#He was like her little protege and she was very fond of him and cared for him deeply but it’s so categorically not romantic to me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

herequeerexitentialfear · 3 months

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7 Snippets

Tyy for the tag @dujour13 ! im very bad at selecting small snippets, so under the cut they go!

one wotr Cecio, mostly jojos Celia n co, bc i have been rotating how they interact all week, with a peek at the two CeliaXElena ockiss pieces [born to run&everlasting kiss]

im about to log off but if anyone hasn't been tagged please take this as your tag!

snippet one: Dear Sister

Red, red, everywhere. I never understood ‘seeing red’ as a phrase for when fury takes over, but it seems I am now drowning in it, staining my hands, my clothes, my soul. It was as easy as drowning. I finally saw the rising tide for what it was, and made one last struggle against the waters with the angel's light, but I felt the red flood down my throat all the same, and I succumbed. Yet I find I breathe easier now, even as my corpse lies at my feet, even as the water takes me. My mind is quiet and my body is mine. That is to say, the good man is dead. I am what's left. But you know all about that don’t you, my dear sister?

snippet two: all i got's a photograph

Black hair and a sharp face, almost in profile, pressed against her own golden curls, as he wrapped around her, one pale arm slung over her shoulder and the other coming out from under her own, to hide underneath her jacket, wrapping around her torso. Conficcare. Her second oldest friend, and one of the only people who could aggressively cling to her like that and get away with it in public. She has to fight the smile, just like the Celia in the photograph, exasperated fondness is the strongest emotion in her heart when she thinks of him. Conficcare. The next strongest emotions he evokes are regret, are sorrow, for the child he was, the man he became, and her part in both of those. Much can be said of how long they have known each other, have fought for each other, have loved each other, all of them. Little is said on how it took time to get past that first stage. It's easy to look back at the history, and say it was rosy, but for every fight back to back, there is one face to face, for every kind word- for every mean word said in jest, is one in truth.

snippet three: There was no way this house could hold the two of us, i guess that we were too much of the same kind

Finally, something snaps inside Rametto, and he turns to Celia, making painfully direct eye contact, lips twisted into a sneer as he bares his teeth, “You’re not my damn father, what do you care?” He sees golden eyes go wide, and he regrets it immediately. Hes- hes not like his brother. He's careful. He opens his mouth again, wishing he could brush it all under a rug- “I know- I know I have no right-” her voice shakes and he wishes he could say it's the last night, the exhaustion, but it feels like he can see her properly, and that exhaustion is not just from one night spent worrying over numbers, its a lifetime of exhaustion, and Celia is only nine years older than him, only six years older than Cecio, and suddenly he realises she's so damn young. Something in the back of his mind is screaming, terrified. She breaks eye contact first, ducking her head, and suddenly it feels terribly dark in the kitchen.

snippet four: for what its worth, i never meant you any pain

Golden eyes flick to the report cards pinned with touristy magnets on the fridge, and the part of Celia that raised Cecio wonders if she needs to stop him staying out so late, but the part of her that sees who Cecio is now, knows there isn't much hope. Not for Rametto, not for the little brother of Conficcare, the protege of Muro, for the boy who will become a man, and step into a whole new world of violence. At her orders. Her head shakes, trying to banish the thoughts from her face as the outer door clicks, and she settles back into stillness, waiting to see what Rametto does. Pause, unlace his shoes, then try and place them on the floor quietly is the first part of that answer. He opens the inner door and treads carefully, avoiding floorboards like he's seven and superstitious again, making his way towards the cupboards, putting his bag on the floor and letting it lean against the side of the counter, leaning down himself to unzip it -and taking out the battered metal box Celia remembers Stecco taking to school, still with the dent from where she threw it at his head but changed trajectory at the last second, hitting the metal pole he was leaning on instead.

snippet five: born to run

In hindsight Celia is sure she screamed, teeth flashing, and she gripped the steering wheel and slammed her foot on the pedal, her instinct taking over, calculating angles and skid and acceleration, a too fast stream of information, as her brain shut out anything beyond what was strictly necessary, trusting in Elena to solve any attempted sabotage.

snippet six: i wanna die with you wendy on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss

She doesn't mind letting the cold seep into her through her coat, Elena right next to her and gazing out at the city skyline, doesn't mind it at all. If her eyes linger on the person beside her, on the folds of leather, on the still paint splattered hands, on her eyes and face and lips, then that's her secret. Elena is too distracted to notice her lingering gaze, hands twitching like she wants to reach for a paint brush, as her eyes stare into the distance, mind whirring with composition and colour. She's an artist to the bone, got creation on her soul, and one day, Celia prays, Elena will have the time and money to put to canvas every painting she ever dreamed of making, even the ones she's daydreaming of now, when it's just half formed thoughts to distract herself while waiting.

snippet seven: everlasting [kiss again]

A voice next to her bites out, “Idiota” any malice blunted by the fondness that underlies every syllable. And Celia turn her head towards her sun and grins too, wide and full of love, giggles turning to cackles, Tesoros shoulders shaking alongside his head, as he lowers his arms and reveals his own grin, and finally Elena cracks to, rolling her eyes as the twitch at the corner of her mouth turns into a smile, lovingly frustrated, but then her eyes glint maliciously and she opens her mouth again-

#look out of 6 works only four titles are from bruce springsteen songs #and i consider that an act of great restraint!!#thebirdwrites #gold & silver #ive actually been doing a lot of writing recently!#they are getting longg and are know where near finished #but im chipping away at them!!

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yo-anna0315 · 3 years

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Soukoku touch starvation

Excuse me while I project.

Dazai and Chuuya come off as people who are very careful with their space and personal bubble. Untouchable of some sort. Something to watch and be wary of, but don’t get too close or you’ll lose a hand.

Aren’t assumptions fun?

Chuuya seems like a very casual touch type of person, but meaningful. Like he only does it when he wants to and with certain people. But his touches are very lowkey. Like hair ruffles, or tracing scars, or light touches, or resting his leg against theirs, or leaning against them.

He’s definitely aware of touch starvation more acutely than Dazai because of Kouyou-san. Kouyou-san is very elegant and delicate, her soft touches are deliberate, but she’s very fond of Chuuya and sees him as her closest family. So she doesn’t mind being affectionate with him and Chuuya picks up on it.

He doesn’t get touch starved very easily, but sometimes, especially on bad days or corruption aftermaths, he wants some comfort. It makes him feel human, like he’s not repulsive. He’s more comfortable with offering touch than receiving it, but he’s not averse to it.

Lol Dazai has no idea what touch starvation is. He just chalked it up as part of his depression. He’s used to rough touches, like the roughhousing he gets from Kunikida when he pisses him off, but it’s not meaningful to him.

He didn’t cry when Chuuya played with his hair for the first time, but he did storm off and avoid Chuuya for a few days. Dazai is very deliberate about everything he does, but there are nuances. Usually location is a big tell. If it’s a public place, he’s just being a pest or extravagant or he wants attention. When it’s a safe place, he genuinely wants some soft affection.

Dazai is well versed in power signaling, being Mori’s protege. He knows how to manipulate personal space and use it to his advantage. *i love power signaling I think it’s fascinating* Dazai knows how to use touch to his benefit. Stepping into someone’s space, standing at someone’s back, trailing his fingers down their neck. Kicking them to their knees, stuff like that. Things that assert his dominance and provide advantages for him.

He gets touch starved easily, but he doesn’t know what it is so he can play it off very well. His ability siphons anyone’s ability away from them, so obviously ability users aren’t keen on touching him. And he doesn’t really hold his body in the highest regards. And he hates pain and he’s used to pain inflicted through contact.

Once they relearn each other and learn how to be better for themselves and each other, Chuuya trusts Dazai enough to risk going without Tainted Sorrow and Dazai trusts Chuuya not to hurt him when he needs affection.

Chuuya’s lowkey relieved the first time Dazai got petulant because Chuuya didn’t cuddle with him. He’s been working hard to acclimate Dazai to his casual affection and it paid off because now he doesn’t have to worry about touch starvation so much as before.

Cuddle monsters. But not always. Mainly just with each other.

Chuuya also got Dazai to stop wearing bandages around their home. Dazai’s a little self conscious about it but he tries really hard. He knows that Chuuya never has and never will judge him for his scars.

Sometimes they take a bath with each other. Nothing sexual *i also adore nonsexual intimacy* but they like the comfort of being close with one another. Chuuya will often have a glass of wine and Dazai will indulge in some whiskey. On really bad days, they might even share a cigarette.

Dazai gets bouts of touch aversion, where he cannot stand the thought of someone touching him. Back in the mafia, he just used to add another cut to his arm or leg. Now, he doesn’t want to do that so much. He wears his bandages around Chuuya as a signal for space. When Dazai feels more stable, he tries to talk about it with Chuuya.

#soukoku #soukoku headcanons #headcanons #bungou stray dogs #skk #bsd #double black #dazai osamu #nakahara chuuya

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recurring-polynya · 3 years

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For Stuff For Renji's Birthday Prompts: 1) time travel turn back the clock nonsense, bc I'm an enabler and Karakura teens plus shithead Renruki teens has *Byakuya voice* strong comedic potential OR 2) Hisana lives but due to wacky circumstances, nobody notices Rukia's existence at the Academy... until they've graduated and Renruki have joined Squad 11. Dealer's choice! (Honestly whichever you pick, I might try writing the one you don't. I am not a writer these 2 just live in my head rent free)

Why would you make me choose between these, whyyyyyyyyyy?

