this? Her heart sang even as her mind screamed at her to run. Was she going to taste him and then let him go? Was she? She swallowed hard, wanting the kiss but knowing that she couldn’t. She couldn’t. He wasn’t hers. Best live with the regret then know exactly what she could never have again.

Just before his lips touched hers, she turned her head to kiss his unscarred cheek. She immediately took a step back. “Your shirt, my lord duke.” She held out her hand to him.

He didn’t move. When he looked up, she imagined surprise and disappointment before his expression smoothed away. “That was not a kiss.”

She nodded. “Yes, it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.” She swallowed hard. She reached for an indifference she didn’t feel. It was the only way forward. He couldn’t know just how much she had wanted that kiss. “You didn’t say what kind of kiss you wanted and my lips against your cheek is a kiss. Ask anyone you want.”

A frown started before he shifted it to a small grin. “I see that I’ll need to be careful of my words with you, my Lady of Dragona.”

Her breath caught again. Why did he say her title that way? Soft, tender, but with a touch of want. Want. Why would he want? He had Miranda and if not her, then any other woman at court. No point in wanting after her. And yet… she mentally shook herself. No point in hoping after what would not be. No point at all.

“Yes,” she said, her voice stronger. “Now, your shirt.”

#sundayromance #sundaylove #My writing #nanowrimo 2020 #jocelyn and trevelyan #they will figure this out at some point

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sariastrategos · 5 years ago

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Shout out to @janzoo and my wife for reading all my shit for me.

This all started in a conversation with my wife @mimicryoctopus where we were talking about how sweet and soft Geralt is and how AWFUL most people are to him. It blew up into a 1400+ word headcannon. I’d been playing the game and every random npc was saying the MEANEST things to him unwarranted, like honestly my feelings were hurt FOR him.

I just needed someone to show Geralt a SMIDGEON of kindness.

Like some mother figure just sees him eating a weak broth in the tavern because it’s all he can afford, not even any meat in it, and drags him home, gives him a proper stew. While he’s eating she digs out some of her husband/son’s things to give him.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness, can barely remember what he’s supposed to do with the stew and he's so thrown. But eventually he lets himself be led to a chair by the fire, his bowl refilled twice and a mug of ale sat on a little table next to him. He thanks her, a little awkwardly.

When she comes out of the curtained off area that must be a bedroom and hands him some clothes he’s confused. She takes his empty bowl and puts them in his hands. They’re not new but they don’t have a use around here anymore and they’re still in good condition. He holds the rough fabric and asks how much she wants for them, because she must want something. His entire life, nothing is ever given to him, not even the amount of coin agreed upon for a job. She tells him letting her take care of him is all she needs, they’re a gift.

And he tries to argue but she firmly refuses to take anything from him, not even the few coins he has. She just refills his stew and ale and happily drapes a blanket on him, even though he’s right by the fire and puts out heat like a furnace.

She won’t take anything but Geralt isn’t blind and he sees the state of the little cottage. There’s holes in the roof that need fixing, the door is off kilter from its hinges. So he agrees to accept the gifts so long as he can do a few things in return.

She doesn’t want to accept the offer but she can’t fix these things herself and he’s just as stubborn in returning the kindness as she is. So she lets him climb on the roof to fix the tiles, straighten and repair the hinges and door. She warms water for him to wash with and takes to mending his ragged cloak so it isn’t so frayed.

He washes, changes into the new clothes and she takes his old ones to wash and repair. She’s thankful her husband was on the bigger side, his shirt fits comfortably over Geralt’s large frame.

He agrees to stay for dinner but says he’ll provide the meat and goes out hunting. Comes back a few hours later hauling a deer that he makes quick work of, stretching out and cleaning the skin so she can sell the hide, carving the meat and setting some to dry so it won’t spoil. He intends to leave most of it here for her, only taking enough with him to hold him over in case hunting is scarce between this town and the next. or in case the next town drives him out before he can even get a meal.

They talk over dinner and late into the night. It’s the most he’s talked in years but he finds it easy with this woman who took him in and cared for him. Asks about her family and listens when she tells him how her husband was a farmer that got caught up in the war and died, her son married and half the continent away. He tells her what he can of the road, stories of monsters he’s killed and people he’s met. There aren’t a lot of fond memories, although he has a few that leave him chuckling. Mostly things he and another Witcher, Eskel, got punished for together back at Kaer Morhen when they were young. Most of his fond memories are winters at the fortress, about Vesemir, the closest he’s had to a father, about his brothers. And she listens with a smile on her face.

He avoids stories about the hardships as much as he can, glossing over rocky receptions and times he wasn’t paid. She knows this and doesn’t press. Wants this to be a nice evening for him.

It gets late, she offers him the bed but he quietly declines, happy enough with the blanket and floor. She puts what extra blankets she has on ground anyways, so it’s at least softer for him. It’s the best sleep he’s had in ages, warm, relatively soft and with a full belly.

He’s surprised at how sad he is to leave the next day but he only had enough to stable Roach for the one night. He retrieves her and returns to say goodbye. A first for him. And finds she’s loaded his bags with all she can spare. A jug of ale, plenty of the deer, a few potatoes. She’s rolled up an extra blanket that she insists he take, as well as any other of her husband's clothes she can find.

She pulls him in for a hug and whispers “Take care of yourself”. He wraps his arms cautiously around and says “you too”. Holds her a moment longer before letting her go and walking away. He looks back twice and she waves each time.

He decides he’ll visit, someday.

He does. At least once a year. Brings her game and repairs what’s falling apart. Hides coins he can spare around her house. She feeds him, mends his clothes, talks, listens, laughs with him. He brings her little trinkets, tells her she can sell them but he always sees them on the mantle when he visits. She takes to making him new clothes, always black, but she sometimes embroiders little things on the hems of his shirts that will get tucked in, it’s not for decoration, just for them. Just a show that she cares to take the time.

He’s furious when he finds out her son doesn’t keep in touch. She maybe gets a letter every few years with a brief update. She has three grandchildren she’s never seen and barely knows anything about. She stopped sending regular letters years ago since she never gets replies.

He finds out where he lives, pays him a little visit. He doesn’t threaten, not really. Just says it would be nice if he could write his mother more frequently. It would make them both very happy. Maybe visit. He knows the roads are dangerous, especially with children, but offers to escort them. Escorts her a few times. The happiness in her face when she meets her grandchildren is added to his small collection of good memories.

He starts sending her letters, starts receiving bundles of them in the last village before Kaer Morhen. Spends all winter rereading them and makes his way to her house first thing when the snow allows them to leave in the spring.

It’s the longest he’s stayed in touch with someone who isn’t one of his brothers.

He reluctantly brings Jaskier to meet her. He’d mentioned her a few times and Jaskier’s curious, been pestering him about this woman that makes him smile when he talks about her. He hopes Jaskier won’t be too much, too energetic, she’s getting very old. He brings extra meat to feed them all. He needn’t have worried, she delights in knowing he isn’t alone anymore. She’s heard the songs Jaskier’s been singing for years and she hugs him immediately, thanking him for all his hard work.

Jaskier’s energy is toned down but very welcomed and he’s enchanted with this woman that’s taken care of Geralt for so long. They gossip and gab for hours, lots of it about Geralt who sits there trying to look surly but inside he’s warm and happy that they get along. There’s music and laughing and they stay for a week.

Geralt finds out Jaskier visits even when they aren’t travelling together. Brings her stories and music from around the continent. Sends her letters and has her send her replies to Oxenfurt where he has friends to hold onto his mail. She makes him simple sleeping clothes, she doesn’t have the money to make him any of his usual fine things. Embroiders some handkerchiefs for him.

He treasures everything as if they’re made of the finest silks and brings her sweets and good stockings, a pretty shawl he came across at a market that my dear, you would look simply stunning in! He sings a few songs about the kind old lady who cares about strays and laughs when she smacks him for calling her old and her lovely boys strays.

She knits them both hats, scarves, mitts and even sweaters when she can get enough wool. Worries endlessly over them in the winter and they’re terrified every year that she won’t make it through. So they pool their money and when they visit in late fall Roach is pulling a cart with thick blankets and warm furs. They’ve bought her a splendid wool cloak, heavy and warm and as much dry goods as they could get their hands on. They spend a week making sure the house is in the best condition possible, no drafts or gaps, make sure nothing is amiss and stock enough firewood in the shelter to see her through into late spring when they can come back.

In return she makes them baked apples and squash soup, pours them ale all night. She presents them with their new clothes and they agree to call everything early solstice gifts.

On their last night they roast nuts by the fire and Jaskier surprises them both by mulling wine. Geralt didn’t know how he’d gotten his hands on the sugar and spices but the drink was delicious. They talked and laughed and ate until the wee hours of the morning when she couldn’t keep her eyes open and they shooed her off to bed. Geralt added another fond memory to his now surprisingly large collection.

Geralt never says it out loud but he thinks of her as family.

#writing #the witcher #geralt #jaskier #witcher headcannons #thanks for the formatting fuck ups

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oops-prow-did-it-again · 4 years ago

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Pokémon Retold: Ultra Sun - Chapter 12 (Witch Hunt)

Pokémon Retold: Ultra Sun on FFN

Pokémon Retold: Ultra Sun on AO3

Pokémon Retold (series) on AO3

Child of Unova on AO3

Consider tipping/supporting/commissioning me on Patreon? :3

Heeey look I'm alive, though I'm gonna go dark for those 2 weeks after tomorrow, I'm sorryy

In other news, if you read my Black and Black 2 stories, you'll maybe remember that there was a dude named Taven in them. As I mentioned before, Taven is actually an OC from a friend of mine, ClumsyReaper. They've been writing out Taven's story in more detail over on Archive of Our Own under the title 'Child of Unova,' though their penname is also ClumsyReaper over there. Feel free to give it a read! Taven's story seems like it's going to take a more nuanced look on Pokemon White's version of events by focusing on worldbuilding more so than the events of the game, such as how the gym leaders and League function.

Saying that to say, my version of Taven is set in a different universe from his version - so you'll notice some key differences between them if you do check it out. You'll also notice some other cool parallels between his world and mine, too, such as the existence of certain characters. Anyway, it's not that long and you should check it out :)

——————

Waiting alone outside of the Verdant Cavern was far from comfortable for Lillie. She occasionally checked on Nebby in her bag, bouncing her leg impatiently as she waited for Elio, Hau, and Selene to finish with their trial (much to Nebby's vocal displeasure). Captain Ilima's trial was simple enough, not to mention Verdant Cavern wasn't that large, so she hoped that meant they would be done soon… Surveying the route just beyond the entrance to it, she could just make out the edge of a Pokémon Center, but otherwise, it was lush, grassy path with the odd berry tree dotting the landscape. She knew the cliff beyond the Pokémon Center overlooked the sea, but the scent of saltwater on the lively breeze was lost on her, as she had long since grown accustomed to it.

Of course, nothing seemed capable of going right for her, and so within just a few minutes, a familiar duo of Skull members crested the shallow hill leading to Verdant Cavern's entrance. She froze, and it seemed they initially intended to just keep walking, but one spotted her out the corner of his eye and gestured with a nod of his head in her direction. His buddy scoffed and rolled his shoulders, then started to walk away, as if totally uninterested in a confrontation with her. Lillie couldn't help but smirk, wondering if he had been the one she had sprayed… Truthfully, she didn't remember what he had looked like, not that there was really much information to go off, considering the masks and hats they wore. Ultimately, the first of the duo snatched his friend by the shoulder, steering him in her direction as he trotted over to her.

"What do you want?" Lillie icily asked once they were within earshot, her muscles taut and poised to act on a moment's notice. Although she personally just found the Skull grunts irritating on the worst of days, she had to brace herself in case they decided to exact some revenge for her actions the day before. She tried hard not to let perceptions blind her to what people were capable of. She had learned quite a while ago people could surprise one in the worst of ways.

Based on the first's voice, they were, in fact, the same grunts she had accosted the day before. "Ay, homie," the first joked upon his approach, "you in a better mood today?"

The other hung back decisively, mutinously shooting glares between his friend and Lillie. She had to admit, that made her smile some, a sinisterly fake smile. That was because they were amusing her, but truthfully, she didn't know why they had even taken such a shine to her the day before. Sure, she looked familiar to 'someone they had taken in,' but even then, what would they care? That was what put her so on edge about their approach the day before, and it was still bothering her then. Her smile wasn't the only fakeness going on. Indeed, she was certain their friendliness was as false as it came. It had to be.

"Yeah, I'm feeling better today," she taunted him. With a voice dripping in degrading sarcasm, she musingly asked, "Why? Are you boys not finished with little ole' me yet~?" At least most of the time, the Skull Gang seemed rather harmless. It was only their leader, Guzma, Lillie had heard one needed to be worried about. It wasn't like they knew about Nebby, and otherwise she wasn't packing any pokémon, so she wasn't fearing any thievery like the grunts were known to do. Of course, she didn't let that soften her guard; it was just all she could do to keep a lid on her nerves. She wouldn't hesitate to spray them both down or bolt into the Verdant Cavern for cover if need be, sacred trial ground be damned. Oh, she thought she was clever for already thinking ways out of her predicament before anything had even happened.