To be honest, I almost did them both, but this was the second one I did, and I figured that I should probably do some other people’s prompts, and then I ran out of time. I might do you some time travel shenanigans later. (This should in no way stop you from writing these, I would flip my chips if you wrote something, let alone something based on my horrible ideas)

In any case, I couldn’t resist the second options and I have spun it out into a delightful bit of Byakuya-torture. Please enjoy!!!

Special thanks to @kaicko for helping me come up with the clerical error, because you all know me, I can’t just say “a clerical error.” 😂

Read on ao3 or ff.net

💀 💀 💀

“How is the tea?” Aizen Sousuke asked smoothly.

The tea was excellent, but Byakuya wasn’t in the mood for Aizen’s needy attempts to ingratiate himself. “Adequate,” he replied dryly. “You said you had something to discuss with me.”

“Ah, diligent as always, Byakuya,” Aizen sighed, “always eager to get back to work. I’ll get to the point: I happened to speak with your wife recently at a fundraising event. She’s very interested in the people of the deep Rukon, and said she travels to South Rukongai frequently.”

Byakuya narrowed his eyes. “What is your point?”

“Well, I thought it was a bit of a strange occupation for a woman of your wife’s noble standing, but then Gin reminded me that she was actually from there herself, that there had been a bit of a to-do when you two married. I don’t tend to follow gossip myself--”

“I repeat, what is your point?” Byakuya gritted your teeth.

Aizen made a pissy little throat clearing noise and fiddled with a folder on his desk. “The fact is, Byakuya, your wife reminds me a great deal of a young woman who served in my squad a few years ago, whom I recalled also hailing from the Rukon. I wondered if there might be a.... connection.”

Byakuya’s shoulders stiffened. Impossible. He had put watches on all immigrants to the Seireitei. He would have reviewed anyone who came from the South 78th.

“Inuzuri Rukia,” Aizen read from his file, and Byakuya’s blood ran cold. “Shin’ou class of 2066. Unseated. Petite, like your wife. Dark hair. Very striking eyes. Unfortunately, an unremarkable shinigami. Potential for a good kidou user, but didn’t take direction well. More interested in sword combat, although she had little aptitude for it. Ah, here it is. Hometown: District 48, South Rukongai.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Byakuya said flatly. “Inuzuri is the 78th district of South Rukongai. Why would she carry a surname from a different district?”

Aizen made an exaggerated frown. “Very strange! A clerical error perhaps? Hold on a moment.” He stuck his head out of his office door and said something to the shinigami on reception duty. “Fortunately, there’s an easy way to clear this up. It’ll just be a minute.”

Byakuya gripped his teacup, unsure of how to feel. A clerical error. Class of 2066… she would have enrolled in 2060, in the middle of Hisana’s worst turn, when she had been bedridden for nearly four years. Their attention would have lapsed. It made sense.

“She does not sound like your usual recruit,” Byakuya accused. Aizen was constantly finding ways to skim the highest performers from the Academy, all the gifted children.

Aizen looked sheepish. “Ah, well, you see, there was a young man of some talent that I was eager to recruit who was… attached to her. I thought she might have some potential if properly guided, but it never panned out.”

Aizen’s good deed was suddenly beginning to make sense. The girl had transferred out and taken Aizen’s prize with her. He wanted Byakuya to go fetch her away in hopes that the talented one would come home. Byakuya actually felt much better now that he’d identified Aizen’s ulterior motive, and further, that it had more to do with his own petty recruiting schemes than Byakuya’s family (specifically, Byakuya’s wife).

There was a knock at the office door, and upon being bid entry, a young woman walked in. Although indeed petite and dark-haired, she looked nothing like Hisana, and Byakuya remarked as much.

“Oh, no, this is my Seventh Seat!” Aizen chuckled. “Miss Hinamori, you were friends with Inuzuri Rukia, isn’t that correct?”

The young woman’s eyes had gone wide when she recognized Byakuya. “Er, yes, sir,” she said, her eyes darting between the two captains. “We shared a room while she served here.”

“Do you happen to remember what district she was from?” Aizen asked in an overly friendly manner.

“Oh, sure, it was South 78,” Hinamori replied. “Inuzuri, of course.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know all the outermost ones,” Aizen said in his goofy voice again. “Her paperwork says 48.”

Hinamori’s brow furrowed for a moment and then her face brightened. “She and Abarai had very heavy accents when they first came to the Academy, and used a lot of deep Rukongai language quirks. I don’t remember all of it, but they both used to use ‘shichi’ instead of ‘nana’ for seven, especially when referring to their district. They weren’t very fond of their home district. I wonder if the registrar misheard.”

“Well, there you go!” Aizen said, slapping his hands on his desk. “A very logical explanation!”

Hinamori beamed.

Byakuya found Aizen’s need to be liked by his subordinates very unprofessional and off-putting, but he tried to push it aside. He was trying not to be too eager, but this was probably the best lead he’d had on Hisana’s sister in all the years they had been searching. “Where is she now?” he grumbled.

Aizen turned his doe eyes on his fawning subordinate once more. “I don’t suppose you still keep in touch? She couldn’t have lasted very long there, they must have transferred again?”

Hinamori made a face like she didn’t want to say the answer. “I’m afraid that Kira and I had a bit of a falling out with Abarai and Inuzuri when they left. I haven’t talked to them in a few years, although we still have some mutual friends. As far as I know, though, they’re both still at Squad Eleven. I heard they were doing fairly well there, actually.”

The room seemed to retreat around Byakuya. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears and the reverberations of the most horrible words he could possibly think of: Squad Eleven.

---

Byakuya knew it was poor etiquette to visit another captain’s squad when the man was out, but he absolutely could not stomach the idea of discussing the matter of his wife’s sister with the Kenpachi, so he waited until Zaraki and his miniature lieutenant were sent out to go trample half of East Rukongai before visiting.

He also knew that he probably should have said something to Hisana, but he couldn’t bring himself to get his wife’s hopes up, only to dash them, should this turn out to be nothing, like so many leads before it. So, the secret sat in his stomach, heavy and acidic, jostling with the guilt of his breach of etiquette.

“Is there someone here,” he gingerly asked one of the gentlemen on gate duty, “who takes care of administrative matters for the squad?”

The man swiveled his head, which appeared to grow directly from his torso with no need for an intervening neck, to his fellow guardsman. “What?”

The other fellow had been busy trying to remove wax from his ear with a pinky. “WHAT?” he shouted back.

“Paperwork!” Byakuya said a little louder. “Is there an office of some sort? A person who knows what’s going on?”

He supposed he could have asked for the girl, Inuzuri, directly, but he didn’t feel… ready.

“I think he wants Ayasegawa,” the neckless guard hazarded.

“WHAT?”

“I’ll be right back.”

Eventually, the burly gentleman returned. With him was a strangely elegant person with a silky curtain of hair cut severely to chin length and piercing violet eyes. “It really is you,” the lovely man said with a level of disdain that Byakuya almost had to admire. Before he had a chance to get offended, the man dipped into a respectful bow. “Welcome to the Eleventh, Captain Kuchiki. Fifth Seat Ayasegawa at your service. What in Soul Society can I possibly do for you?”

“Apologies for visiting while your captain is abroad,” Byakuya replied, not meaning a word of it.

“Oh, he’ll be very sorry to have missed you,” Ayasegawa frowned. “But I’m sure you could make it up to him later.”

Byakuya’s eye twitched. “Perhaps. I have come to enquire about a young woman whom I am told transferred to your squad three years ago.”

“Does she have a name? That might make it a little easier.”

“Inuzuri Rukia.”

Both of Ayasegawa’s eyebrows shot up, and his mouth curved into a feline grin. “Ninth Seat Inuzuri, of course!”

Byakuya blinked. “Ninth Seat? Captain Aizen told me she was middling at best.”

Ayasegawa's face suddenly went stiff. “She was not well-served at the Fifth, but she has bloomed here most beautifully. Inuzuri is my personal protege, you know.” He stared at Byakuya under hooded eyes. “What is your interest in her? Captain?”

Byakuya took a deep breath through his nose. “My wife is also from Inuzuri. She is trying to locate someone she knew there. It is possible this Rukia is that someone.”

Ayasegawa frowned. “Well, I can introduce you, if you like. I should warn you, though, Rukia doesn’t have a lot of lost love for her hometown.”

“My understanding is that there isn’t much to love about it.”

“Mmm,” Ayasegawa agreed. “Well, come along, let’s go find her.” He concentrated for a moment, clearly trying to find her reiatsu. She must be a woman of some power, after all. “Ugh! She and Abarai are at it again! Every day!”

Byakuya swallowed stiffly.

“Well come on! She’s out at the training fields, clobbering our Tenth Seat, yet again.”

Oh. That kind of “going at it.”

Ayasegawa was shaking his head. “The two of them are literally an unstoppable force and an immovable object.”

“Abarai was also at the Fifth?,” Byakuya probed cautiously. “I was told they were close.”

“Of course they’re close!” Ayasegawa scoffed. “They’re partners!” He thought for a moment. “Abarai is from the 78th as well, you know. If Rukia turns out to not be your girl, perhaps one or the other of them knew the person you’re looking for. Abarai is one of those people who just… knows everyone. He’s the personable half of the pair.”

“‘Partners’?” Byakuya echoed. “What… kind of partners?”

Ayasegawa stared back at him like he was insane. “Partners.”

This path of inquiry clearly wasn’t going to get him anywhere, but wasn’t particularly relevant, either. “I did not think kidou-type zanpakutou were permitted in the Eleventh,” Byakuya sniffed. “Aizen’s records indicated Inuzuri wields an ice-and-snow type.”

Ayasegawa gave a little shrug. “Zanpakutou classifications are arbitrary. Obviously, if she had a bunch of showy blizzard attacks like Matsumoto’s little prodigy friend, it would be a no-go. Rukia can take the blade of her sword down to sub-zero temperatures. She has a weapon-shattering attack and she doesn’t feel pain when she’s fighting. It’s fundamentally no different than a zanpakutou so massive that only the wielder can lift it, or a whip sword that’s controlled with one’s reiatsu.”

This sounded like a quibble to Byakuya, but it’s not like he had come to the Eleventh looking for sound logic.

“She’s incredibly fast, probably the fastest person in the Eleventh, although no one’s really sure what Yachiru’s top speed is,” Ayasegawa continued on. He glanced at Byakuya slyly. “I hear you are very fast.”

“You have heard correctly.”

“That’s why Abarai can’t beat her. If he could land one really hard hit on her, she’d go down, but he’s not fast enough and she’s just too agile. He’s my partner’s protege, you see, so I have to take their little scraps very personally.”

How did this man talk so much?

“What did you say your wife’s relationship was to her again?”

“I did not.”

“Ah, right. Oops, look out!” Ayasegawa abruptly dove to one side as a giant mass of shihakushou and pink hair and what might be a sword came crashing through the split rail fence surrounding the training field.

Byakuya was not in the habit of ducking, so he merely plunged the force of his reiatsu down into the earth like a piton. It was almost, but not entirely sufficient. Byakuya gritted his teeth as he was driven back, dirt piling up behind his heels as he skidded backwards.

When they finally came to a halt, Byakuya looked down at the meaty youth lying at his feet. This must be the infamous Abarai, although he certainly didn’t look like one of Aizen’s usual simpering overachievers. The first thing Byakuya observed was the eye makeup. Most shinigami applied at least a little eyeliner, on grounds of tradition, but few bothered to blacken the entire eye socket, as in the skeletal facepaint of old. The second thing Byakuya noticed were the tattoos painted across his forehead and neck. They were black and spikey and horrible. The third thing was the hair, which was bright pink and spikey, and utterly at odds with the makeup and tattoos. The fourth thing was the big, sheepish grin, which honestly just tied the whole hideous tableau together.

Byakuya glared down at the lout, and in a moment of pettiness, flared his reiatsu to a level that should have sent blood spurting out of his ears.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to do much to someone who has a weekly sparring slot with the Kenpachi,” Ayasegawa commented dryly.

“Sorry ‘bout that!” the lummox cheerfully apologized as he sat up and brushed himself off. He had an Inuzuri accent so thick you could spread it on toast, an accent that Hisana tended to slip into only when she was extremely bent out of shape. Abarai snapped the sword hilt in his hand, and the tangled pile of steel on the ground neatly retracted into something that looked a little more like a weapon, if a weapon were designed by a creative and overly violent child.

“That’s a captain, you buffoon!” another voice rang out, and every muscle in Byakuya’s body locked. “Show your respects!”

The voice clearly affected Abarai as well, because he leapt to his feet, spun, and slammed into a bow. “My apologies, Captain…” his eyes glanced up and abruptly widened, “Kuchiki.”

“Greetings, Captain Kuchiki! Welcome to the Eleventh Division! I apologize very profusely for throwing Tenth Seat Abarai at you!” A second young person had come to join Abarai in his bow, and they both rose in unison, Abarai looking suddenly pale and nervous, his companion looking calm and confident.

So this was Inuzuri Rukia. She had Hisana’s voice. She had Hisana’s stature, and standing next to Abarai made her look positively childlike. She wore the same dreadful eyeblack, but the eyes that shone out of it were a variation on Hisana’s, harder and three shades more purple. The rest of the face was Hisana’s. Her hair was dark, shaved on the sides, arranged into porcupine spikes on top, although one lock hung down stubbornly between her eyes. Her ears glittered with silver piercings. At least she was free of awful tatt-- wait, no. Byakuya had missed them at first, because they were white. Abarai’s tattoos were spiky and sharp, but Inuzuri’s were graceful swirls, like ribbons wrapping lazily down her forearms. Even her reiatsu was like Hisana’s-- but instead of a cool, refreshing wintergreen, Inuzuri’s was the bone-deep cold of winter, a cold so harsh it burnt in the lungs.

There was no doubt.

This atrocious delinquent was his long-lost sister-in-law.

“Can we help you with something, sir?” Inuzuri prompted. “Abarai here’s a big fan of yours.”

“Shut up, Rukia,” Abarai managed through gritted molars.

“Inuzuri Rukia, you died as an infant thirty-six years ago and were sent to the 78th District of South Rukongai, is that correct?” Byakuya said stiffly.

Inuzuri and Abarai both bristled, a pair of mongrels raising their haunches. “That seems about right,” Inuzuri replied slowly. “My early years are a little hazy.”

“My wife, Hisana also died thirty-six years ago and was sent to Inuzuri with her infant sister,” Byakuya went on. “They were separated. My wife has been looking for her sister ever since. You… resemble her greatly.” Byakuya let the implication hang in the air. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

There was silence for a moment. Then there was the distinct noise of a laugh that, having been held in, had escaped through someone’s nose. “Sorry! Pardon me!” Ayasegawa wheezed, clapping one hand over his mouth and looking away. “Bit of. Dust. In my throat.”

“I told you! I told you, you looked like that picture of her in the Bulletin!” Abarai was hissing.

“I thought you were lying because you thought she was pretty!” Inuzuri hissed back.

“I thought she was pretty because she looks just like you!”

“Now is really not the time, Abarai!” She cleared her throat and tried to stand up a bit taller, a futile effort. “So, uh, so what? What does that mean, if I am her sister? Does that… does that make me noble?”

A higher pitched wheezing came out of Ayasegawa. The level of impudence was extraordinary.

“I would like you to come to my home to meet her, first,” Byakuya put off making any promises. “We can discuss what comes next. As a family.”

“I’m at work right now,” Inuzuri excused.

“Inuzuri, I need to know how this pans out, you can have the afternoon off,” Ayasegawa informed her.

Inuzuri’s confidence seemed to be draining out of her. She took a tiny step closer to Abarai and groped for his hand. “I’m bringing Renji,” she declared.

“Is he compulsory?” Byakuya asked. Inuzuri was absurd looking too, but at least she was small.

“He’s my family,” Inuzuri insisted.

Byakuya’s brows furrowed. This could prove problematic. “In any sort of legally binding sense?”

“We’re engaged!” Inuzuri announced.

“We are?” Abarai goggled.

“I told you I’d marry you if you could ever manage to beat me in a fight! What else would you call that?” Rukia hissed at him in a voice that was still, unfortunately, perfectly audible.

“I’ve been trying every day, and honestly, Rukia, it’s not looking good for me!”

“Can you just go with it for once, instead of arguing with me every time?”

“If you want to leave and never tell anyone you found her,” Ayasegawa put in, “I am very bribable.”

Byakuya was sorely tempted.

---

End note: To further explain the number mix-up, as I understand it “seven” in Japanese can either be said as “nana” or “shichi”. People usually say “nana” for two reasons-- 1) to avoid confusion with 4 (”shi”, although you can also say “yon”) and because “shi” is a homophone for death. Given how shitty the districts in the 70s are, I rather liked the idea that they residents use the “shichi” pronunciation as a bit of gallows humor. (And if you don’t have a rude nickname for the town you grew up in, well, congrats for not growing up somewhere shitty)

I don’t actually speak Japanese, tho, so forgive me if this is all nonsense. 😁

#renji's birthday 2k21 #my writing #i loved writing this with my entire being #thank you so much #all i ever want in the way of prompts is cursed suggestions that come out of conversations i have in the bowels of my ao3 comments #strictly speaking this isn't very renji-centric but he does reach new peaks of himbo-dom in this au so i will allow it #the byakuya - yumichika interaction in this fic is so powerful #also a i z e n

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sweetpickolwarrior · 3 years

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The Three Times You Didn’t Want Them To Hear You, The One Time You Did (Part 2)

Established fic

Small!Brown!Female!Reader

Not too apparent but just letting you know in case.

TW(for this chapter) - 3rd person descriptions of intoxication (mild?)

Fic summary: You have been travelling with geralt and Jaskier for quite some time, you had always been told that your voice would take you places before you had no choice but to abandon your previous life. You still loved it though. This fic explores the times you let go and let yourself sing.

PART 1 HERE

In the days that followed, Geralt had not mentioned the river incident during training. they never talked about the episodes. He had caught glimpses of you practising your sword strokes in the mornings, caught onto the way you counted your steps, moving with a rhythm that was rehearsed and almost musical. But combat was not like music. Far from it. you could afford to take your time and be meticulous when conducting your bow and arrow, however, swords were rarely so forgiving. You miss a beat, you die. Even so, he supposed, you were coming along well.

To say Jaskier was having trouble containing himself would be an understatement. He was practically bursting at the seams, wanting to hear the warm tones of your voice again. He had been told by Geralt that the alghoul hunt had shaken you, and understood how letting your voice free after Meletile knows how long would have felt. The yearning and relief in your voice had touched him in his bones and memories of performing for the first time after sickness, or a bout of dejection rang in his head. Though he supposed the longest he had ever gone without uttering a full bar would have been less than a week. He wondered how hard it must be for you to keep your passion locked away, suppressing it if you felt in any way like he did when singing. He had met milkmaids with voices sweet as honey who could care less that they could carry a tune, tavern keepers with brassy voices thick and golden as the ale they served that only sung to watch the clock tick to close. But he knew you felt the sound you created cradle you, the way your eyes were closed, the glimpse of your wistful sways, basking in the safety of the melody you were singing, his only regret now being that he cut your comfort short.