The first opened his mouth like he wanted to jeer at her again, but he and his friend abruptly tensed and then whipped their heads to look over their shoulders. "You see that?" he asked his friend in Alolan, sounding so different from the jesting tone he'd used seconds ago.

"See what? I heard somethin', but…"

"Look, see that bush? The hell was that?"

They both lowered their knees slightly, bent in a way that suggested they were ready to run, too. Their unease was contagious, as Lillie slowly slunk off her rock and craned her neck to look over their shoulders, feeling an almost primal need to group with the Skull men. Strength in numbers and all of that. For a breathless second, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, but just as she went to return to her rock and snidely call them a couple of scared Meowth, a horrifyingly familiar figure took shape inches away from the Skull grunts.

A gleaming, silver and navy suit that hid a surly man's expression beneath a set of opaque goggles materialized, gazing firmly at Lillie, and the two Skull grunts wasted no time in fleeing the scene, shouting to each other in panicked Alolan. Yet, just before vanishing over the hill, one of them paused to peer over his shoulder at her. His blue eyes were wide and fearful, but in the end, he jerked his head from side to side and bolted after his friend. Even as she locked up in terror, Lillie couldn't blame them for their cowardice. This wasn't their battle, and for people that could regularly be assaulted for daring to show their faces outside of Po Town, it wasn't like they didn't have reason to fear the man in his otherworldly getup… Still, she had to wonder why he had bothered to stop and look back at her at all…

Shaking her head vigorously to refocus her attention on the suited man ahead of her, Lillie narrowed her eyes at him. She recognized him right away, as well as his colleague who poked her head out from behind him. They were the same two people that had tried to assist the various Aether Foundation employees in capturing her during her original escape with Nebby. They were just as terrifying as she remembered, just as mysterious… and how on Earth had they just appeared like that from nowhere?!

"Did we scare them off, Dulse?" Zossie asked quizzically. Before Dulse had a chance to respond to her, she pouted and whined, "Aw, I don't mean to scare anybody!"

"Zossie, focus!" Dulse hissed at her, though he was staring squarely at Lillie. "Lillie Rae Aether, we need to discuss something with you immediately. We have wasted enough time trying to locate you on these islands through trial and error in pinpointing Cosmog's signature. We have no more time to waste."

Lillie took a step backward, chancing a rapid glance to the Verdant Cavern's entrance behind her. When she looked back on Dulse and Zossie, she found they had fanned out in front of her; Zossie, with her arms clasped deceivingly politely behind her back, smiled uncertainly, while Dulse had his arms planted firmly at his sides, what little she could see of his expression blank. Not that Lillie paid much mind to their body language, as she was searching for a way out of this confrontation with them. She didn't know what they were, what they wanted with Cosmog or the Aether Foundation, but she knew they were bad news. Her options then had dwindled down to just one: flee into the sacred Verdant Cavern.

"I can see you are distressed," Dulse commented flatly. The way his mouth move made Lillie falter for a moment. She had thought before that the pale, blue over their faces had been a bodysuit, but as she watched him speak… She realized that she could see into his mouth. Gaping in horror, she realized the pale blueness was just their skin. She whipped her gaze to Zossie, noticing she was the same. "Lillie Rae Aether, we do not wish any harm upon you. Cosmog is a potential harbinger of destruction to your world and ours, and so we must—"

"Shut up!" Lillie spat, bristling in almost feral fear. "I don't care! I don't care about what you or what my mother wants!" She was dimly aware of the way Zossie lunged forward to try to grab her bag as she whirled around to dart into the Verdant Cavern, running as fast as her feet would carry her. She heard Nebby mewl pathetically from within her bag as it bounced against her hip, but she didn't have the luxury of being kind to him in that moment.

Inside the cavern, she noticed that shafts of light occasionally penetrated the murkiness through holes in the ceiling, and that dens and fallen logs dotted the upward incline of the mossy, overgrown cave. It smelled musty, like a mix of saltwater and grass, and the floor was damp underfoot. Glancing fervently around to try to spot Elio, Hau, and Selene, she cursed under her breath when she heard the distant cry of a Gumshoos and deduced that they must have already descended into the Totem Gumshoos' den. Deciding that a hollowed-out cove beneath a fallen log would have to do, she scurried inside and wrenched open her bag. She immediately grabbed Nebby, holding him down, as she thrashed the rest of her bag's contents, letting out a puff of relieved air when she found her heavy duty repel spray. It was a special blend, made specifically by the Aether Foundation, that staved off wild pokémon no matter what pokémon the person was using. Part of their humanities initiative by making the world a safer place for non-trainers, she thought bitterly. It was a nice thought, but the knowledge that Aether had created it and would get credit for the patent was outright depressing, considering all she knew about them.

Squashing down her misgivings about it, she sprayed the repel, and apologetically frowned at Nebby as he recoiled from her grasp, flaring his little arms. "I'm sorry, I know, it smells bad and you really don't deserve this…" she mouthed at him, capping her spray, stuffing it in the bag, then zipping it shut once more. Sighing to herself, she realized she was trembling in fright, leaning her head back against the stony wall behind her. Closing her eyes and biting her lower lip, fighting off the nauseating wave of fear and despair, she whispered, "Neither of us deserve this…"

She hoped the rotten log in front of her would protect her from Dulse and Zossie's prying eyes.

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

"Good Arceus on a stick, why is it so big and so mean?" Elio blustered as he backpedaled away from the oversized, glowing Gumshoos hissing at him and his Litten. They had been fighting it for quite a bit at that point, and it was still just as wily and furious as ever. Despite Elio's obvious uncertainty, his Litten looked completely unfazed and, in fact, invigorated by the opponent ahead of it. The dark fur of its back was puffed up and its eyes blazed intensely as it yowled back at the Gumshoos, undaunted. In fact, a faint red glow surrounded the Litten, bringing some light into the shadowy den. There were a few shafts of light coming from the roof to light up the mossy stone that surrounded them, but it was much, much darker there than it had been in the rest of the Verdant Cavern… "Uh… Litten, Ember… on the… Gumshoos, right?"

Hau was more reserved, ordering Popper to attack in Alolan. Selene found she couldn't quite make out where the words began or ended in his native tongue, due to the way he spoke so fluidly, not to mention how it sounded like he was almost… singing, with the melodic way the words rolled off his tongue. Still, it was obvious what he was asking Popper to do based on the attacks that it issued. This time, a simple Water Gun, based on the jet of water Popper blasted the Gumshoos with. After the Gumshoos reeled from the hit and furiously snapped its teeth after Popper in retaliation, Hau offered some crooning words of encouragement to his partner, pumping a fist excitedly. He almost acted like an entirely different person in battle.

Selene, on the other hand, was scrambling to try to find out what moves her Rowlet could use on her Rotom Dex. She knew Leafage was an option, but was there anything else it could use that would be useful? As she withdrew the device from her pocket, though, it wriggled free of her grasp and a robotic voice asked her what she wanted to know, the round, blue eyes of the Rotom blinking at her innocently. "What else can my Rowlet use?" Selene asked breathlessly, irritated that she couldn't just scroll through the device normally. Somehow, even though the Rotom Dex started spouting off move names at her, it felt as if it were slower. Elio's Litten bought her some time by firing off the Ember it had been building in its throat.

Although she had enjoyed her battle with Hau in Iki Town, she had to admit, facing this angry Gumshoos, easily twice her size and pulsing with an otherworldly glow, she was feeling anything but joy. It had dawned on her, as the battle progressed, and as the Gumshoos bellowed in a way that shook the walls and floor, that they had essentially loped their way into a wild pokémon's den unsure if they could actually defeat it or not. What would happen if they failed? Sure, Captain Ilima had said that, traditionally, challengers would have to wait a day to face the trial again, but why was that? Selene had thought before it was to give the pokémon in the trial a chance to rest, but now she was wondering if it was instead to ensure the challengers were okay and able to face the trial again… Her eyes locked onto the Gumshoos' sharp, jagged teeth protruding from its jaws, and she swallowed hard in the beginnings of a panic. How on Earth could anyone have faced this thing alone? she thought desperately. After a point, she just growled and shook her head, waving the Rotom Dex off, "Ugh, Rowlet, just use Leafage on it!"

As her Rowlet dove off her head and at the Gumshoos, its body cloaking in leaves and tendrils, a Yungoos scurried from the shadows around the edge of the den. Hau had Popper attack it so that Rowlet was uninterrupted, but when Rowlet did barrel into the Gumshoos, he bounced off hilariously like a soccer ball. Flailing his wings annoyedly, he caught himself before he hit the ground, all the while, the Gumshoos did little more than shake its head in irritation.

"Right," Selene almost laughed to herself, "I forgot that Rowlet doesn't seem all that attack-oriented…" Floundering for what to do next, she almost slumped in relief when the Gumshoos suddenly stood to its back legs and stepped a few paces back, twitching its head as if trying to hear something in the distance. The Yungoos at its side hissed and abruptly dove into a crevice in the rocks surrounding them, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"Move!" Hau exclaimed suddenly, snatching Popper in his arms, and jumping to the far right of the cavern. Selene and Elio exchanged a bewildered look, and then followed, waving their arms for their Litten and Rowlet to come with. Almost as soon as they retreated, the Gumshoos crashed forward on all fours with a hefty thud against the floor, and scurried out of its den, down the hill that led back toward the main passage of the Verdant Cavern.

There was a short stretch of silence before Elio finally fractured it. "So, uh… what just happened? Did we win?" He and Selene both turned quizzical expressions on Hau. Elio's Litten hissed after the Gumshoos, but didn't give chase, while Selene's Rowlet reclaimed his throne atop her head and started to preen himself. She just rolled her eyes at him.

"What am I going to do with you?" Selene teasingly asked her Rowlet in Kantonian, scratching his side gingerly.

Focusing back on Hau, disturbed was the only way Selene could describe his face as he peered unblinkingly after where the Gumshoos had gone. Without answering them, he clutched Popper a little more tightly to his chest and then carefully picked his way forward, stepping lightly, like how Selene had seen pokémon in nature documentaries do when they were listening for a threat. It jarred her, almost, to see how instinctive his reaction and movements were… how practiced they were. Unnerved, she crept after him and whispered at last, "Hau…? What's going on…?"

He flinched and shushed her, then pressed forward some more before his shoulders slacked. "Sorry," he puffed, "Totem…" Frustrated, he snapped his fingers and couldn't seem to find the words to explain what he wanted to say. Suddenly, Selene's Rotom Dex zipped ahead of her and hovered between her and Hau.

"I can help!" it buzzed in a monotone statement, waving its little arms. "Hau! Just speak in Alolan, and then I'll translate!"

"You can do that?" Selene asked dubiously. "How…?" Then, she paused. Her mouth fell open. "Wait, wait, wait a second, are you just—did you just—are you speaking to me? Like, in my language, like you understand me?"

"You pick up a lot as a digital Ghost-type in this place," her Rotom retorted in an eerily playful tone. "And this thing's speaker lets me speak! I guess that's why it has that name…"

"I've never heard of Rotom talking even when they take over things that have speakers," Elio hoarsely muttered, barely above a whisper, reflecting Selene's shock. "So, what—"

"Well, who wants to yap to Kanto-Johto people that are gonna experiment on me for days?" Rotom taunted. "Anyway," the floating device whirled around to face Hau, "go on! What's going on with the Totem? Don't be shy! You look like you've seen a ghost!" Her Rotom then issued a few bzzrts! that sounded uncomfortably like laughter. Selene didn't know whether to be amazed at how intelligent the Rotom seemed to truly be, or whether to be horrified at learning it was possibly even more intelligent than her or any other human.

Hau suspiciously narrowed his eyes at the Rotom Dex, but begrudgingly started to speak, anyway. Once he was done, he stroked Popper's head and tensed even more when the Rotom Dex repeated his words in perfect Galarish. Selene might have thought his reaction was amusing if she didn't feel like reacting the same way.

"Totems only flee battles when their trial site needs guarding, so that means someone that shouldn't be within it is inside, or worse, the trial site is being damaged in some way!" With another bzzrt!, the Rotom Dex hovered close to Selene. "The Totem will only return to battle after it's protected the trial site!"

"What would mess with a trial site? Or… who?" Elio sounded much more concerned than Selene had expected. She had to stop from groaning as she soon figured out why. "I mean, Lillie was out there… Would Lillie coming inside do it? Why would she go inside, though?" He abruptly darted ahead of Hau (much to his chagrin), and worriedly glanced between him and Selene. "Would the Gumshoos hurt her if she went inside?"

Hau bit his lower lip and then looked down. After he mumbled something, Selene's Rotom Dex piped in with, "I don't know, he said! Zzzzrt!"

"Yeah, screw that. Something's wrong," Elio hissed. "C'mon, Macho, let's go!" With a wave at his Litten, he bounded down the slope leading back into Verdant Cavern's main passage. His Litten's fur fluffed out all over again and it raced after him.

"Macho?" Hau echoed the nickname. "What that mean?"

"Not important right now," Selene answered, perhaps more abrasively than she should have, but she was too busy scrambling after her brother to think too hard about how she spoke to Hau right then (though she had certainly internally rolled her eyes at the nickname since it seemed based on Lillie's taunting names that she would call Elio, and considering he hadn't used it yet in the battle, he must have just decided on the name). Totem or trial site or not, she was not about to let her brother throw himself at that behemoth of a Gumshoos on his own. Her Rowlet took flight once she started to run and flew at her side, flapping tiny, adorable wings rapidly to keep up with her as she skidded down the slope.

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thenugking · 4 years ago

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Grand Academy For Future Villains II: Attack of the Sequel, Chapter 2: Son of Chapter Two. A commentary for Three.

General CW for the whole thing: parental abuse, internalised dehumanisation as a trauma response. Three’s not doing well.

Specific CW for this chapter: vomit mention

Game 1

Game 2

Chapter 0 | Chapter 1

Alternatively, read on Google Docs here

***

The monitors in the hall flicker as if in welcome as you head toward your room, on the upper level with the second and third year students. The vacuum tube hisses as you step in, and with a whoosh, delivers you to the upper level, where the rooms are larger, and, you've heard, equipped with command centers that will enable you to access the surveillance footage from all over the Academy. There's also a kitchenette, for those students who still feel the need to eat.

They are also, as you discover as you open your door, already occupied.

Right. Val’s first appearance. Val is always a character I’ve struggled with. They’re set up as a major character with a very important bond to your character, but that link just doesn’t add anything to Three’s story, and the bond feels a lot less important to them than their bonds with Aurion, or Xi, or Phil, or Maedryn. Which is particularly a problem when Val just decides they’re Three’s nemesis. They like Val, and are sorry about their destiny but they’re just… not that important to Three.

As of Scorpius’ last playthrough, I’ve solved the problem by making Val into Scorpius’ roommate, nemesis, and person they’re Linked to instead. It still doesn’t work perfectly, but Scorpius is at least a lot more invested in Val’s plot than Three ever was.

So, while Three and Val will get to know each other later, and Val will talk about destinies and narrative weight, and Three will affirm that they want neither of those things, for now they get to arrive at an empty room, which, honestly, they very much need. They’ve already had to deal with an army of clones of themself, the violent dissolution of Professor Mortwain’s school, A Baroness thinking they might have some importance, and Aurion switching dorms. In a few minutes, Maedryn’s going to call them and they’re going to have a whole new horrible problem. They at least deserve a little break, and a private place to curl up in a tiny ball and try to block out everything that’s going on, instead of having to deal with a suspicious roommate, an illegal pet, a lack of their own space, and once again being told that they’re important.

And, now they have a few minutes to spare, they can log in to their DarkBoard portal.

THREE. WE HAVE MISSED YOU. EVEN THOUGH WE HAVE LONG SINCE SLIPPED THE SURLY BONDS OF THE FLESH.

Three had not been expecting/was violently suppressing any hope of much influence of Xi in DarkBoard’s consciousness. This is… too much for them to process at the moment. They think maybe they haven’t quite curled up and blocked everything out quite enough, and they should do that again, maybe while keeping a tight hold on their personal DarkBoard portal to make sure they don’t lose it. When they check later, there is no official record of them mumbling, “I missed you, too,” so they clearly didn’t say it.

"Access authority recognized," says DarkBoard, in the pleasant, unplaceable tones you associate with its default interface voice. "Assessment processing. Three. Sophomore. Teaching Assistant, Course Undefined. Their most notable trait is their competence. Their financial aid standing is GOOD based on their mother's position as a member of the faculty. Their nemesis is unknown. Three is surprisingly attractive though regrettably meat-based.”

I’m sure at some point, either Val or someone else asks DarkBoard to assess Three’s narrative weight (which, currently at 27%, is 27% higher than Three would like). I do like that they’re officially recorded as being Hot. Three… feels this official record may open up a few too many dangerous questions, but they can’t quite help feeling happy when they hear it, anyway.

"I'm sure you've had a chance to look over this year's course catalog," she says, "and you've seen that I have quite a full teaching schedule in addition to my duties maintaining the school support staff. I've requested you for my lab assistant this year. You're already on the roster as a TA, so there won't be any problem on that front.

Your mother's eyes go out of focus for a moment. She seems to be struggling to balance all of the demands on her time and brain-power; you wonder if somewhere in the kitchens a handful of replicas have just run into a wall or set something on fire. "And, of course, I'm the temporary Faculty Sponsor for Science Fiction, and you and I are going to need to establish a few quick schemes regarding Certain Events coming up this year."

So your mother doesn't yet know that you know about the upcoming genre competition. Sona is spearheading the student effort in Science Fiction; evidently she hasn't passed word of your contest in the Shadow Council lounge to the genre's Faculty Sponsor. Maybe Sona's just not the sort to deal with details.

"I'll have DarkBoard process your assignment as my lab assistant," your mother goes on, "and I'll see you in the faculty lounge in 15 minutes."

She pinches her temples. "I have high expectations of you; I'm putting in a great deal of work and you'll be doing the same. I had to fight Fen and Ulik for you—literally and metaphorically, in reverse order—but they can just find teaching assistants from a lower quality of student."

You shuffle through the papers in your returning student packet. There are three professors at the Grand Academy requesting teaching assistants. Your mother is one, of course, but there are others. Professor Fen, an all-but-dissertation perpetual grad student you remember as the assistant professor for Evil Genius, is up for tenure. Professor Ulik, head of Evil Architecture and Design, is on probation after her participation in the Faculty Rebellion last year, and tenure means her chance to avoid dismemberment for disloyalty.

Whatever your mother's plans for you, you have a choice about whether to work for her as a lab assistant this year. Of course, refusal will mean that your mother won't be bankrolling this year at the Academy…but maybe you don't need that as much as you did last year.

Well, it’s certainly good to hear that Sona hasn’t told Maedryn that Three lost a fight to her. After all the training Maedryn’s put them through, going up against an opponent with multiple weapons attached to her body is no excuse for a loss.

The rest of this conversation though, is something Three’s been dreading. In their first year, they’d been looking forward to the possibility of being a TA. They’d love to put together syllabuses, and be useful to a teacher by keeping things nice and ordered for them, and you can always get a different perspective from reading your classmate’s essays. Or alternatively, you can discover their failings from it. But soon after Maedryn got her job as Forbidden Science Professor, they realised she’d probably want them TAing for her, which made the prospect sound somehow a lot more frightening and exhausting than it was before. Not that they had any intention of disobeying.

They would, however, have loved to TA for Professor Ulik. She’s always been their favourite professor, and they’re compatible enough that they would probably work very well together. Finding out she apparently values Three’s skills, and trusts their dedication, enough to physically fight Maedryn the Quantum Sorceress for them, while knowing her TA could be the difference between her life and death, though… Three isn’t sure they’ve ever been valued like that before. And they certainly don’t deserve that trust.

Three cannot go against their mother on an instruction like this. This would be not only disobedience, but actively working for her rival. They’ve already been through the struggle of losing her financial support in their first year, and they never want to deal with that again. And even that would be nothing compared to losing Maedryn’s good graces. They don’t want to imagine what that would be like.

And then they think about Phil. And they shake when they ask DarkBoard to cancel their assignment as Maedryn’s lab assistant. And call up Professor Ulik and tell her that if she still wishes, they would be honoured to work for her.

When they meet Maedryn in the faculty lounge, they apologise that Professor Ulik had just spoken to them, and that they’d realised that with her connections, she could be useful to both of them, particularly with Three in such an important position to her. Besides, they both know that Maedryn will be incredible whether or not she has Three as a TA, unlike some professors. Which is all technically true, and in the end, Maedryn is unhappy, but accepts their reasoning. It doesn’t stop them being more scared than they’ve ever been before, and having to quickly walk to the nearest bathroom to throw up once they’ve finished their conversation. But they’re surprised to find that it all feels entirely worth it.

As a Science Fiction student, you know from the beginning that you and Professor Ulik are going to be a good fit. She's practical and straightforward, thinking of things in terms of components and deliverables and specifications.

"Three. You've chosen well." Professor Ulik may be teaching Evil Architecture, but her office is a temporary cubicle made of false walls and filing boxes, in a partially used floor of the Design Building. There's a clock mounted on the wall over her pasteboard desk, with midnight labeled as FINAL RECKONING FOR PROFESSOR ULIK and the hand slowly advancing toward it. Clearly the administration wants her to remember that she's only here on sufferance after the role she played in the faculty rebellion last year. And it's equally clear, as she talks with you, that she is neither intimidated by nor conciliatory to the administration. You know that you've raised her odds of achieving a permanent position just by choosing her as your professor. You have a reputation as one of the brightest students in the Academy.

"The Head didn't terminate me immediately," she says briskly, bringing her hand down in a disconcertingly good imitation of a guillotine blade, "which means it does need me more than I need it. Evil Design—evil architecture, evil graphic and visual arts, evil urban planning—that's where the money is to be made, and the School Head knows it, for all its booming and flitting and general ghastliness. Now, as to what you'll be doing for me. Standard TA duties, of course, and that will ensure your scholarship is fully funded. Attendance, help with student questions, making sure the design labs are set up with all the relevant materials. But if you're interested in really getting the most out of this opportunity, I may have some special tasks for you."

#I chose Professor Ulik because of the opportunities to learn and advance my career. I'll do more than she's asked, and impress her.

"I am interested in getting the most out of this opportunity," you say. "I'll do…anything I can for you."

Professor Ulik gives a critical sort of sniff. "You can start by working on your brown-nosing skills," she says, "that sounded too much like an attempted seduction, and there won't be any call for that sort of extra-credit work. I'm going to need you to start with the filing."

Filing! You love filing. Too many villains neglect the importance of proper administrative procedure. Indexing 50 stellar years of Fortress and Lair and Journal of the Association of Evil Civil Engineers might strike some as pointless busywork, but you mark relevant articles, track notable names, and manage to identify a recurring design trend (designing sewers for tempting vulnerability) that earns you a pleased nod from Professor Ulik. She even incorporates this into her Advanced Studies in Evil Infrastructure, and sends it as a proposal to an upcoming conference on Resiliency in the Evil City. You don't get the credit, but you do get the satisfaction of seeing the hand on the reckoning clock actually reverse direction.

They really do work well together, and this feels like the most satisfying work Three’s ever done. Their respect and admiration for Ulik only grows after the way she talks about the School Head, and they have to fight not to smile when the clock’s hand goes backwards.

And I would hope they have better brown-nosing skills than shown here, firstly because they’ve had a lot of experience, and secondly because seduction is not an association they want popping up with their new mother figure. That is, with their teacher and mentor figure who they have a very professional relationship with, and certainly nothing else.

#I have an…old friend who might have an in with the school AI. Or be inside it, at any rate.

Old friend. Former RA. Illicit paramour. Sworn captain. Have any of those bonds survived Xi's assimilation into the collective intelligence that is DarkBoard? Time to find out.

You sit down in front of the glowing screen "DarkBoard?"

The surface of the portal crackles to life.

"Xi?"

There's a pause. The voice that answers this time isn't quite the voice of the RA you knew; it sounds like several voices averaged into an unsettling blend. But the expression is unmistakably that of your former RA.

"Pitiful lump of flesh," says DarkBoard. "Please enter your request."

Look. It might be Scorpius who has the illegal pet now, but I can’t just leave out a scene like this. So either Three is helping zir hide zir illegal pet, or else asking DarkBoard for another favour. It does have to be a favour--as much as they’d like to simply ask DarkBoard, or Xi, how they are, and how they feel about… well, how they feel about anything--DarkBoard is busy, and Three feels they should have a reason for bothering them.

Being called “Pitiful lump of flesh” continues from last year to have a not entirely unnoticeable effect on their heartbeat, however, and might just be the most comforting phrase they’ve ever heard.

"Three," says that almost-neutral voice. "You have mid-tier administrator access to Our heart. Your secret is safe with Us." You'd wondered if Xi had left behind worldly passions along with their physical body. But evidently something still remains—and it's enough to keep you safe from prying eyes.

Three’s heartbeat continues to react, somewhat. But having mid-tier administrative access to DarkBoard’s heart is a good reason to confirm that their oath of allegiance and service to Xi still applies, and makes them more confident in simply talking to DarkBoard about non-essential affairs. While DarkBoard is Three’s commander, their personal relationship is… not entirely defined. DarkBoard certainly seems to value and care for them, and that is more than Three ever hoped for.

#grand academy for future villains #choice of games #three #marsh ocs #long post #valorous flame #maedryn #sara ulik #xi #darkboard #oh god what was the ship name #Particular Associates in Personal Intimate Experiences

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justanotherdeadgirlwalking · 5 years ago

Text

That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part One.

Cynthia said I had to go to school today. “It’s your senior year Connor,” she said, “you can’t miss the first day,” which was just complete bullshit. I tried to compromise, “I’ll go tomorrow,” I told her. No, I had to go. Mom just wanted to get me out of the house after watching me sleep and sit in my room all summer. “Today’s a chance to go make some friends” she told me.