You had been undoubtedly back to your usual, chipper self for quite some time now, and he reckoned that after almost two days of silence on the issue (prescribed by Geralt) you would be shifted by a little persuasion.

The bard began to strum a well-known tune, one he knew everyone on the continent had heard. One he often used to gauge where his pupils were starting in his single year at Oxenfurt. The unperturbed original version was chock full of melisma, dynamics, and sung in off-beats before being simplified for children to be taught in schools. This inevitably led to those children singing it in their playgrounds, and when these children grew, sung (in the loosest possible sense of the term) in pubs late into the night; losing all semblance of its former beauty. the memory of the thudding, syllabic, droning chorus sung over and over made Jaskier cringe.

“Geralt, do you know this one?”

your ears perked up at the familiar words, but the melody was something more developed and bouncy, much more pleasant than the veritable chanting you had often been subject to when tucked away at the back of a tavern.

Jaskier’s voice flit about the words like a spring bird, you payed close attention to the way he controlled his breathing and projected so effortlessly, beauty added to the song you knew so well made you smile.. That is until you felt the bard jostle up to your shoulder, “surely you’ve heard this one, Y/N, come on, I could use a harmony!”

He continued, drawing out his vowels, giving you space to come in, but you shrank away. You knew that he would not have forgotten the unwelcome experience by the river, but you dared hope over the last few days.

“I dont know how to do that, Jask.” you muttered. He could sense that you had started to close up, but he felt some gentle coaxing and encouragement would bring you out of your sudden shell. Unfortunately, Jaskier’s definition of gentle when it comes to things like encouragement is about as akin to the word as a frog to a bird.

“Well, as you may know, I was a professor at Oxenfurt’s school of music, and I can assure you that within this very hour, we will be singing harmonies to make Meletile herself weep! Here’s your note, young protege” He sang this last phrase, letting it ring so you could catch on. You attempted to shoo the bard away, pushing out a chuckle and putting on a polite smile so as not to offend your eager friend. It’s not that you didn’t want to sing with him, it’s just that… well, you couldn’t. You were no stranger to harmonies at all, being able to work them out for your small group of friends who would run off to sing behind the schoolhouse at every spare moment, the parts clicking neatly into your head like the nock of an arrow to the taut string of your bow. You could almost see a harmony like a road winding along a melody and remembered the warm resonant feeling when your voice blended with another perfectly, listening as if you were one entity, blindly trusting your voice to take the right path. Over the last few years, one of your frustrations had been that while traipsing over the continent on your own, singing had kept you somewhat sane, it just irritated you that you could hear a lovely harmony along in your head, yet you could not sing two parts at once. You supposed you really did miss it. Maybe-

These thoughts must have passed in a flash as right then, Jaskier was hooking his arm through yours quite alarmingly, his step falling into a lively jig;

Somehow he kept his breaths even and the sound still flowed out, unobstructed, while you were pulled harshly out of your thoughts.

"Jaskie- hey, hey! Stop! I don't know what you're talking about, okay?" You shook the bard off, not meaning to come across as harsh, but you couldn't help it. He shrugged off your rejection and marched off, no doubt to prod at Geralt now.

You didn’t want this to be a thing. You had been without singing for quite some now and were sure that you could live without it. You had people who cared about you again. Jaskier would give you the food he left over, let you borrow his blanket when you were cold, he would always try to be making you laugh and would pick you flowers from the paths you walked. Geralt would always look back to check how you were, he let you ride roach when you were on your bleed and your legs felt they were going to fall off, he was a veritable wall when it came to standing between you and danger. Why would you need to sing to yourself like you were still a child? It was time to move on. That couldn’t happen if you started going along with Jaskiers sudden obsession with being a duo. It was soon to blow over you were sure. Just have to wait it out.

You lagged slightly behind and listened from a distance. You let yourself focus on the thought of having some proper food and a warm bed soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt’s shoulders dipped slightly as the three horseshoes tavern came into view, the amber glow spilling out of the windows to the dirt street softening the nip of the brisk night. He pat roach on her shoulder as they neared the front of the tavern, leading her to the right while Y/N and Jaskier made their way into the warmth of the tavern, the stables waiting for the chestnut mare. He led her into the small pen, dismissing the stableboy with a wave. He proceeded to check the bedding was dry as roach set to touch the nose of the horse in the next stall. He slowly undid the buckles of her saddle and undid her reins as she took a long drink from the trough within the stall. He had become fond of this tavern during his travels, watching it grow from a horse stop to a pub and then an inn over the many years. The swell of the chorus to "Toss a coin” gushed through the walls and Geralt knew he was to be greeted with an uproar when he entered. He let his mind drift as he pulled out Roach’s brush.

He wasn't to keep Y/N waiting very long, but he thought she may appreciate a moment to herself. He let his mind wander a little as he brushed roach before leaving her for the night. He had noticed how Y/N would clam up at the mention of her accompanying Jaskiers musical endeavours. He wondered why as, as far as he could remember, her sound was not unpleasant at all. He remembered the way she had snatched herself away from the conversation earlier, holding onto her arm like she was cradling herself. Geralt picked up little signs of discomfort in his… well… friends, he supposed.

Jask would become less verbal and more softly musical, he would hold his lute, often slung on his back when not using it, to cradling it around his front, as if constantly mid-song. Y/N would let her thick hair down as if she could hide away behind it, hold her arm, and often trail a ways behind the two if they were on the path. She had taken to slipping behind him, actually, and ushering Jaskier to her side, using the broad witcher and her tall friend as a sort of wall between her and the world if they were places where there were people or if she felt one of her episodes coming along. Not many words were needed, to Geralt’s convenience when it came to things like this. He was glad that the girl had taken to trusting him, though he still only knew snippets of her past. (Though he knew that a lot of her information on him had come through the bard’s songs.)

Still, there was a mutual understanding between the three that was pleasant and unperturbed. That was until Geralt had realised that she had effectively been shutting herself up when it came to singing. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal if he was honest. Jaskier certainly wasn’t afraid of it. He had observed over a great any years people who would hum to themselves while working, walking, and the like. Ladies in brothels and pubs warbling over the bustle, even if they sounded more akin to banshees than sirens (that some would claim to share blood with, for extra coin) mothers singing to their children out before their houses… in fact… if he tries quite hard, he thinks he recalls a soft melody… something with long, sad words in front of a wooden arm chair, fingers running through his then... brown curls, he thinks.

Roach has had enough of a brushing.

He makes his way into the tavern, the smell of ale, sweat and stew making the air thick and heavy. A swell of patrons surrounding the table Jaskier was is currently perched upon raise their tankards in his direction “WOOIIIIII(WAHEEYYY)”. He urged the corners of his lips to a slight curl and gave a nod in their direction. The Trio’s arrangements for the night had not yet been set as geralt harboured all the coin for the moment. He would have to keep Y/N waiting a moment longer.

After the alghoul hunt, geralt had a hefty jangle in his coin pouch, initially from the coin of slaying the beasts, then some more due to the fact he had been able to sell some marrow at the same market he had got the apples from Roach.

He paid for two rooms that night - a room with two beds and a room with one. He felt that it would be nice to treat Y/N with a proper dose of privacy through the rocky last few days.

The trio usually bought a room that had two beds and took turns sleeping on the floor. Geralt rarely slept, opting to meditate instead and when he did, he insisted that he had never been used to the softness of a bed, and it was enough that he was out of the cold and rain. This had led to many occasions where he might not have paid for a double bedded room in the first place, the youngest of the three ignoring him and placing her bedroll over the floor that he would be forced to take the bed, the witcher stubbornly placing his bedroll on the other side of the room that she would wake up during the night and take the bed, and sometimes Jaskier joining them on the floor simply because he enjoyed “camping indoors”.

Making his way to the back of the tavern where Y/N was, he heard the opening notes to “toss a coin” once again, he supposed that they would toss more if the bard subject was within the room. He caught Y/N eyes, reaching to finally unbutton his dark cloak, she had reserved a relatively secluded booth at the back of the tavern, her bag strewn over the table as to show she did not want company, her arm draped over her drink and her eyes… glassed over?

“Geralt! Come sit… there’s space”

She tugged lightly at his sleeve as he came to sit down resting her head on her arms atop the wooden table.

“We came here to eat and sleep Y/N”

“But you and Jask drink!” she whined “Besides’ve only had one… pint… before this one...yeah”

In the few months they had been together, Geralt had never seen Y/N drunk, she would often help Jask nurse his drink if she hadn't any water left from her pack. Even after a successful hunt, she would turn down Geralt's offers of buying her a pint. He always thought it was because she had never actually been drunk, it would have made her extremely vulnerable travelling alone all this time, and he figured that she had not done so around him because she was afraid of what they may think of her, what she may be like, the net removed to catch her thoughts. Needless to say, he did not expect this tonight.

“ Y/N you’re barely five foot and you’ve eaten what today?”

“Hey! I’m almost five foot two, andI’vee eaten just about enough of Jask’s horseshit about singing to last me a lifetime”

So that’s what this was about.

“Hmm...he thinks you sound good. Do you want meat or potatoes?” he tread lightly.

“M’not hungry. I dont sound anything. I haven’t sounded anything for ages.”

“Hmm”

The girl nibbled on a few potatoes from Geralt's plate, electing to ignore her bowl of meat, now leaning back, clutching her tankard close to her chest. Odd.