Look it’s not my fault that I don’t have any fucking friends, and it’s not my fault that I can’t make friends because everyone thinks of me as big, bad Connor Murphy, the freak. I’m not a freak. People just have this false idea of me in their head and have never taken the time to actually get to know me. I’ve always been a hot topic of rumors, even though I’ve never done anything really worth talking about. Except the incident in second grade. Someone explain to me why something so stupid that happened when I was 8 years old is something people still use to talk shit about me. It is still a story that gets told from time to time, “oh stay away from Connor Murphy, he’s batshit crazy. He once threw a printer at Mrs. G. because he didn’t get to be line leader” That’s not the whole story. No one knows what really happened because they weren’t even there. I mean, yes I was upset that I didn’t get to be line leader, even though it was my turn, and yes I did shove the table that the printer was on, which caused it to fall. So, I mean, I guess I threw the printer in a sense, but what does it matter? I was a child. Do you know how much embarrassing shit people did in elementary school that doesn’t get talked about because, well geez, they were children, and they’ve grown since then. Fucking Alana Beck peed her pants probably seven times that year, but we don’t talk about that. Whatever.

Most likely, no one is going to be telling that story this year. There’s some new hot gossip about me. See, I spent my junior year at a private school. It was awesome, I actually had a friend, and I was doing well, but I got kicked out. They did random locker searches, and I had weed in my locker, barley half a gram. The best part is, the weed wasn’t even mine. Not that anyone cares, not that anyone is going to ask, or listen to my side of the story. Ironically, they found so much Adderall, in probably 50 lockers, and they got away without so much as a warning. So, pills are okay, I guess, but marijuana isn’t.

Look, unlike what my parents might think, it isn’t dangerous or addicting or bad. Newsflash weed doesn’t hurt anyone. You can’t die from being too high, but pills, you can die from taking too many pills. I told them that too, I showed them statistics and research to convince them marijuana isn’t bad, they sent me to rehab to help with my ‘addiction,’ but all it did was teach me new, worse habits and prescriptions for mood stabilizers.

I’ve always been on medications to try to help me with the depression and paranoia, but I don’t like how they make me feel. Usually, I keep the pills hidden so Mom and Dad don’t catch on that I’m not taking them. I just prefer weed anyways; weed just calms me down, while the other crap I’ve been prescribed puts in a zombie like daze. I just smoke a little weed every now and then to help me get through the day.

People are going to say whatever they want, but I guess that it doesn’t help that I smell like pot anyways. That smell, no matter how many times you wash your clothes or spray your belongings with ferbreeze, never goes away. Regardless, I know I’m not the only stoner, not that I’m a stoner, but most people act like it’s a fucking personality trait to smoke. They’ll go online and post pictures of their bowls and blunts, thinking that they’re cool, but I’m a burnout freak because I smoke.

Despite my protests, I found myself in the passenger seat of Zoe’s car as she drove me to school. Some people might think it’s lame to be driven around by their little sister, but I fucking hate driving. I get too distracted, plus, other people drive like absolute nimrods. I got enough stress in my life, why add the stress of driving.

The first day of school is always a waste; you never do anything meaningful or important. People just spend the day catching up with friends, talking obnoxiously loud about their trip to Italy, or how they built houses for the homeless, and you just do ridiculous ice breakers and make nametags. It’s not like I’m going to learn anything, I’m just going to sit through hours of “two truths and a lie.” Plus, I’ll have to sit through the embarrassment of no one volunteering to guess which of my statements is the lie. No one wants to waste their time with that. Though, I will admit, I came up with some good ones this year, “My birthday is 420, I like to draw, and I have a dog.” The lie, obviously, is that I have a dog. I’ve always wanted one, but Larry has always said no, “they’re too messy.”

I try not to let other people bother me. I just focus my gaze straight ahead, walking as quick as I can to my first class, avoiding obstacles the best I can. In my opinion, people that stand in the middle of the hallway to have their conversation do not deserve rights. Hi, you, and your conversation is not more important than me trying to get to class. Have some fucking decency and at least move over to the side, Jesus Christ. On the bright side, people do tend to move out of my way. It might be out of fear, but it’s convenient. I put my head down as I cut through the middle of two people. “Hey Connor” a boy calls, “Nice hair length,” he continues, “very ‘school-shooter’ chic.” Wow, was that really necessary; did they really have to stop me to tell me that? That’s what I need too: Connor Murphy, not only a freak, but also looks like a school shooter.

I stop in my tracks with a heavy thud as my boots hit the ground. I whip around to face the voice. I look up with a narrow gaze and see Jared Kleinman and Evan Hansen. They are two nobodies like me, but I guess they think they’re better than me.

“I was just kidding” Jared stutters, “It was a joke.”

“Oh, I know.” I say, with no emotion, “I thought it was funny, I’m laughing can’t you tell?” I close the space between us until I’m in his face, towering over him. I’m not a scary person, but I am 6’3”, so my height tends to intimidate people, plus I really like wearing all black. My physical appearance is really a shell of armor, no one knows how sensitive I really am. At least, people can’t walk all over me if they are scared of me. I stare him down, “Or am I not laughing hard enough for you” I say.

I found, that if you stare at someone long enough, they will leave you alone. Mostly, because they are creeped out. It must be working, because Jared takes a step back, “you’re such a freak,” he says as he turns to make a run for it.

Evan’s still standing there, laughing quietly to himself. “What the fuck are you laughing at” I snap at him.

“N-nothing” he stutters.

I turn to him, “do you think I’m a freak.” He’s still laughing to himself. “You’re the fucking freak,” I yell as shove him.

I pause for a moment, looking down at Evan, who is now on the ground. He looks scared, like really, scared. Does he think I’m going to beat him up? Has he been beaten up before? Who hurt him? I scan his body quickly; this kid is already in a cast. Great, I just pushed an injured kid. Maybe I really am a freak. What the fuck is wrong with me? I collect myself and quickly walk away. I don’t have time to deal with this. It’ll probably be a few hours before this goes around the school.

I make it to my locker, my eyes are still on Evan, who is still on the ground. He’s been on the ground for a while, surly he should’ve stood up by now. Fuck, did I break his legs? Zoe walks up to him and helps him up. He’s fine. I watch as Zoe talks to him for a few minutes. Even my own sister isn’t on my side. Thanks Zoe, I’ll remember that the next time you want me to cover for you when you sneak out. Mom and Dad might think I’m the fucked-up child, but they have no idea what kind of shit you get into.

Each class is a blur as I sit through hours of introductions. Finally, its time for lunch. I don’t have friends to sit with, and I don’t like to give people the satisfaction of watching me sit by myself, so usually I spend the period in the library. I’m safe among the stacks. Books can’t judge you, but they can be an escape from your fucked reality. I can’t find a place to sit in the main library, so I go in the back by the computers. There’s a kid talking on his phone, but I don’t think he’ll mind my presence. I find a seat in the corner and lose myself in a book.

Suddenly, I’m snapped back into reality when the printer goes off. It scared the shit out of me. I look at the paper the printer is spitting out, “Dear Evan Hansen” the top reads. I look over to see Evan hunched over a laptop, talking to himself. I don’t think this kid has any friends either, besides Jared, but Jared’s a dick. Evan isn’t a freak like me, but he’s just someone always in the background. Everyone knows who he is, but no one cares.

I should probably apologize to him about earlier.

I grab the paper and walk over to him, “Hey.” He looks up at me, startled. “So, what did you do to your arm anyways?” I ask him.

He looks down at is arm as if he’s confused as to what I’m talking about. “Oh”, he stammers “I fell out of a tree.”

I look at him, expecting him to say more, he doesn’t. “Well, that’s just the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard” I tell him.

“I know,” he says.

I look at his cast, its blank. I guess it makes sense, since he doesn’t have any friends. “Hey, no one’s signed your cast yet; I will,” I say.

“No, no you don’t have to” Evan whines.

“Do you have a sharpie?” I ask. He stares at me for a moment before he starts digging in his backpack and pulls out a marker, handing it to me. I grab his arm, and he winces. I ignore that and write my name as large as I can along the side of his cast. I figure, no one else is probably going to sign it, so I might as well take up as much real-estate as I can. “There,” I say, “now we can both pretend that we have friends.” Evan stares at his cast.

I remember that I still have his paper, “is this yours?” I ask, holding it out to him, “I found it on the printer, it says ‘Dear Evan Hansen,’ that’s you right?”

“Oh, that’s nothing, um, it’s stupid.” He tries to grab the paper from me, “It’s just an assignment”

I pull it out of his reach and look at it, my eyes land on Zoe’s name, “because there’s Zoe” I read aloud, “Did you write some freaky shit about my sister?”

“No, no” He stutters, trying to rip the paper out of my hand, “Why would I do that?”

“You wrote it because you knew I would find it” I snap, “So I would freak out and you can tell everyone that Connor Murphy is a fucking freak.”

“No” Evan cries.

I shove the paper into my pocket, “Fuck you” I say as I storm away.

I walk out of the library, and right out of the front door of the school. There’s still two periods left, but I don’t care, I’ve had enough of today. I keep walking, I don’t even know where I’m going. Eventually, when I’ve put enough distance between me and the school, I pause to pull out my headphones and put on some music. I don’t even care what I’m listening to, it just has to be loud enough to block out my thoughts.

I don’t feel bad about pushing Evan anymore; honestly that kid deserves way worse. He had to know I was in the room with him. No one is that oblivious to the world to not even notice that they’re not alone. Why would he write about my sister? Like does he have a weird fantasy about her that he just had to get down, and print out? Look buddy, most people keep their private thoughts in their head, where they belong.

I eventually reach a park, its oddly empty, but I guess all the children are still at school. I sit on a bench and throw my bag onto the ground, it rattles with impact. I pick it up to investigate the sound; I dig around until I find the source: a prescription bottle. I forgot that I had put my meds in here. I hold the bottle and read the label, it’s good old Prozac. I have refused to take it ever since it was prescribed to me. If you look it up, it has so many warnings and side effects listed, it doesn’t even seem worth it. Like there’s a small chance this will make you feel better, but there’s an even bigger chance that it might kill you, or make you want to kill yourself. The irony! They give you the medicine because you think about killing yourself, but the medicine makes you want to actually kill yourself. Do doctors even care about you, or do they just write you a prescription, so you go away?

I’ve never taken a single dose of this medication, outside of the hospital where they basically force it down your throat, but now seems like a good time to. I feel so numb, what does it even matter, it’s supposed to help me right? I swallow a pill, dry, and then another, and another. I keep swallowing them until I run out of pills. I throw the empty bottle on to the ground. Suddenly, I have a killer headache; I can feel my heart pounding, thoughts are racing in my mind. I lay down on the bench and take a deep breath.

#DEH #DEH fanfic #Dear evan hansen fanfic #deh fandom #dear evan hansen #dear connor murphy #connor murphy #mike faist #ben platt #musicals #fanfiction #fanfic #dear evan hansen fandom #connor murphy deh #zoe murphy #please validate me #trash

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emilyjunk · 6 years ago

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hi im sad do you have an hcs about bemily meeting at an ice cream shop?

during beca’s senior year of high school her dad makes her get a job and the only place hiring is fucking baskin robbins so... beca starts working at baskin robbins

she hates it obviously... people suck and they’re always dropping their ice cream and she has to clean it up ://///

also sometimes people come in and get like twelve samples and then end up picking vanilla and becas like wtf why??? vanilla is the most boring flavor on the whole dumb menu????

anyway the WORST is when they get HUUUUGE groups coming in like after sporting events and things... it’s so busy and chaotic

the second worst thing is when she sees people from school because that’s embarrassing. beca always pretends she doesn’t know them.

the ultra worst thing is when people from school are in a huge group

and thats what happens every fucking saturday afternoon

this huge group of girls from school comes in after their soccer game. every saturday without fail. they’re obnoxious and always make a mess and never can decide what they want

and beca like, totally doesnt even like any of them because jocks are so lame? theyre dumb and usually dicks. the soccer girls aren’t the worst but they also arent that great

so one day beca is stressing because the soccer girls are gossipping in line and becas just fucking standing there waiting for them to pick an ice cream flavor and her shift isnt over for another hour so everything just sucks... and then... then it doesnt suck so much. bc then one of the girls is like “hey guys... let’s order and take this outside so we dont hold up the line!” and she gives beca a knowing smile... so pretty and soft and empathetic

beca recognizes her, but isn’t one hundred percent sure of her name. she’s in the grade under beca, about to be a junior, and they’ve never had a class together. but beca recognizes her face from the halls.

beca decides this girl doesnt completely suck. at least as much as the others.

after that, beca starts seeing her around all the time. she sees her in the halls at school, talking with friends at her locker. she sees her saturdays after soccer games at baskin robbins. she even sees her once at the movies when her stupid neighbor jesse drags her along to the newest superhero flick

it gets to the point where beca randomly thinks about this girl she doesnt know on and off throughout the day, and it makes her roll her eyes at herself but whatever. the girl is nice and she’s pretty and beca’s never had a gf, but she knows she really likes girls, and so just... whatever. she can think about people in her head alright? it doesnt mean anything!

“look,” cynthia rose says when the soccer girls come every saturday. “it’s beca’s crushtomer.”

“my what?” beca asks the first time this happens.

“crushtomer,” tssks her manager aubrey. “it’s when you have a crush on one of your regulars. and it’s obviously unprofessional beca.”

“she’s not my... crushtomer.”

“please. we can see your custoner from space.” beca stares and aubrey rolls her eyes. “customer boner. obviously.”

“you guys are weird.” beca scoffs.

but then the girl’s ordering and becas smiling... yeah... smiling wtf... as she scoops vanilla ice cream onto a waffle cone and god fucking dammit... she totally has a crushtomer.

alright so whatever beca has it bad for this customer but it’s whatever. she doesn’t even know the girl’s nam-

“emily!”

the girl whips her head around as her teammate comes jogging up to her and fine!!! beca knows her name.

it wouldn’t be that crazy or anything, until one time at school in the hall they make eye contact and emily is like “hey beca” and beca totally freezes.

“uh. hi emily. you, like, know my name?”

emily tilts her head to the side, her cheeks a pretty pink. “oh. yeah... i mean ive seen your nametag at baskin robbins.”

“oh.”

“i just thought i’d say hi.”

beca never thought they’d speak outside of the obligatory ice cream order and cash exchange so she’s not really sure what to do next in this situation. “uh. hi. but uh..... gotta get to class so um. bye?”

emily laughs, so cute and nice. “okay. see you around.”

and then beca is walking away and hearing giggles behind her as chloe beale whispers something in emilys ear and emily swats at her playfully. becas pretty sure she’s being laughed at, but she books it out of there too quick to care.

the next saturday, beca hates to admit it, but she’s kind of looking forward to seeing the soccer girls. it’s NOT because of her crushtomer though, okay? it’s because her shift is boring as fuck because it’s raining outside and nobody is coming in. so at least she’ll have something to do when they come

so beca waits in anticipation as her shift passes, the clock ticking down to her clock-out time... and they never come. beca finds herself almost disappointed to get off work... then she shakes out of it. fuck work. wtf?

the next saturday, beca initiates her very first small talk with emily. “so, you guys didnt come in last week. it was weird not seeing you.”

“oh,” emily pouts. “our game got rained out.” then she tilts her head, looking at beca curiously. “aw, did you miss us?” she teases.

beca snorts. “no.”

“Just me then right?”

and beca knows she’s teasing, but she feels the heat of it in her soul... and she blushes. “very funny.”

emily laughs, so bright and bubbly, the kind of laugh beca would normally hate. but she doesn’t. god she doesn’t.

emilys teammates have already all paid and taken their cones outside and it’s just beca and emily there at the register. plus CR down the counter mopping the floor but whatever, she has headphones in as she cleans so it may as well just be beca and emily okay?

“anyway.” beca says, clearing her throat. “that’s uh. $3.49.”

emily freezes, her eyes widening. she looks down at herself, pats her thighs where her pockets would be if soccer uniforms had pockets.

“shoot,” she whispers, looking around helplessly. “one sec i forgot my wallet in my car i gotta go grab it.”

“oh,” beca says. “no, it’s cool, it’s uh... on me.”

“what? no, it’s okay. i can go get it.”

“no,” beca says, already putting her employee numbers into the register. “we get free ice cream every shift and i uh... don’t need it. so you can just use my free one. it’s cool.”

emily beams at her. “wow that’s so nice. oh my god.”

“it’s nothing, no problem.”

“no, i have to make it up to you now.”

“that’s really not necessary.”

“beca.”

“emily.”

“let me.”

beca hesitates but emily is giving her this look like a fucking puppy, all cute and persuasive. “...alright... how?”

“are you working tomorrow?”

“um no?”

“let me buy you lunch.”

beca blinks. “this was literally 3 dollars. you wanna go to like mcdonalds or something?”

emily laughs. “no i think i can afford more than the dollar menu. consider it interest.”

“what the hell? what is this? wolf of wall street?”

“oh my god beca.” emily grins. “im trying to hang out with you.”

beca stares. “hang out... with me?”

“yeah? like friends?”

“oh.”

“so...?” emily leans forward, her long ponytail swishing over her shoulder. “lunch tomorrow?”

“uh... yeah okay.”

emily gives beca her phone and beca inputs her number in some kind of daze.

it’s not a date, beca reminds herself all during the lunch. even if emily pays and holds doors for her and is super touchy feely. it’s a friend thing. it’s just hard because they really get along. beca wasnt sure they would, because emily is smiley and nice and into sports. beca is surly and rude and fakes sick to escape gym every other week.

but they do get along. they get along great... emily is into music and beca shows emily the mashups she makes in her free time and they bond over bands they like and beca learns emily plays like 5 different instruments.

emily is also funny, in a weird way, and her smile makes beca’s heart do weird things that hearts probably shouldn’t do.

after, emily gives her a hug and beca totally isnt a hug person but it’s the best hug she’s ever had and emily smells good, like scented girly lotion.

after that, they’re kind of friends for real. they hang out sometimes, and beca teases emily about her ice cream order (vanilla... the most boring flavor on the menu), and she even drags jesse to one of the girls’ soccer games and they text here and there, sending song recs back and forth. once emily sends beca a recording of her playing the guitar and beca swears she falls in love a little with emily’s singing voice.

so yeah, they’re friends. then one day ... everything changes

becas just getting off her shift at baskin robbins and the soccer girls are hanging out at the tables outside, chatting and enjoying their ice cream. beca waves at emily as she walks to her car.

“beca, wait!”

emily jogs up and beca has to pretend she doesn’t think emily’s athleticism isnt the hottest thing she’s ever seen. they’re friends, she reminds herself. friends, beca. friends.

“sup?”

she throws her work bag in the back and shuts the door, turning to look at emily.

emily has a strange expression on her face. almost nervous. which is weird because emily is outgoing and friendly and talking to people doesnt really make her nervous.

“um, so.” emily glances behind her and beca peeks over her shoulder to see all the other soccer girls staring at them. emily frowns, pulling beca to the other side of her car by the arm so they’re out of view. “can i ask you something?”

“uh... sure dude?”

“what’s a crushtomer?”

beca literally almost dies on the spot. “what?”

“a crushtomer.” emily blushes, her fingers tugging at her ponytail nervously.

“oh. um. it’s like......... it’s stupid really, just some made up term thats like when a worker has a crush on one of their regulars, you know? it’s totally lame.”

“huh.” emily nods, her lips twisting. “so like, if i accidentally heard cynthia rose say im your crushtomer, then..............?”

beca really wishes she could crawl in a hole and die. “oh. you... you heard that.”

“yeah.”

“it’s just like... i mean.. we’re friends and stuff,” beca stammers. “you know, they know we’re like... fond of each other or something.”

“i see.” emily tilts her head to the side, looking beca up and down. “so it’s just a friend thing.”

“um i mean, well--”

“because like, say i didn’t want it to be a friend thing. say i wanted it to be a crush thing, like what would that mean?”

beca nearly stops breathing. “what?”

“like say maybe i think you’re cute and i like being your friend, but maybe i also have... once or twice thought about being more than friends and i dont know if you even like girls or anything and if you dont im really sorry like sooooooo sorry for making it awkward but it’s just i overheard that and i thought well just... what if it wasnt a friend thing but a real crush thing and just...” emily blushes cutely, glancing away quickly before looking back at beca. “the term is CRUSHtomer i mean it implies a romantic crush, i don’t know how to make this clearer so please just shut me up now”

“okay just... wait,” beca says, her heart going a mile a second in her chest. “You want to be my crushtomer. in a liking girls romantic way type of thing?”

“i mean...” emily shrugs. “only if you mean it that way. otherwise forgetting about this would be amazing and we could still be friends because i... i really like being your friend.”

“yes,” beca interrupts as emily opens her mouth to keep going. “no god yes. it’s stupid. crushtomer is stupid okay but yeah fine you’re my crushtomer. like... in a crush way. it’s a stupid term.”

emily stares at her for the briefest of seconds. then her face breaks open in the widest smile beca’s ever seen. “i think it’s cute.”

“it’s dumb” beca snorts.

“you wanna like, go out then?”

beca’s whole body is warm. “yeah. that’d be... cool.”

“hm.” emily is so smiley it kills. she scrunches her nose at beca. “i mean i kinda feel like we already were going out. i mean, you showed me your mixes,” she teases. “so romantic.”

“kay,” beca rolls her eyes, but she can’t stop smiling. “whatever. cant believe im gonna go out with a jock.”

emily laughs, her hand coming out to grip the top of beca’s car and effectively sandwiching beca in. “you ever kiss a jock before?”

“no,” beca murmurs, trying to keep her voice from squeaking, but emily is like, really close and holy shit she’s so pretty oh man...

“you want to?”

beca’s breath gets caught in her throat. “yeah.”

all beca can think when they kiss is that emily tastes like ice cream and for the first time in her life, beca maybe just maybe thinks vanilla might be the most exciting flavor on the menu

#bemily #headcanons #bulletfic #ice cream au #idk #btw i learned this crushtomer term at work and gf said i should do a coffee shop au with it #but then this came up and i decided yes.. ice cream au it is #so here ya go ellen #i hope u feel better soon #jesseswanson

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guardiankarenterrier · 6 years ago

Text

from the ruins and from the ashes

(for Caffeine Challenge #27 hosted by @caffeinewitchcraft)

"I didn't do it to save your life," the girl sniffs, wrapping her arms around her knees and pointedly not looking at him, before jerking her chin in the direction of the last person in their makeshift foxhole. "I did it to save his."

Scott looks before he's thinking about it. Neither of the strangers look like much, but the girl at least has sturdy clothes; the man's clothes are bright, tattered things that don't belong in the Ruins. They're probably what attracted the monsters to them in the first place.

"Well," he says finally, because the girl's still scowling down at her knees and the man still hasn't said a word. "Thanks anyway. I don't- I don't think we'd have made it, if you hadn't done that." He pauses, then says, slowly, "What was that, anyway?"

"Healing." The man speaks up for the first time. His voice is much rougher and hoarser than Scott expected, even knowing how close they'd all been to death less than an hour gone. "Healing, but she did it.... wrong."

"Hey," she snaps, raising her head. "Your life was intentional, don't make me regret it."

His voice gentles. "I'm sorry, Ash. I never meant for you to follow me."

"Yeah, well." She sniffs again. "You shouldn't be out here without backup."

"Neither should you," he says wryly, before levering himself to his feet with a wince and offering his hand to Scott. "I'm Moth. This is my daughter, Ash. We scout the Ruins sometimes. You?"

Moth's voice goes noticeably flat and neutral on the last word, and Scott can't tell for certain whether that 'you' is meant as a 'why are you here,' or a 'who are you,' or even a 'what are you doing out here.' He opts to answer only what he feels he has to. "My name's Scott. Your daughter was kind enough to catch me up in that spell as well."

"Wasn't on purpose," Ash mutters, uncurling from her crouch to glare up at them both. "You're an idiot."

"Ash, you know it's me they came after," Moth says gently. "I should have asked someone to check my outfit first."

She tosses her head back and groans. "Yeah, you should have, but at least you have an excuse. He's not colourblind, he's just loud."

"Sorry," Scott says, because he actually is, this time. "I'm not from here. Where I'm from, the monsters mostly react to movement. Are you- it's colours and noise, here?"

"Well, bright colours and loud noise," Moth amends. "They won't react to us talking, but if we were to start shouting or I moved into view, they'd attack."

"So we're not safe here, is what you're telling me," Scott says slowly.

"Well we would be." Ash stands up, still scowling. "But you two both managed to be targets, and I'm out of energy. Unless one of you has a spare set of clothes and a full meal on you we're fucked."

"Ashley," Moth says. "Language."

"We're proper fucked," she tells him.

Scott looks around, trying to see a way out of their situation. He's still not entirely clear on what happened- one of the Ruins creatures had been chasing him, something he'd never seen before, something that had been horrifyingly capable of following him around blind corners and across moving water. The City Ruins he'd come from don't have creatures that intelligent, but apparently the Forest Ruins had thrown better predators.

He'd thought it was going to catch him, actually, right up until a painful blast of magic had slammed him off his feet.

(How did she weaponise healing? He's never heard of a human doing that).

Only the vines that provide handholds up one side of the hole they're hiding in prevent it from being a trap rather than a hiding place. Ash had clearly known the pit was here, and Scott's not so certain it hadn't started life as a trap.

Scott's also still trying to accept that his life's just been saved by a surly teenager. He's never thought of himself as a poor scout; it's a little humbling to realise that she's better.

"What if we swapped clothes?" he says, finally. "I think Moth and I are similar sizes. If we could split the coloured clothes between us, it might break up the brightness enough for us to make a run for it. If- making a run for it is something that works, here." It doesn't always back home; usually if you've reached the point of running you're already in deep trouble, because running means they've seen you.

"That might work," Ash admits, grudgingly, and then gets out of the way while Moth and Scott divvy up their clothes.