Jask had taken to playing toss a coin in an insatiable loop, the patrons of the Three Horseshoes not seeming able to get enough, the clink of coins coming in a wave every chorus -

“He wipe out your chest… something.. Pest.. friend of humaaanity.. Hmm hmm hmm rest…”

Y/N’s eyes were closed, a soft smirk on her lips as she leant back in the booth, her voice trailing along the words of the song haphazardly still sounding...nice. Geralt decided not to comment, the song having a somewhat fresh flavour coming in clumsy slices from his smaller companion.

“Pour him some aleeee... ” geralt was fast to react, catching the girls wrist, the drink sloshing over the side of her mug.

“Let’s go up.” he’d had enough of the bloody song for about three lifetimes.

He ushered Y/N through the tavern, her pack slung over his shoulder. Jask caught his eye as they were walking slowly through and he was...glaring? Geralt was just about done with indecipherable emotions and was glad he’d get a moment to himself before the bard came up to their room if he had not chosen to go and chase some poor lass.

Geralt was practically pulling Y/N up the stairs as a mother cat does a kitten, her feet all but failing her on the creaky wooden steps

“Harmnising.. Mmmfghsnn cocky...teach me...I can bloody harmonise.. din’t evennn go to ..to Oxenshite…dn’t need to be bloody taught..mmff”

“You sound nice.” geralt had certainly let his tongue loose tonight; it seemed fair as he wasn’t sure how much Y/N would even remember and that she had also let her voice loose before him, if not completely of her own volition.

“m’not nice geralt.. ’ve killed people.. Let people die-”

“You have your own room tonight.” he hastily added, he did not need her mind wandering down that path in this state. Gods, he knew it would be a hole to climb up out of especially if she were to spend the night alone. Maybe he would take the room, perhaps it was a mistake to-

Y/N’s weight had shifted into his side “you’re nice.. Jask can pay for my druddy blinks..his fault ‘nyway..druddy blinks”

They had finally reached the room, Jaksiers voice floating up towards them

“Lovely ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have had enough excitement for the night - a final round of applause for our dear protector! A soft ballad now, ladies and gentlemen, to ease us into this splendid night”

Geralt pushed the flimsy door open (he was glad to be just next door) and Y/N practically threw herself onto the bed, letting out a sigh.

“I know this one” she mumbled, legs still dangling onto the floor, eyes closed.

The witcher set her pack down at the foot of the bed and went to shift her so she could get under the covers as she started to sing along, loose ribbons of sound falling in a pleasant heap. Again, he decided not to comment, drinking in the sound to make up for having to be the only one dragging through this night completely sober. Her voice lingered on the notes a moment more than they fit, words being replaced by simple mm’s until a soft burst of a familiar phrase came through. She sighed as the covers of the bed rest just below her chin, he could still see her foot wagging along to the ballad as he clicked the door shut.

Finally sitting in front of the fire in the room he would be sharing with the troubadour, he started to meditate, focusing on the wood beneath his knees, the warmth on his face, and the thrum of the voices below and beside. There had been a shift - Y/N was no longer walking along the same note as Jaskier, her voice was gliding somewhere lower, the sound slightly more deliberate than a moment before. The unsteadiness he heard in her voice reminded him of his first swordstrokes after wintering in Kaer Morhen. Hesitant, yet sure. Afraid he had forgotten everything yet trusting his muscles to carry him. He could not decipher the words from her mouth, but every note, however wavering and reluctant fit with the clear bright sound of Jaskier beneath. The witcher felt he could hear the lumber of the tavern resonate with the emulsion of the two, he let out a deep breath, almost feeling the wood curve to him.

~~~~~

In the lower half of the Three Horseshoes, Jaskier had watched till the pulsing crowd before him grew sparse as he announced his wind-down. It was a good night for coin on his part, and he could've made even more, singing out till the sun broke through the wee hours or the innkeep shooshed him away. However, he wished to retire with the rest of his troop. Especially since he was to give geralt a hearty piece of his mind when he arrived. This town had clearly seen much of the witcher over the years, pleasant mumblings with Geralts name instead of witcher and butcher had littered through the tavern when they entered. Rare, but welcome. They even cheered him as he came through the doors!

The muscle memory of his calloused fingers started to fade as he neared the end of the song, added a few musings of his own since he could not entirely remember the lute score, he landed gracefully on a perfect cadence, his voice waning away.

There were 4 people left before him now, a young couple, nuzzling at each other in a close booth, the innkeep and a young maiden sat cross legged well nigh his feet. He figured he would have chased after her was this some other night, her pretty blonde curls cascading past her shoulders. However, the bard needed questions answered and his bones ached from sleeping out in the cold for the better part of a week.

“Ladies and gentlemen” he started, hushed, much less declarative than earlier on “it has been my absolute pleasure” he held his hand out to the girl on the floor and raised her up, planting a feathery kiss on her fingers “to sing for you tonight”. He straightened himself up and strode out the room, not turning to see the remaining patrons’ reactions to his somewhat hasty departure, however much he had tried to wrap it in a neat bow.

He passed the stairs in a flurry, and spotted a room with the door ever so slightly ajar, Geralt’s way of showing him what room they were in, had he not the chance to disclose. Jaskier figured Y/N would be asleep by now, and so his anger would have to be quite silent. Since seeing geralt lead Y/N up, he had felt the red hot emotions bubble up inside of him, however much he hid behind soft songs, words and kisses.

“Geralt! What the fuck!” his whisper harsh and piercing “she sang?! She was singing?! Next to you! What did you say? What did I do wrong? Answer me geralt or I swe-”

“Listen” the witcher's amber eyes met him with a cool gaze as Jaskier then realised that Y/N was not to be seen in the room. His mind slowly registered the single word and the bard perked slightly when he heard a soft, round sound seeping through the wall.

“She said she knew the song. The last one.”

Jaksier hastily pressed the side of his head against the wall, soaking up the sound. She was winding somewhere around the chorus, not all the words present.

“she was singing with you " the witcher still knelt with his eyes closed “lower than you but.. Together”

Jask's eyes widened slightly as he began quiet ministrations to relieve himself of his lute for the night, still keeping his ear tuned to the soft hums next door.

“Harmonies?” he asked, praying Geralt may spill a bit more.

“I know nothing of music bard… but it fit. Well.”

“I still don’t understand where this came from, Geralt.” Jaskier thought she didn't even know the words to Toss a coin, but as he glanced over to the farthest corner of the tavern that night whilst atop a table, he was sure that Y/N lips were moving in unison to his, Geralt sat beside her, almost ignoring her it seemed. It just made no sense to him. Perhaps he had pressured her with mentions of his academic endeavours? Geralt exhaled audibly through his nose as his mouth twitched upwards. His version of a chuckle Jaskier supposed.

“She’s drunk”

“D-drunk? Very drunk?? Gods - I know I upset her a few days ago, but today I tried - that is-”

"It's not you, Jask" a breathy laugh followed "she tried to throw her mead at me thanks to your ditty"

"Yes well, I suppose that is one way to take it" Jask smiled as he slipped under the covers, noticing that the sound next door had slowly crept away. "She's sleeping?"

"Hmm."

The men continued in hushed whispers, Jaskier coaxing the haps of the night from his friend like he would the events of a hunt he was not present for. Geralt entertained him, somewhat grateful that the story he was entrusting was not to do with monsters, blood or death this time.

~~~~

The morning was crisp and light as you woke to a quiet, empty room. Your brows furrowed as your head felt heavy against the pillows. You rose, a bitter taste lingering upon your dry tongue, seating itself at the back of your throat. You didn't mean to get drunk last night and it wasn't what you expected. You tried to push your thoughts to the back of your mind and made your way hastily to the stables, grabbing your pack trying to ignore the churns in your stomach.

The morning sun flared in the clear sky, the cold air still and electric. You squinted until the canopy of the stables sheltered you. You greeted Roach, kissing your hand and giving a rub above her nose, the mare huffing in response.

"Good morning Y/N" you heard Jaskiers voice, hushed and deliberate and turned to see him holding a small wooden cup of tea

"Chamomile. It will help."You sipped on the tea, sweetened with a little honey leaning against the wall of the wooden structure.

"Where's Geralt?" You felt how raspy that would have come out had it not been for the few sips of tea.

"On the look for some contracts, I suppose. A nice town, this. Good coin. Oh! Here,"

He handed you a heel of bread, soft and fresh smelling.

"Thank you, Jask."

He shuffled over to you, shoulders now touching

"sweet tea and sweet bread, young miss. Cure of all cures. Trusty after unruly nights at Oxenshite"

Hazy glimpses of a low rumbling voice, swathes of people chanting a song, warm covers and your own voice swimming amongst all these scenes.

Oh good grief.

Your eyes widened at the unorganised reflections, you thought people drank because it actually helped things. Gods, never again."I- uhh.. need to see geralt about… swords." You stumbled away hearing Jaskier chuckle warmly to himself.

A/N

Hey ya'll thank you for being patient with me I know it took ages and this is literally the last day of the deadline I set for myself a fortnight ago 0_0 but I really hope you're enjoying the story far! Thank you so much for the notes on the last chapter I haven't published any stories in a very long time and it's nice to know I can still write lol. Reblogs, comments and criticism are very welcome! Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in further chapters/stories and if you have any tips on adding tags and things i'd love to hear them as I'm still trying to get the hang of navigating Tumblr as a writer again it's changed quite a bit lol. Thank you again and chapter 3 will be on its way!

mwah x

tagged people

@ladylizzieofdarbyshire

PART 3

74 notes · View notes

apiratewhopines · 3 years

Text

Thanks to @teamhook for the artwork! So fancy!