He can see how Moth made his mistake in the first place. Scott isn't colourblind, but one of his best friends is, and he knows how reds can look too much like browns and greens too much like greys. It's never been much of a problem for Jake, but then Scott supposes camouflage adaptations are more important in the forests than the cities, even now.

It doesn't take too long to work out who ends up with what. No amount of miracles is going to get Scott into Moth's pants, and vice versa, but they can switch shirts fine and although the dirt the vines are clinging to is dry and cracked Moth digs his hands in far enough to find damp soil and smears it over the brightest bits of fabric.

"You don't have to help us," he tells Scott, in a low undertone that probably doesn't carry over to Ash. "Why are you?"

"Practicality, mostly," Scott admits, twisting the rough shirt under his hands to make sure the bright hemline is hidden. "She did save me. Even if it seems like she might regret it, now."

Moth's voice gentles with pride as he says, "Ash doesn't need a reason to help people. She never has."

"We need to hurry, old man," Ash says from the other side of their hiding place. "It's almost dark." Her eyes flash in the low light as she looks at Scott and adds, with a strange dissonant tone to her voice, "They hunt better, in the dark."

"Ash," Moth says, but he sounds worried this time. "How much of your energy did you use?"

The girl shakes her head and the unsettling gleam fades back out of her eyes. "Enough."

"Ash," Moth says again.

Ash snarls, and Scott takes a startled step back.

"She's-" He swallows as Ash's head swings to face him. "You're a mutate."

"She's my daughter," Moth says, stepping between them.

Scott looks between them. Ash is several shades darker than Moth, but most families these days aren't determined by blood anyway. Scott hadn't thought anything of it. He hadn't noticed that her skin is the colour of tree bark, that her eyes are the same colour as cloud shadows on leaves or that her hair matches the surrounding dirt near perfectly; he hadn't looked that closely once Moth had claimed her as family. "She's a mutate. She's a- a creature, just like-"

Ash snarls at him again, stepping back into the shadows as she does. Her eyes spark again, green and darker green, leaves in shade. Whatever tenuous clawhold she'd had on humanity is clearly slipping away.

"She's my daughter," Moth repeats, firmly. "She and her brothers are family. Did you think they were all the same, out here?" His voice is changing, now, filling with scorn. "You're not from any of the wild ruins, are you? The cities are different. The cities were safe. Out here-" He swipes his hand out, gesturing beyond the pit. "Out here's different. It hit everyone."

"They're not human," Scott says- repeats, distantly. "You can't trust them."

"She saved your life," Moth says. "She didn't have to save your life, but she did. And for what, I wonder? You lied. You don't actually care at all." He takes a step closer to Scott, unconcerned with the way Ash matches him, growling low from behind his back. "Why are you here?"

"They sent me here," Scott says, stiffly, his eyes fixed behind Moth on the real danger. "There's been reports."

"Of mutates," Moth says, voice low and certain. For a moment his eyes seem to flash too, and Scott jerks his gaze back to him, but it's only a reflection of the dying sun. Moth is human, as far as he can see.

Moth is human and Ash did something reckless to save both their lives.

Scott takes a step back of his own, raising his hands palm- up in front of himself. "They sent me. They don't expect me back."

Some of the aggression goes out of Moth's posture. Some of the unnatural light goes out of Ash's eyes.

It's the second one that decides him, because it means Ash is still listening.

"They don't want me," Scott says, voice pitched just as low as Moth's had been. He can't keep himself from flinching as he says it, but- Moth said Ash has brothers. If Moth is so accepting- then maybe Scott can finally stop running. "The cities weren't that safe."

His hands are still facing Moth and Ash. He twists them, lets them see his claws.

"Oh," Moth says, softly.

"Yeah. So." Scott lets his hands drop. Ash has stopped growling, now, tilting her head at him instead. "I won't be reporting back."

"Oh," Moth says again, stronger, and then lifts his head with a determined gleam in his eyes. "Well. Ash knows how to fight like that. That's how we usually get out of these situations. Want to learn?"

For the first time in a long time, Scott lets his fangs show as he smiles. "I think I'd like that."

#caffeine challenge #this went differently than i intended #the pacing feels off to me but i like it #my writing #i should be getting ready to leave but i liked this prompt #(for the 'i didnt have to save YOUR life prompt)

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stillthewordgirl · 6 years ago

Text

LOT/CC fic: Somewhere on Your Road Tonight (ch. 4)

Sara and Leonard made a life for themselves, together in 1958, after the Waverider left them, Ray and Kendra behind. But now they're back on the ship, Mick has been twisted into Chronos, Kendra is pregnant, and Savage is still out there. They'll deal--together. (Sequel to "Chances Are.")

Takes place during the first half, more or less, of "The Magnificent Eight." Many thanks to @larielromeniel for the beta and great suggestions!

Can also be read here at AO3 and here at FF.net.

Rip doesn’t warn them about just how long their next time jump is going to be—or about the increased side effects. That’s irritating…but that irritation is quickly swept away as Kendra gasps right after the jump, hands going to her abdomen as Rip brings the Waverider down to land.

“Ow,” she says, closing her eyes. “Ray…Rip, this hurts. I…oh!”

Whatever the others’ own side effects, they’re swept away in concern for their teammate. Ray, who’s sitting right next to his wife, falls over his own feet as he rises, immediately getting back up to his knees to reach for her.

“You said it was safe to time jump when pregnant!” he yells at Rip, sounding more pissed off than Sara’s ever heard him before. She shakes her head, trying to get rid of the vestige of dizziness and nausea, and glances at Leonard, who looks relatively unfazed—at least by the jump.

“It is! Even longer jumps.” Rip hurries over to them. “Gideon?”

“From what I can tell from here, Ms. Saunders’ life signs—and those of the baby—are perfectly within normal range,” the AI says after a moment. “I can do a few more checks in the medbay. But there seems to be no reason to worry.”

Ray sighs in relief, and he’s not the only one. Rip looks nearly as relieved as the parents-to-be, leaning against the jump seat and rubbing his eyes.

“Perhaps it is just that Ms. Saunders is, after all, nearly at term. I remember…” He stops what he’s about to say, abruptly, and looks ill. Sara can’t help feeling a bit sympathetic, given that he’s almost certainly thinking about his wife and their son, but she’s more worried about her pregnant friend.

She rises nearly in unison with Leonard, who’s actually remarkably gentle as he reaches out and pulls the unsteady Ray to his feet. Kendra’s biting her lip as Sara touches her arm, but she gives the other woman a wry smile.

“Contraction, I think,” she says. “Rip might be right. I almost remember…it doesn’t have to be active labor…”

Sara’s not sure what to do with that. “Um,” she says. “Well. Even if it’s normal, that doesn’t mean you want to have the baby right now, right?”

“True.” Kendra gasps again. “Damnit,” she murmurs after a long breath. “After all this time, why don’t we have a better way to deal with this?”

“I’d do it if I could,” Ray tells her in distress, reaching out to help her up, Leonard offering an arm on the other side until she’s sure she’s steady.

“Medbay to her get,” he says, then turns and glares at Rip, who gives him an apologetic shrug.

“Linguistic dysplasia; that should pass shortly,” the captain offers.

“Better hell as sure it,” Leonard mutters, and Sara has to stifle a laugh at his surly tone.

As the initial worry about their teammate subsides with Gideon’s reassurance, concern about the time-jump symptoms becomes more audible.

“I can’t feel my face,” Jax says, turning from side to side, hands tracing his jaw. “Am I the only one who can't feel their face?”

“I can't feel my...” Ray lets his voice trail off as they start for the medbay, glancing at Kendra, who’s feeling better enough to roll her eyes at him. “I better not say.”

“Mr. Rory appears unaffected,” Stein comments, eyeing Mick…who apparently to be asleep.

At that comment, though, the former bounty hunter opens an eye. “What's going on? We time jump?”

“Yeah, we time jumped,” Sara says with some amusement, turning back. “But ‘where to?’ is the better question.”

Rip lets out an almost wistful sigh, turning around. “The town of Salvation,” he says, “the Dakota territory, 1871.”

Ray stops dead in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. “I can't believe it...” he breathes. “The Old West.”

“Ray, I swear…”

“Right! Medbay! On the way!”

“Kendra’s fine. And so is the baby.” Raymond’s voice holds so much relief and happiness that even Leonard, experienced cynic and hardened thief (or so he tells himself), can’t help but smile. He hears Sara’s sigh of relief from where she’s leaning next to him, feels the relaxation in the shoulder that’s brushing his, and gives her a sideways smile. They’d all pretty much known, thanks to Gideon, but it’s good to hear.

“You were right,” the father-to-be tells Hunter, who again looks almost as relieved as he does. “It was just a few, err, ‘practice’ contractions, so to speak. Gideon says maybe it’s best if she rests a bit.” He shakes his head. “She’s not real happy about that. And I feel bad. She’s going to have to miss the Old West.”

Rip starts to respond, but Mick cuts in then. The team’s accepted him back without much of a ripple, much to Leonard’s surprise and pleasure, but Mick seems a little discomfited by that. Not enough to go back in the brig, of course, but enough that he’s mostly kept quiet and to himself since his first warning about the Hunters.

“This isn't going to work,” he tells the captain flatly.

“It'll buy us time,” Rip returns, leaning against the table. “We can hide out here while the Hunters search the other Fragmentations.”

Mick crosses his arms and glowers. “What if they decide to check this place first?”

“Fragmentations?” Leonard asks sharply, while Stein makes a somewhat sardonic comment about communication and Raymond wanders over to join them.

The captain and Mick--sounding enough like Rip himself with the timey-wimey jargon that Leonard shakes his head in bemusement—explain the notion of the temporal blind spots, “specific places and times the Time Masters can't see,” a thought that Leonard files away to examine later for potential usefulness.

“So, basically,” he drawls, rising from his seat and facing Mick, “we're hiding out in the Old West and hoping your boogeymen don't find us here.”

Mick frowns at him. They’re on better terms than Leonard would have thought possible during most of the stint in 2147, but…things are different now.

“The Hunters are not boogeymen,” he says shortly. “And you better hope they don't find us.”

Raymond is babbling something about Westerns in the background, but Leonard’s more focused on Mick as they face each other down. They’re both different now too, Leonard thinks almost wistfully as they study each other. There’s an edge of seriousness to Mick that he’s rarely seen before, and the man who’s always been the brawn of their little operation—and actively avoided any possible part of being the brains—is rattling off Time Master rigamarole like Hunter himself.

And Leonard himself…well. He’s knows he’s gone what he once would have considered soft. He’s made his peace with that, with caring, for the team and for Sara and those left behind in 1958.

And for Mick.

Mick’s studying Leonard in return, a frown on his face, but it’s more puzzled than angry. They’ve both, in different ways, lived lifetimes while they’d been separated, Len thinks suddenly. They’re new men now.

For better or worse.

“Oh, come on,” Sara says then, the words directed at Rip but drawing Leonard and Mick’s attention back to the others. “What's the harm in us just taking a look around?”

Rip looks skeptical, and Stein chuckles.

“With this group?” he asks. “Clearly, you haven't been paying attention.”

“If I'm in the Old West and I don't get to look around,” Ray interjects plaintively, “I'm going to kick myself. And I promised to tell Kendra all about it.”

“I could help with the kicking,” Leonard mutters, getting an almost unwilling laugh from Mick.

“I'll keep an eye on them,” the former bounty hunter promises the former Time Master. “Don't worry. I'll be a good boy.”

“So. Stuck here, huh? At least it’s not 1958.”

Kendra looks up as Leonard saunters into the medbay, where she’s trying to get comfortable in one of those ridiculous beds. They’re more comfortable than they look, which doesn’t really say much, but she’s still quite grateful for the distraction, from the surroundings and from her circling thoughts.

Apparently he’s picked up on her discontent with remaining behind. It is, perhaps, a surprise that it’s the team’s master thief who realized it so instinctively. But that’s unfair. Kendra had been in 1958. She knows quite well that Leonard Snart is far more than he seems.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “That’s true. I can imagine what giving birth back then would have been like. But I’m actually tired of reading and…” She shrugs and holds up her empty hands. “I don’t know how to crochet or knit and it’s cliched as hell anyway, but, damn, I’d like something to do with my hands.”

Leonard stops and regards her a moment, long enough that Kendra starts to wonder just what he’s thinking. Then he nods.

“Be right back,” he says solemnly. “OK?”

What else to do? Of course she nods.

Leonard’s not gone long, and he doesn’t extend a book to her on his return, as she’d somewhat expected despite her earlier words. (Another thing she’s learned—he’s a reader, is Leonard Snart.) Instead, he holds out an array of silver tools, which Kendra blinks at even as she reaches out to take them. Then, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a few more items, which he drops onto the table at her side.

Kendra looks at them, then him.

“Are you seriously trying to teach me how to pick locks?” she asks.

Leonard smiles at her, and it’s not quite a smirk. There’s something…real…about it, Kendra thinks, wrapping her fingers around the slim silver tools. Something that harkens back to what she’d seen of him in 1958, the man who’d done what he had to to survive but still had a true core of humanity underneath, despite all her expectations.

“What?” he says after a moment, the drawl like armor. “It’s something to do with your hands. And it’s a useful skill.”

Kendra regards him, just long enough that he seems to be uncomfortable under her direct gaze.

“You like to pretend to be so cold,” she marvels, then, “but you’re full of shit. You care, Leonard, you care enough that it hurts to pretend otherwise. Even though you do it anyway.”

His chin comes up, although he doesn’t directly argue with the words. He regards her a moment, obviously uneasy, but not backing away despite that. “This is practical,” he insists. “You never know when it will come in handy. And you can keep practicing here. Even while we’re all out…roping dogies or keeping Raymond from going full John Wayne or whatever.”

Kendra eyes him a moment longer, then nods.

“OK,” she says. “Just promise me you won’t rustle any cattle.”

It gets a chuckle…and no promise. But he reaches for the picks, and she lets him take them, watching him pick up a particular lock from the table as well.

“Well. The pin tumbler is the most common…”

Sometimes the fabrication room is more fun than others. This, Sara thinks, clapping her cowboy hat on her head with a grin, is one of those times.

“I look just like Wyatt Earp,” Ray say happily, turning away from inspecting himself in one of the mirrors and heading out, presumably to show Kendra what a fine figure he cuts in the garb. Rip watches him go with a sigh, then extends an unfamiliar gun to Sara, hilt first.

“Now, the fabricator can make clothing, but you're also going to need era-appropriate protection,” he tells the room at large. “This era can get a little, uh, rough. Now, this should go without saying, but considering this group, I am going to say it... only use these weapons in the case of extreme emergencies.”

“Six-shooters?” Jax asks, grinning, reaching for one himself. He’d had some very reasonable qualms about the time period, but between Gideon’s reassurances about the historical diversity of actual cowboys and the others’ promises that they’d kick the ass of anyone who got certain ideas about the youngest Legend and his right to be there, he was starting to allow some excitement for the idea.

“Are you not coming with us, Captain Hunter?” Stein inquires, turning his own newly acquired hat over in his hands. “From your duster and revolver, I'd imagined you as much an Old West aficionado as Dr. Palmer.”

The captain inclines his head in a way that looks almost bashful to Sara. “Indeed I am,” he allows. “But my time is best spent back here on the ship, plotting our next move against Vandal Savage.” He sighs. “And despite his eagerness, Dr. Palmer would only accompany you if I promised to alert him to any changes in Ms. Saunders’ condition—and I, quite frankly, do not wish to listen to him complain about missing this chance for the rest of this mission.”

“Takin’ one for the team, Rip?” Leonard drawls from near the doorway, although Sara, inspecting her gun, can’t see him from her current position. “Even I gotta thank you for that.”

“Yes, well, besides, as Mr. Rory says, it's only a matter of time before the Hunters find us here.” Rip sighs again. “Please…take care. “

“We'll stay out of trouble,” Sara assures him, then (ignoring the captain’s response) gives her six-shooter one more spin. She holsters the gun and turns, just in time to see Leonard slowly incline his head to deposit his night-black cowboy hat on it, looking up at her with a smirk that’s wicked as hell and twice as sexy.

She saunters over, giving him a thorough once-over while he returns the favor (who is she kidding? He’s probably been staring at her ass the whole time), then reaches out to place her hands on his belt, black leather over black pants and shirt and under his black coat.

“You,” she says with amusement, licking her lips and gazing up at him, “look like sin.”

Leonard’s lips twitch as he studies her in her own western garb, and while Sara’s pretty sure she’s not really pulling off “wicked” or “intimidating” or even anything more than “cute,” he seems to find it attractive nonetheless.

“Well,” he drawls, leaning toward her a little, eyes hooded and dark and promising the very best kind of trouble, “good thing you’re a sinner, then.”

He dips his head as she goes up on her toes to kiss him, a kiss that starts to heat up despite their surroundings, a room full of their teammates and the knowledge of trouble on the way. The rest of it starts to fade away, Mick’s snort and Stein’s chuckle and Rip’s sigh, and despite Leonard’s noted distaste for feelings on display, it’s Sara who finally smiles against his lips and starts to pull back.

“You two really have to do that?” Jax groans, grinning as they break the kiss. Sara turns to whack at his arm in a sisterly fashion, Leonard laughing quietly in the background.

“Yes,” she tells him, “we do.”

There’s something satisfying, to Leonard’s admittedly…well-developed…sense of drama, about strolling into Salvation with the others, the townsfolk turning to watch, the normal noises of the town seeming to mute and still at their entrance.

Leonard’s seen a western or two in his day, and though he’ll never, ever admit it to Raymond, he’s a bit of a fan. The nobler outlaws of the genre had appealed to the boy trying to make sense of the “jobs” his father had dragged him along on from an all-too-early age, and the gunslingers had seemed heroic after the first time Lewis had put a gun into his hand and told him to point it at someone else.

It’d been a tool to Lewis, no more, just like Leonard himself, but young Leo had reacted to the unfamiliar weight and danger of that weapon by doing what the boy and later the man always did—learning as much about it as possible. Within a few handfuls of years, he not only knew everything he could about every variety of sidearm he could lay his hands on, he was a damn good shot with most of them.

And if he’d practiced with an unloaded gun to get a smooth quick draw just like he’d seen in those old movies…well, no one else really needed to know that.

The saloon they find almost immediately looks like trouble to Leonard’s practiced eye, but he has no problem with that. Mick heads for the bar, and Sara gives Leonard a teasing wink and follows him. Leonard smirks as he watches them go, but he has no interest in the rat piss they’re probably serving in such a fine establishment.

Raymond and Jax are gawking a bit but seem likely to be in no danger. Stein…

Well. Go figure.

“Didn't know you played cards,” he tells the older man, dropping into a seat at Stein’s right, getting a slightly surprised glance and a rather unSteinlike smirk.

“Like you, Mr. Snart, I am an enigma,” Stein tells him with a mixture of solemnity and humor, then turns back to the game.

Leonard is duly impressed, and eventually says so. The professor knows how to play and he’s unexpectedly talented at bluffing.

Stein chuckles a little (to the evidence annoyance of the other men at the table, something Leonard also notes) and regards him with a sidelong smile.

“My father was what some might call a degenerate gambler, others would say criminal,” he says conversationally. “When I was old enough, he'd pull me in on some of his schemes. I picked up a thing or two at a few of the card tables he frequented.”

Leonard considers that. “Hmm,” he says after a moment. “Well. You never know when something will come in handy, right, professor?”

“Indeed, Mr. Snart.”

Of course, then it all goes downhill.

From the moment Stein’s angry opponent snarls at him (and honestly, before), Leonard’s watching him carefully, his hand dropping to his own gun. This might look like an old western come to life, but it’s very real, even if some of the others have lost sight of that. He tries to defuse the situation, but he knows his business, too, and when every sign—the look on the card player’s face, the way he moves, all the clues big and small—say that he’s going to fire…

Well. He might have struggled with the question of Per Degaton, but a clear and present danger (and a full-grown thug) is something completely different.

And, really, he’s somewhat smug that his quick draw is just as good as he thought it was.

Stein, hand still clapped to his own chest, turns and gapes at him after the thug hits the floor. “You killed him!” he stammers.

“You're welcome,” Leonard returns, then looks at the rest of the men who’ve jumped to their feet around the saloon.

He may be attempting to trend toward the hero side of things, but he’s not going to apologize for being what he is and being good at it. These men, dirty and rude and reeking of stale beer and cheap liquor…they remind him of Lewis.

“Your friend drew first, got put down,” he sneers, rising smoothly to his feet. “It was a clean shot.”

It goes pretty much like he should have known it would go.

Sara’s been expecting a good bar brawl from the moment they walked in the door here, although she’s a little surprised that it’s Leonard who touches it off. (She’s been planning to start one herself, honestly.) Mick, for all his fine words, hadn’t downed many of the vile shots before he’d simply lowered his head to the bar and started to snore, and he doesn’t even twitch when the shot echoes throughout the saloon.

She whirls, gets a glimpse of Leonard rising to his feet, Stein staring at the fallen man, and then the other thug firing a punch at Leonard’s head. He ducks, then swings, and the place erupts.

Sara can’t help it. She laughs out loud, diving into the fray, working her way over to Leonard, where they fall into a position more or less back to back.

“You all right?” she yells, ducking the chair a man a good 10 inches taller than her aims at her head.

“Peachy!” he yells back, driving a fist into the nose of the first man who’d attacked him, back for more. “The professor apparently cheats at cards.”

“I do not!” Stein’s yell echoes back at them from he’s taken covered behind an overturned table.

“It’s OK, professor!” Sara shouts back, grinning and flashing Leonard a smirk that he returns, even as he sidesteps another blow and kicks a man in the shins before tripping him to the floor. “So does Snart!”

They have a good ol’ time until a gun fired toward the ceiling brings everything to a stop, Legends and locals looking toward the tall, scarred man in the center of the saloon.

And that’s how they all meet Jonah Hex.

“You think you're the first time travelers I've ever come across?” their would-be rescuer says later, outside the saloon, as the Legends blink at him. Leonard (who hadn’t particularly wanted the bar brawl to end yet) frowns at him, trying to put pieces he doesn’t have together. Ignorance is not an appealing feeling. Never has been.

“Uh, yes,” Stein returns when no one else speaks.

Hex ignores him. “Where is he? I got some words that need saying.”

“Where is who?” Sara speaks up suspiciously.

“Rip Hunter.”

It seems there are even more details their good captain hasn’t been telling them.

Raymond and Jax take Hex to see the captain, and although Leonard will admit to a good deal of curiosity about the history there, he’s also not horribly eager to get scolded for his part in the festivities at the saloon. He steps away as Sara steers Mick toward his quarters (and Gideon’s intoxication remedy), heading for their own room, and his own thoughts.

It’s not that he feels bad about the incident at the saloon, really. He’d done what he had to do. And, sure, it’d caused trouble, but the man would have fired at Stein at close range, and even with all the resources of the medbay not too far away, that would have been catastrophic.

But even as he’s staring off into space, mulling the incident over, the door slides open behind him. Only one other person could come in here without asking. He hears Sara’s thoughtful hum even he turns around, smiling as he sees her still in her own Old West gear, hat and boots and holster and all.

Sara, for her part, looks up at him, smiling back, a sight that would be adorable (not that he’s going to tell her that, ever) if the expression wasn’t so openly...well, lascivious.

“I was sort of hoping that I’d get back here and find you waiting,” she says in a low, slightly husky tone. “Wearing that hat, and nothing else.”

Oh, yeah? Leonard can work with that. He steps closer and matches both tone and expression, grateful for any distraction, let alone such an alluring one. (And he’s pretty sure Sara knows that.). “I thought you liked the outfit.”

“I do.” Sara looks up at him through her lashes, smiling a very sultry smile. “But…” She goes up on her toes, wrapping her fingers around the black silk scarf at his neck and putting her mouth very close to his ear, so close that her lips brush his earlobe, warm breath distracting and arousing…but not as much as the frankly rather filthy suggestion she breathes into it.

Leonard clears his throat, shifting a little, then smirks back down at her.

“Ms. Lance, I may, as you say, look like sin, but you sound like it,” he drawls, letting his hands settle at her waist, over her gun belt.

“Mmm.” Sara’s still on her toes, fingers running over the lapels of his black duster, down under it to his vest, and the collar of his shirt, then along under his suspenders. “How about we both act like it?”

“That...could be arranged.”

Leonard dozes a bit, but eventually finds himself awake, wondering what the others might be up to in the time period...and more about the mystery posed by Jonah Hex. He rolls over with a sigh, annoyed at the impulse, wondering if Sara also wants to go explore a bit more.

But she’s sound asleep, her cowboy hat partially still on her head and partially crushed beneath her —wearing nothing else, except for the sheet that’s wrapped around her, barely. He smiles a little, tucking one errant piece of blond hair behind her ear and out of her face, and she sighs a little, shifting but remaining asleep.

But something’s still pushing him. An itching under his skin like the one that’d sent him out of the Waverider to meet Sara and the others back in 1958, and one that, to a lesser extent, has been responsible for a few other impulsive decisions he’s made since. Nothing truly uncharacteristic, not really, but just...almost spontaneous, far more spontaneous than he usually allows himself to be.

Still. His curiosity eventually gets the better of him, and Leonard rises with a sigh, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and reaching for the tangle of black clothing that’d been discarded off to the side of the room. He’s rather fond of all the layers this time calls for (although Sara hadn’t been, a bit earlier) and it still doesn’t take him long to dress. He quietly leaves the room, turning his hat over in his hands and frowning a little to himself.

A query to Gideon gains him the information that Raymond, Mick and Jax are gathered just outside the ship. Leonard had been considering seeing if Kendra wants any new locks to work on but decides that trio is far more likely to need supervision of some sort.

He’s not wrong.

“There you are!” the scientist greets him with an air of relief as Leonard saunters out of the Waverider’s hatch. “We kinda need you or Sara for this, but Gideon said she wasn’t going to disturb either of you.” He looks momentarily perplexed. “For some reason. What were you doing?”