Midnight

Chapter 4 — The Ball

Summary: In which our heroine feels exposed

Chapter 4 of 7 on AO3

“Some day, when I’m awfully low

When the world is cold

I will feel a glow just thinking of you”

-The Way You Look Tonight, Fred Astaire

Having spent several days eating her way through Misthaven with one eye on the lookout for black sedans, Emma was glad to be heading away from the town and the emotional memories the sight of a pub or gas station would cause. She wasn’t sure why one innocent night with Killian Jones continued to dominate her thoughts and hijack her dreams, but she feared seeing him again would push her over the edge.

That didn’t keep her from wanting to though.

On some level, she knew he had probably already forgotten her. Perhaps he did before the night was even over. Some other passenger might be walking around his place now, wearing his shirts and eating his pancakes.

Because when she dreamed about Door Number One, they always had pancakes for breakfast.

Despite her stubborn heart’s refusal to cooperate, the last couple of days had not been wasted. Arthur turned out to be a man of his word. Like a crazy fairy godmother who sprinkled cold hard cash instead of pixie dust and magic, he kept her supplied in the finest clothes and the chicest accessories. At the same time, he made sure her social calendar buzzed with invitations from a who’s who of Misthaven’s finest and wealthiest families. Events that inevitably threw her together with Lance more often than not.

It was at a garden soirée the previous day Lance had pressed to drive her out to Camelot, Arthur’s sprawling estate just a couple of hours away. Figuring the sooner she got the weekend over with, the better, she remained elusive only long enough to be convincing and then accepted his offer.

She already figured out Lancelot du Lac was a man who enjoyed the chase. She also discovered underneath his rakish exterior was someone who desperately wanted to find love while at the same time being deathly afraid of it. Normally, Emma wasn’t one to psychoanalyze. Still, the funny thing about rich people’s parties was that they were actually very dull, and she had nothing to do but regret not kissing the Captain before they parted ways or come up with profiles on the personalities she encountered.

Psychoanalysis seemed like the safer option.

Now she was waiting in the lobby of the Ritz for Lance’s foreign sports car to arrive so she could finally shake the dirt of this town off her feet. She hoped she could shake the lingering sadness as well. It was doing things to her. Things like making her hear the Captain’s voice in crowds.

“Swan! Swan! Emma, if you don’t turn around this instant—“

Excitement and abject horror battled for supremacy when she realized it wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her. As if in slow motion, she turned in the direction of his voice and her eyes met his across the vast space. Then she watched as Killian Jones began to sprint toward her, pushing people out of his way none too gently while managing not to crease his startlingly posh blue suit. This wasn’t the flirty Uber driver of a few nights ago, all leather and innuendo. Sure he had the same sex hair and twinkling blue eyes, but this man exuded power and authority and, quite frankly, looked more than a little pissed as he closed the distance between them with frightening speed.

Unaware of the drama playing out, one of the valets rushed to her and announced breathlessly, “Baroness, your ride has arrived.”

“I… I’ll be right there.”

Emma couldn’t break eye contact with him. His face was just as she remembered it, as it should since it was less than a week ago when she last saw him. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked frantic to get to her. He seemed to know she was contemplating an escape and he paused briefly, not caring who heard him when he called across the remaining ground between them, “So help me, Swan, if you run again, I swear I will—“

She didn’t hear the rest of what he said as a herd of visitors passed between them chattering loudly in some foreign language, the group taking photos of the architecture and potted plants as if they were worthy of remembrance. She had a brief opportunity to step out unseen under cover of the mob separating them. To forever give this man who haunted her the slip.

Or she could stay.

God, did she want to stay.

—

The estate was as lovely as one would expect. Ancient oak trees lined the drive and gave way to topiaries precisely cut into fantastical shapes as the car approached the main house. Lance regaled her with tales of the vast land Arthur inherited, the numerous homes on the property, and the complete absence of any cell or internet services once you crossed the boundary.

It seemed old man Soberano convinced himself the emerging technologies were a way for the government to spy on people and had forbidden, by way of his last will and testament, any cell towers or fiber lines from ever crossing the property. It was why as coveted as an acquaintance with the family was, people often grumbled when they received an invitation to the country estate rather than one of the other properties throughout the globe. The ancient landline phones served as the communication system for the large estate and the only connection to the outside world.

Of course, most of his ramblings went in one ear and out the other because she was too busy wondering why Killian had been at the Ritz in a suit that looked like it was made for him. She would know. After all, she was now in possession of a wardrobe filled with custom pieces and carefully tailored lines.

Was it a fluke encounter or was he still searching for her? He would give new meaning to the phrase ‘no stone left unturned’ if his sole reason for coming to the premier hotel in town was to look for the broke woman he gambled on and lost. Literally.

“Darling, I feel like you haven’t heard a word I said the whole journey,” Lance gently complained as he helped her out of the low seats of the car and up the grand stairs leading to the front door. He appeared genuinely distressed at her distance, and for the first time, she felt a twinge of guilt for the ridiculous game she was playing.

“I’m sorry. I had some bad news right before we left, and I’m a bit distracted,” she explained, allowing Lance to take her hand as they approached the Soberanos who were waiting for them in the foyer. Their linked hands did not go unnoticed by either of their hosts, although to widely different responses.

Learning she was at the opposite end of the mansion from Lance, the group moved to the second floor together. The servant leading them turned to Lance and said helpfully, “Good news, Mr. du Lac, we found the cuff link you lost on your last visit. It was in Madam Soberano’s sitting room.”

Sheepishly, he looked to Emma as if ready to offer an excuse. Unable to keep a chuckle from escaping at the crazy situation, she patted his arm and said, “The wind must have blown it in.”

With that, the group separated. Arthur replaced Lance at her arm and smiled indulgently at his protege. “You’re quite good. You have him eating out of your hand, and you’re not even trying.”

“I’ve met his type before. The less I try, the more he will. He’ll be begging me to divorce my husband and proposing before the end of the night at this rate,” she joked.

“You don’t know Lancelot du Lac,” Arthur argued. Their leisurely stroll through the second-floor gallery allowed her to see pictures of his ancestors back to the Norman invasion, but she noted there was none of him or his beloved wife who he was fighting so hard to keep.

“Well, you don’t know Emma Swan. He tried to give me an emerald the size of a baby’s fist today.” She had been tempted to pocket the jewel, but some small part of her knew what she was doing was wrong and robbing the man blind when she had no intention of ever returning his affections wouldn’t make it any better.

“Excellent! I won’t even deduct it from your pay if you promise to take him for all he’s worth and break his heart, dear. It will do him some good.”

“How are you still friends with him? Knowing what he’s doing with your wife. I can’t figure out if you’re the most understanding man in the world or absolutely crazy.”

Sighing, he sat down on one of the numerous benches that lined the gallery floor and patted the seat beside him. Emma didn’t know precisely how or when it happened, but he had become almost a friend after the deal was struck. She spent as much time with him as she did Lance and, despite the fact she thought he was extremely odd, she had grown fond of him. “Because I think he was trying to make her happy at first. I told you she wasn’t the only one to make mistakes. This whole thing is my fault. It was my foolish pursuit of wealth that drove her to this, endlessly trying to carve my name into the family tomes as one of the best empire builders in the dynasty. If I had been there for her, if I had just listened when she tried to tell me what she needed…well, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

“I hope for your sake this works.”

“And I hope for your sake, the next time a man tries to give you an emerald, you keep it.”

“How do you know I didn’t keep it?”

“Because I think I’m starting to know Emma Swan,” he explained with a wink and smile before pulling her up and taking her to the east wing. Dropping her off at her room, he teased, “Get some rest, dear. Cinderella needs to be at her best for the ball.”

With a sardonic grin, she countered, “Hard to be at your best when you know every Cinderella has her midnight.”

Hours later, after a nap and a fortifying drink, she shrugged into her form-fitting green dress like it was battle armor. She was joking earlier when she said a proposal would be forthcoming, but she had no doubt Lance would make a proposition of some kind. The trick would be to keep him on the line without actually following through with anything.

She left her room as late as possible to avoid spending too much time around the pampered elite who were her housemates that weekend. While she had met a fair few during her crash course in Misthaven society, Arthur was the only one she didn’t mind having a conversation with, but he was unlikely to abandon Guin’s side to keep her company. Especially since it would put a damper on Lance’s pursuit.

Her destination was the expansive, three-tiered back deck, illuminated by thousands of clear fairy lights and a fair number of fireflies, the faint breeze carrying the briny smell of the ocean that lay only a few feet beyond their well-tended lawn. The men in tuxedos added a dashing contrast to their partners’ colorful evening gowns and cocktail dresses. A string quartet was playing off to the side; the beautiful melody drifted through the party in a way that enhanced the romantic atmosphere to a point it made her hurt.

She was surprised to see Arthur standing alone through the wall of windows. She stopped to take in the scene, complete with busy waitstaff and tables of food.

She couldn’t wait to get away.

“Alright, Guinevere, you want to talk, let’s talk. I have a few serious words to say.”

Silently moving until the curtains partially hid her, Emma watched as Lance and Guinevere made their way toward the patio. Guinevere’s eyes were red and she was fretting with a handkerchief gripped tightly between her hands. “As if you had two serious words in your whole vocabulary, Lance.”

“I could make a very noble speech. Tell you we were just two ships passing in the night, but the truth is, Arthur is my friend. I don’t want to break up a happy marriage. We’ve been playing with fire, but it’s better to end this now before someone gets hurt.”

“Funny how none of that mattered until the baroness showed up. I know you think you are in love with her. I can see it in your face every time she is around. You’re behaving like a schoolboy. You’re a darling, but you need to be careful. We don’t know anything about her. All we have is her word that she is who she says she is. I’ve asked around; no one has ever heard of her. Maybe her hair is dyed, and maybe she’s poisoned three husbands. Sidney told me there was some man calling her a swan and chasing her at her hotel today. It had all the staff talking.”