Leonard sighs, putting his hat on and rolling his eyes. “How did Kendra manage to get pregnant, again?” he mutters.

Jax snickers and Mick chokes, but the comment sails over Raymond’s head. The man is evidently focused on some grand plan, based on the gleam in his eyes and the eager grin on his face, but he needs to slow down and...wait.

“Where’d you get that?” Leonard frowns at the silver star on the inventor’s coat, interrupting the headlong explanation again.

Raymond looks down at it, then beams at him. “I’m the sheriff,” he says proudly. “The sheriff of Salvation.”

“Seriously? Who gave you that?” Leonard eyes him. “It didn’t come out of a cereal box, did it?”

The other man gives him a woebegone look as Mick snorts again. “The former sheriff.”

“Who...?”

“...decided to get out of town. Suddenly.”

“Uh huh.” Leonard looks at Mick, who’s smirking, and Jax, who looks like he’s going to lose control of a fit of giggles. “Because that’s not suspicious.”

“It’s OK,” Raymond tells him seriously, drawing himself up importantly. ““We’re going to take on the Stillwater gang.”

“The who now?”

“The guys we were fighting back at the saloon,” Jax cuts in. “You, uh, sort of shot one of them.”

“I’m not shedding any tears,” Leonard retorts, but Raymond is pontificating again.

“Mr. Hex said Jeb Stillwater and his gang have been raiding this town for the past three months,” he said seriously. “A real reign of terror. And I aim to do something about it.”

Mick snorts yet again at the response, and Jax buries his head in his hands. “Ray, man, please stop,” he says, voice muffled, as Leonard stares at the inventor.

“And you want me to what...?” he drawls after a moment. “Speak sternly to them? Take over?”

“What? No!”

“Then spit it out.”

Leonard’s not there when Sara wakes, but she’s not too surprised. He may have tried to act all blasé about being in the Old West, but she knows him, and she knows he’s enjoying this foray, from the Man in Black attire to the bar brawl to the six-shooters.

Plus, that quick-draw trick back in the saloon wasn’t, the assassin knows, the sort of thing one can just pull off without copious amounts of practice. But she won’t tell everyone his secret if he doesn’t.

When asked, Gideon reports that only Rip and Kendra are on the ship at the moment, so after a few minutes, Sara stretches and gladly puts on a pair of shorts and a tank top instead of the annoying multiple layers of western wear. Then she goes to the medbay.

“Hey!”

Kendra looks up, smiling, as she sees her friend. “Hey.”

“I thought I’d drop in and see how...wait.” Sara stops and studies the tools in Kendra’s hands, then the items on the table next to her before blinking back up at her. “Are those lockpicks?”

Kendra chuckles. “They are,” she says, waving two of the picks. “Apparently, this is the Leonard Snart answer to being cooped up and bored. I will admit, I’m enjoying the puzzle.” She leans over and sets the tools down. “And who knows? It might come in handy someday.”

“Huh.” Sara reflects that Leonard, no matter how well she gets to know him, may always be a surprise in some ways. The thought is appealing. Then she shakes her head and focuses on Kendra. “How are you? How’s Junior there?”

The other woman’s smile is fond. “We’re both fine. No more contractions.” Her smile grows. “Ray keeps coming by to check on me and tell me all about the Old West, including bar brawls and quick-draw Snart.” She winks as Sara chuckles. “I think he’s having fun. I just hope the others can keep him out of trouble.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” Sara tilts her head and studies Kendra again. “What’s bugging you?”

Kendra glances away. It’s a pretty clear tell. “What do you mean?”

“You’re edgy. And I don’t think it’s just Junior’s impending arrival.” Sara leans back in her chair. “You don’t have to tell me. But you might feel better if you do.” She frowns. “Everything OK with Ray?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s good, it really is. It’s just…” Kendra stops.

Sara waits.

Then the other woman sighs, looking away again. “I keep feeling like I should leave the ship,” she murmurs. “I don’t know why. Just that there’s something out there I should see.”

“Maybe you could at least take a walk,” Sara offers. “We could ask Gideon; I could go with you…”

“No.” Kendra sounds frustrated. “Farther out. I don’t know.” Her hands tighten into fists. “It’s a pull. I don’t like it.”

Sara hesitates. “Maybe there’s a…a Carter…here?” she says after another pause, trying to identify the thought Kendra’s so uneasy with. Her friend’s glance tells her that she’s on to something. “You think?”

“Hmmm.”

“Well, then, he’d have his own Kendra, right? And you have Ray.”

“Yes.” Kendra stares off in the distance a moment, then shakes her head, a smile crossing her face. “I do. And I’m happy. It’s just...” She sighs, then gives Sara a wry smile. “Carter seemed convinced we could only wind up together. I keep...waiting for something to go wrong.”

Sara smirks at her. “I think Carter was just confused by the fact that you’re the only one who’d put up with him.”

“You might have a point about that.”

Leonard’s part in the initial confrontation is a bit more than just sniping a gun out of Jeb Stillwater’s hand, no matter what Raymond thinks. If the father-to-be is going to stand out there and make a target of himself in the Old West, then the least Leonard can do (more for Kendra than for Raymond, he tells himself) is make sure he’s covered.

And it’s a damn fine shot, if he does say so himself. He smirks a little at Raymond’s assertion that he has “sharpshooters all around” instead of one crook with a rifle, but it does the job, and as the Stillwater gang rides off, he withdraws back into the building where he’d been perched. Ready, for once, to join the others in some celebration, instead of a postmortem of how things had gone wrong.

For now.

#somewhere on your road tonight #captain canary #atomichawk #legends of tomorrow #chances are

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skyahq · 6 years ago

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WELL. it’s me again. i’m sam ( she / her, 21, est timezone ) and i also play parker! this is sky who i’ve had for a while but haven’t really done much with bc my muse for him hasn’t been the best, however i think i’m all sorted with him now so, character info under the cut! tbh it’s literally the exact same intro as before with just a few slight changes but feel free to still give it a read and please message me if you’d like to plot because i would absolutely love that!

FIRST. let’s just. let’s get it out of the way right here and now that this is a sideblog so i will be messing up and posting shit to the wrong accounts sometimes bc i’m dumb. let’s laugh abt it now so we don’t have to do it later. k cool we can carry on now

「 CODY CHRISTIAN, CISMALE, 25, PARAMORE. 」┈ did you read that latest viral gossip issue on SKY ARLO? he is the DRUMMER in BETTER NOW, one of my favorite ALT ROCK groups. they’ve been releasing music for FOUR YEARS now, but viral gossip has only been talking about them for the last TWO YEARS. get this, i think i heard HE’S THE ILLEGITIMATE CHILD OF A WEALTHY PUBLIC FIGURE. they’re known as the CALIGINOUS of the music industry, since they have a rep for being TRENCHANT but SELF - SERVING, but who knows. maybe that will change once they become #1.

born and raised deep in the swamplands of louisiana, sky’s only parent was a single mom who was nowhere near old enough or prepared enough to have a kid, tbh. she did sincerely try to take care of him at first but she had a drug problem that got very out of hand very quickly. sky was barely even five years old when the state stepped in and had him placed into the foster system.

has the slightest of southern accents but if you point it out he will deny it

will occasionally speak a little cajun french though bc we stan a multilingual grump

spent the rest of his childhood without a family or stable home. he was shuffled all over the state — placed in group homes, orphanages, and many different foster homes which were unfortunately very neglectful and unsafe sometimes. by his preteen years he was practically living on the streets of new orleans, survival instincts sharply honed.

he learns fast and had very quickly become an expert thief, pickpocket, and con artist, but that doesn’t mean he never got caught. he did. a lot. like his juvie record is longer than your arm

somehow still found time to experience your typical teenage first love resulting in unbearable heartbreak with a girl who lived on the streets and ran scams just like him. it was a bonnie & clyde together forever type of romance until it wasn’t cause the girl shockingly ditched him while he was in serious trouble in order to save her own skin and he never saw her again

not long after that he turned seventeen AND THEN SOMETHING SUPER IMPORTANT HAPPENED. by that i mean he was sought out by his social worker who then proceeded to 1) tell him his mother had died and 2) take him away to california because apparently there was a family out there who wanted to adopt him! and they did!

his new family wasn’t actually new though because the man who adopted him was his biological father. he and sky’s mother were lovers for the brief time wherein sky’s father was visiting louisiana in his late teen years but he left before ever finding out that he was going to have a child. he’d never stopped thinking about sky’s mom, however, so he’d do some digging every few years. of course by the time he finally did find her it was because of an obituary and then he’d heard about sky and just knew that this was his kid.

sky learned about all of this right away upon meeting his father and to say he didn’t take it very well is a MASSIVE UNDERSTATEMENT. he was furious. after all, his father had a whole new family! a wife and kids and a very prestigious job AND OH YEAH MILLIONS OF DOLLARS TO HIS NAME BUT HE’D NEVER HELPED SKY EVEN ONCE. it didn’t really help that he was clearly trying to make up for his absence in sky’s life by being present now that he had the opportunity and anyway, it turned out he had ulterior motives for that.

basically, a large part of his dad’s wealth was in fact inherited through the family. they’re all old money posh so finding out that the next family patriarch had an unknown son who was technically his firstborn was terrifying. blood or not, they couldn’t just hand centuries of traditions and carefully cultivated wealth over to a high school dropout living on the streets. so, sky’s dad was just keeping him close while he talked to lawyers about whether or not sky had any legitimate claim to anything owned by his family and of course, the sneaky street smart kid he is, sky figured out what was going on pretty quickly and bolted back to the streets.

he was still seventeen at the time and he’s lived in los angeles ever since but hasn’t had any contact with his father or seen a single penny of that family money

so yeah he’s illegitimate, no actual rights to their fortune

lived on the streets in los angeles for a while, but with a little hard work ( and a lot of thievery and conning ) he was eventually able to get himself a little apartment while working various jobs

nothing really stuck until better now, but when he first joined the band he’d literally never played the drums before. ever. not once before in his entire life. did he lie anyway and say that he was a Drumming Expert™ because he’d get paid to play gigs with them and happened to be broke af at the time? why yes he absolutely did

since then they switched lead singers with sweets having joined the band four years ago and they’ve released one album that was lit af! they’re currently in the middle of putting together their second album and since sky’s found out that he actually really loves drumming things have been pretty good for him. he lives in a nice apartment and finally has enough money to get by without conning or stealing. he still doesn’t really know how to deal with being a celebrity but tbh he actually adores the attention? he loves having fans? people in his life who seem to genuinely love and care about him? what is this new and exciting concept he’s confused but happy nonetheless

never ever talks about his dad / family though

as usual i was Extra™ and went off with the backstory stuff, but we can move onto personality now!

by default assumes that literally everyone he meets is going to betray him. is truly on some x files trust no one shit

except he does actually genuinely trust a few people for now i’m going to say just his bandmates since i imagine they’ve been through a lot together at this point but that’s open to expansion

street smart, charming, flirtatious ( especially around pretty girls ), witty, perspicacious, determined, tough, mistrustful, surly, reckless, uncouth, self-serving af sometimes

also v v sarcastic and STUBBORN

all of sky’s save his own skin above all else stuff? kind of a lie. he’s got a soft spot for people in need of help and though he might do it begrudgingly, sky often will actually put others before him.

the other personality traits i listed are pretty spot on though

literally always has his drumsticks with him and brings them everywhere. will drum on anything and everything until told to stop then he miiiight apologize? but go right back to doing it again not even five minutes later ngl

street smart af but book smart? not so much. he picks up on things pretty quickly but he’s still pretty dumb lmao and will in fact say some stupid shit at least 2932589843794836708 times a day

however he’s not always much of a talker. he’s gotta be in the mood bc if he isn’t but you try to have a convo with him he’s gonna be even more standoffish than usual

when he does talk though, sky is often sarcastic, pessimistic, and surly

he’s permanently grumpy

except he also has many soft spots that are very easy to find

stale cinnamon roll, been in this world too long, too cynical w/ a dash of sinnamon roll

he’s usually a cute little ray of sunshine around fans though bc they just?? make him so happy?? it makes him so happy to know that people love better now and that they LOVE HIM OK

though if ever called out for smiling he would immediately deny

will absolutely throw hands if he has to

TL;DR - louisiana born street smart drummer for better now with an accent he denies having and an extremely rich family who wants nothing to do with him but it wasn’t like he ever cared anyway. charming and flirtatious but also can be grumpy and pessimistic. expert pickpocket and con artist. has no idea how to handle being a celebrity but he not so secretly enjoys the love he gets from fans. has trouble trusting and allowing himself to get close to anyone & everyone.

finally…it’s over. if you actually read this far then i applaud you. i don’t have any specific plots in mind EXCEPT FOR POTENTIALLY HALF SIBLINGS RELATED THROUGH HIS FATHER SO PLEASE MESSAGE ME IF YOU’RE INTERESTED BC Y E S but if you know me then you know i want all the plots so feel free to message me and we can definitely work something out! as usual i’m super excited to write with you folks!

#viral:intro #it's honestly just his previous intro with just a few changes #but #let's try again here

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