“You’re jealous, Guin.”

“Terribly. Fun, isn’t it?” The woman rushed from the room, tears flowing freely now. Emma didn’t move from her hiding place, instead waiting until he had joined the party before she followed in his footsteps.

—

As she predicted, Lance made sure he was her partner for most of the night. She followed Guin’s movements with alarm, knowing the woman was on edge and fearful of what she may do if she felt she had nothing to lose. Her glance met Arthur’s when she saw his wife and Sidney go inside, heads close together and a look of shock crossing Guin’s face. The other man nodded at her and trailed after them at a distance.

She wasn’t sure what possessed her to let Lance lead her away from the party into the formal gardens spreading north of the patio. Perhaps she was tired of having to put a fake smile on her face, or maybe she was simply tired.

He kept a steady stream of conversation going, mostly unanswered on her side, and navigated them down an old stone path to a large fountain surrounded by benches and meticulously pruned rose bushes. “Please don’t interrupt, dear, but suppose we were to follow this path all the way to the garage and take my car for a ride through the countryside.”

“Oh, the make-believe game! It’s always been one of my favorites. But why stop at the countryside, Lance? Why not go on a tour of the moon while we’re at it?”

“I asked you not to interrupt,” he teased, pulling her arm through his and continuing to amble further away from the house. “You see, this isn’t some random trip. We have a particular place we are heading. A little estate by the lake where an opinionated old dame lives. It’s twenty ’til midnight. If we leave now, we can make it as dawn is breaking.”

Intrigued despite herself, she asked, “And what business would we have at this chateau by the lake?”

“I want you to meet my mother. To introduce you to her and tell her that I’ve met the one. Then the pale light of dawn will shine on the first day of our lives together.”

He was serious, and she felt like the lowest of human beings when she joked back, “I doubt the day will be the only thing breaking when that bombshell drops. Were we going to share the news with my husband before or after our visit?”

Before he could respond, Arthur called out from behind them on the path, “Baroness Jones, I believe you promised me a dance.”

He reached them seconds later with a pointed look at her. Although he was the picture of sophistication, she could tell by his quick pace something had happened. “A midnight dance as I remember.”

“Of course, please excuse me,” she murmured to Lance, who looked like he was about to protest as she took Arthur’s arm and allowed him to guide her back to the house. Keeping a calm expression on her face, she smiled and nodded to the people they passed and waited until they were out of earshot to ask, “What’s happened?”

“It’s midnight, dear. The ground has opened under our feet. That horrible friend of Guin’s, Sidney, did some digging and found out there is no Baroness Jones. They plan to make an announcement any moment now. I’m sorry I brought you into this mess, Emma.”

They reached the dance floor Arthur installed on the deck specifically for the party, but neither felt like dancing. Instead, they hovered along the back wall and waited for the troublesome pair to return from their scheming.

Sighing, she nudged his shoulder. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. We never really stood a chance at this working.”

“But we were so close. I could feel Guin changing, turning back to me. Now I may as well help her pack her bags,” he replied, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one off to her. Clicking his glass against hers in a mock toast, he muttered, “Here’s to wasted years and endless torment.”

He downed the entire glass and, when she only took a sip, he reached out and downed hers as well.

She wasn’t sure what he had to be upset about. She was the one who was going to be exposed as a charlatan, forced to exit under the judgmental gazes of a house full of people who would dine on the story for months to come. Just as she was about to point out it could be worse, she saw Guin descend the stairs with Sidney hot on her heels. “Here we go.”

“I’ll stand by you as best I can,” Arthur promised, his hand coming to rest in the small of her back as if to provide some physical barrier against what was about to happen.

“Ladies and gentleman, may I have a moment of your time? As you know, Arthur and I pride ourselves on providing the best of entertainment at our parties, and I think you’ll find tonight’s will not disappoint. I have a story to share that I think will delight and amuse you. Under our roof tonight, we have a guest claiming one of the oldest names in European aristocracy.”

A murmur started in the crowd, musicians laying down their instruments, even the waitstaff and caterers ceased what they were doing. It seemed as if the entire universe held its breath waiting for Guin to continue. She could tell the woman enjoyed every moment of it.

“I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the heraldry of Cambridge nobility, but let me assure you that in all of England, there is no—“

From the patio entrance, the footman interrupted in a booming voice to announce the arrival of a late guest of note. “Baron Killian Jones.”

Emma had to grab Arthur’s arm to keep from falling when her knees buckled. In the soft light, the Captain looked like a fantasy. His dark hair mussed in a way that looked intentional, but she knew it resulted from repeatedly running his hand through it when he was frustrated. He was outfitted in a tuxedo, the crisp white shirt making his stubble seem even more dangerous in the moonlight. He surveyed the crowd looking for her, supremely unconcerned he had the attention of the entire party.

Arthur looked at the mysterious stranger and then took in her aghast expression and whispered, “Do you know him?”

At that moment, Killian’s eyes met hers and the heat she saw there made it difficult to think, much less speak. “Yes. Yes, I know him.”

“Right. All hope isn’t lost then,” Arthur said with forced cheerfulness as he disengaged her death grip on his arm and went to greet their visitor. In a loud voice, so nobody would have to strain to hear, he said, “Welcome to my home, my dear Baron. It’s been a long time since we’ve met.”

Despite the fact the men had never laid eyes on each other before, Emma observed the Captain as he quickly assessed the lay of the land and responded, “Yes, years and years. I hope you don’t mind me trespassing on your hospitality. I only just arrived in town and the hotel staff informed me my wife was spending the weekend here. I couldn’t wait to see her.”

“With such a charming companion, no one blames you,” Guinevere said smoothly, giving Sidney a look meant to quell any further talk and rushing to meet their newest arrival. “She’s kept us all so diverted this past week.”

Giving the woman a slight grin, he nodded. “I’m sure. She’s nothing if not diverting.”

Moving away from the Soberanos, he took the stairs two at a time until he was standing in front of her, mouth twisted in amusement and eyes on fire. He seemed to drink in the sight of her from the artless way the curls were falling down her back to how her hand was white-knuckled from holding on to a nearby chair.

“You found me.” Somehow her words sounded like both an accusation and a thank you. Her eyes searched his face for some clue as to why he was there.

“Did you ever doubt I would?”

Before anything else could be said, he pulled her into his arms and crushed his lips to hers. Plundering her mouth, not caring they had an audience numbering in the hundreds, he shifted his grip, one hand making its way to her hair and cradling the back of her head. The other drifted lower, moving her body until it pressed against the long length of his. The thin fabric of her dress allowed the heat of him to soak through to her skin which suddenly felt tight and she was desperate for more contact.

She leaned into him, allowing her hands finally to comb through the hair that had haunted her dreams. The silky strands provided a contrast to the rough drag of his facial scruff against her cheek, the feeling of him in her arms doing exactly what she wanted almost pushing her into sensory overload. She didn’t think, who could when faced with such an onslaught, her body moving on instinct. She moaned into his mouth, tongues tangling and tasting of champagne and need.

A throat cleared in the distance and reality came crashing back. Reluctantly, Killian pulled back, resting his forehead against hers and breathing unevenly.

With quiet wonder, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I was hungry to see my little wife.”

@teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @stahlop @motherkatereloyshipper @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @klynn-stormz

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kurosakikai · 3 years

Text

. xx5. Poker and Ramen

Find me on AO3 Find me on Ko-Fi Also available to yell at on Twitter

“Hi Urahara-san,” Kai-kun greets him cheerfully, and Kisuke looks up from his magazine, raises a brow as he pops the lolly back into his mouth.

“You’re here early,” he remarks with a smile, and Kai-kun gives him a shy smile.

“I was hoping I could pet the pretty kitty again,” he says, and Kisuke chuckles.

“You like cats, then?” He asks, and Kai-kun beams brightly.

“They’re fluffy! And they kinda remind me of Papa,” the seven-year old informs him chipperly, Kai-kun looking around hopefully.

“Oh?” Kisuke puts his magazine down even as Yoruichi comes down from upstairs. “How so?”

“Papa looks really pretty but can also kill things lots,” the boy says, distracted by Yoruichi. Which Kisuke thinks is for the best, given he chokes on the mint in his mouth. “Hi pretty kitty,” he gushes, and Yoruichi purrs at him, jumps up into his arms. “Oooh! You’re so friendly, pretty kitty!” Kai-kun gushes, scratching her on the top of her head.

“So you came by early so you could pet a cat?” Kisuke says, once he’s recovered.

“Yep!” He says happily. “Plus, spies are never late,” the boy says frankly. Kisuke smiles, chuckling indulgently at the boy and surreptitiously dropping the lollipop in the trash so he won’t choke again. The boy spends a good ten minutes cooing over Yoruichi, who purrs happily at her appreciative human audience, the boy giggling and scratching her wherever she wanted, and even giving her several appreciative little nose kisses.

Yoruichi was most certainly in her glee, Kisuke thinks with amusement, watching the little boy gush happily.

“So you’re going to adopt a cat?” He says, chuckling when Kai-kun hums.

“Maybe. Of course, I have this pretty kitty to pamper, so I don’t have to be in a hurry to adopt when I’m old enough,” the boy says, giving Yoruichi one last smooch to her nose. “Thank you pretty kitty,” he tells her, before looking expectantly at Kisuke.

“All done?” He asks, chuckling, and the boy beams up at him.

“Yep!” he says happily, and Kisuke chuckles. “What’s today’s lesson Urahara-san?” He asks, and Kisuke smiles, amused.

“Well, I thought we could work some more on the dinner forks...” he teases. When Kai-kun shoots him a look that promises murder, he laughs aloud. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he chuckles, and Kai-kun gives him such a disbelieving look he actually snorts. “My my Kai-kun, you have such an expressive face,” he teases again, tugs on a lock of dark hair until Kai-kun whines and smacks at his hand.

So much like Jinta, his cute little protege.

“Papa warned me about you.” He says, tone suspicious, and Kisuke laughs, amused.

“I’m offended, really.” He says, entertained by the boy’s sharp look, chuckling.

It reminded him of Kaien, actually -

Kisuke freezes a little, but recovers before Kai-kun can truly notice.

“Today we’re going to work on your expressions!” He manages to say with nary a shake in his voice. “You see, the reason you always get caught lying is because you have such easy tells! So we’re going to play poker.”

“Not shogi?” Kai-kun asks, distracted by his cheerfully flapping fan. Maaa, another thing to teach his little spy in training, he supposed. Some traitorous part of him shriveled inside at the realization that he was only furthering the divide between Kai and Kaien, but a greater part of him - the parent, the caretaker, the guardian - slaps his own traitorous heart.

Ichigo had incredible faith in him. He would not betray that. More importantly, Kai-kun was young, and looked towards him for guidance. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him for anything resembling such a thing.

“Ah, Shogi’s more familiar to you,” Kisuke says, smiling. “I’m using an unfamiliar game so I can better see how much I need to teach you.” The boy blinks at him, before nodding.

“Okay Urahara-san. So you’ll teach me the rules and then I’ll learn how to play?” He asks innocently.

“Partly. The other part, of course, is to see how well you hide your expressions.” Kai-kun stares at him for a moment. Then sighs.

“We don’t have to bet anything, do we?” Kai-kun says hesitantly, and Kisuke grins.

“Am I that predictable?” He teases, and Kai-kun scowls at him. “How about this. If you win even one game against me, I’ll start early on more self defense. If you don’t, we have to finish the formal dinner lesson.”

Kai-kun looks appropriately horrified.

“You’re mean, Urahara-san,” the boy says, wilting. “You know I’m going to lose.”

“Maa, maa, I can’t say that,” he teases fondly. “You might be good at this, and you have to learn the formal rules of dinner eventually, Kai-kun.”

Kai-kun looks at his smile, looks at the deck of cards, and wilts further.

Maaa, this was fun.

Ichigo takes one look at Kai-kun, puddled on the floor and sulking, and laughs.

“I see you two wrapped up your lesson on the dinner forks,” Ichigo chuckles, picking the boy up and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Hi there, cutie,” Ichigo says fondly. “How are you? Do you feel up to eating dinner?”

“I ate with Urahara-san. He bribed me into attending the lesson after I lost against him in poker,” the boy grumbles, even though he was obviously lapping up the attention like a pushy little kitten.

Goodness, the boy was bringing up all sorts of associations today.

“Poker? Why were you learning that?” He asks, looking amused.

“Urahara-san said that a good spy needs to be able to conceal his facial expressions, and that poker was an easy way to learn how,” Kai-kun grumbles, and Ichigo chuckles, bounces his son lightly as he regards Kisuke.

“Should I be worried?” The shopkeeper wonders, and Ichigo rolls his eyes.

“No, it’s fine.” Ichigo’s tone is light and casual.

Oh no.

“When are you working on self defense?” He asks his son, and the boy’s cheeks puff out.

“Next week. But only if I can show him that I learned how to fall safely.” Kai-kun pouts.

“We can work on that together then, cutie. Learning to fall safely is a really important step in martial arts. Do you know why?” Ichigo asks, and Kai-kun’s nose scrunches up, and he huffs a little.

“No...” He sounds disappointed with himself, and Ichigo gives his son a fond little smile.

“Don’t be. It took me two years before I learned why, cutie.” Ichigo says fondly, and Kai-kun looks up, eyes round.

“Really?” he asks, looking bemused.

Ah, children. The stage where they thought parents knew everything was always the cutest age for a child.

“Really really, cutie.” Ichigo shifts his son to his other hip as he says, “Learning to fall is important because your body can be very fragile, especially when you’re young. It keeps you from breaking important things like your wrists and your ribs, and helps keep unnecessary bruises from important parts of your body like your neck, or more importantly,” Ichigo hefts Kai-kun up to press a kiss against his head to the boy’s surprised squeal, “Your head.”

“Papa!” the boy giggles, and Ichigo grins down at his son, ruffles unruly black hair. “Mmh, okay, okay. Can you practice with me tomorrow?”

“Is that your day off?” He teases, and Kai-kun pouts.

“Paaaaaapa,” he whines, and Ichigo laughs again.

“I’ll let it slide this time cutie. Since you’re full from dinner, does that mean you can’t join Papa in having dessert?” He asks, picks up Kai-kun’s bag when Urahara offers it to him.

“But you haven’t eaten dinner yet Papa!” Kai-kun fusses, tiny hand pressing against his face, and Ichigo laughs fondly. “Papa! You said you wouldn’t eat desserts before dinner anymore if I didn’t either!”

“You can eat dessert, cutie. I’ll eat some actual food. Uncle Keigo opened a restaurant, and he promises that you’ll get the first dessert on the house.”

“He opened his ramen store?” the boy squeaks, and Kisuke flaps his fan, watching them indulgently. “Can Urahara-san join us?” The boy says, suddenly shy, and Kisuke blinks, openly thrown by Kai-kun’s request. Ichigo too, is surprised, but his eyes soften with warmth.

“I suppose he can join us, if he wants,” Ichigo says, ruffles Kai-kun’s hair. “What about it? Care to spend an extra hour with me and Kai?”

Kai-kun turns big, pleading eyes on Kisuke, and he stares down at the child.

He has things to do.

But those eyes are so round and cute -

No. No Kisuke, resist.

Oh shit, was he going to cry? No, please don’t -

RESIST, KISUKE.

A sniff, and Kisuke finds himself defeated.

“I guess I have free time...” he mumbles, scratching his cheek with a finger. Kai-kun beams brightly, and jumps up into the air, pumping a small fist up.

“Yay! Papa, did you hear?” he says, eagerly turning his gaze to an amused Ichigo, who is giving him a knowing look.

“I did, cutie,” he chuckles, hefts his son up to plant a kiss against his cheek. “C’mon. Let’s go eat.”

Urahara was never one for sweets, Ichigo thought in amusement. The man could dole out candy free as he pleased, but heaven forbid he eat too many of them himself. He’d ordered a small ramen instead of the water drop dessert, and was now under force of Kai’s big, round doe-eyes as he sniffled pitifully at Kisuke.

Ichigo takes a bite of ramen to hide his grin. Kai hadn’t pulled out the wet kitten eyes on Ichigo for nearly a year, but he’d clearly found a new subject to try it on, and Ichigo had no intentions of stopping his only son from having fun.

Oi. King. Zangetsu’s voice was a welcome distraction, and he gives a hum as he nibbles on his food thoughtfully. Kai’s getting trained to be a spy? Ichigo nods along, smiling a little at his baby boy as he pouts at his teacher.

He wanted to, Ichigo thinks quietly, and Zangetsu snorts in his head.

Yeah, because it’s not a job Kaien did, King. Ichigo sighs internally, takes another bite of crunchy bacon - Keigo’s experiment was pretty nice, he’d recommend Keigo keep this one.

Why do you think I’m not complaining? Ichigo asks, and Zangetsu sighs, unbearably fond and yet worried. Kisuke’s keeping it light, for now. Information gathering, a little bit of self-defense. Dinner forks, Ichigo adds cheekily, and Zangetsu laughs as Ichigo brings up the memory of Kai hiding under a blanket.

Our son is growing well, Zangetsu concedes fondly, cooing over the little boy in the memory. Strong and full of justice for those around him.

Ichigo smiles softly.

He is. And he will continue to, no matter what. Ichigo promises, smiling to himself.

Even if that means facing Rukia? Zangetsu asks, and Ichigo allows his smile to get a little sharp as Kai, having won his argument, cheerfully shares the sweet with Kisuke.

Rukia is not my child. I’m done holding my son back for her sake.

Zangetsu’s pleasure is a low, purring rumble.

#BLEACH #Kurosaki Ichigo #Ichigo Kurosaki #Kaien Shiba #Shiba Kaien #Urahara Kisuke #Zangetsu #Kisuke Urahara #. oo5 . STORY #STORY

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literatehiss · 3 years

Text

Trust Fall - Blood & Family

cw: Physical Violence & Injury The Lukas’s are upset with Peter over the failure of his ritual, Simon and Elias are displeased with their reaction. Read on AO3 here That fucking Archivist.

Peter coughed, wincing at the pain in his ribs and the blood that bubbled up between his lips.

Damn Eye bastards could never leave well enough alone could they? His ritual could have worked, it should have worked. All it took was one bitter old woman to ruin it.

It had cost so much money.

It was by no means enough to really disrupt the families finances, but it was enough for them to notice, to be irritated. If he bothered to do the maths it would have only really been a few years worth of his allowance. It didn’t matter. He had wasted all that money and they were angry.

He was always a disappointment, they had hoped he would be a good choice for the head of the family when he was young, the powers of their patron had come so naturally to him, but he just wasn’t quite good enough. A few scattered friendships, his relationship with James or Elias as he was now calling himself, a too cheery disposition. It all weighed on him as proof that he was useless, just like his uncle had said, over and over again as the men he had hired took their time making sure he was ‘properly regretful’ for what had happened.

Peter was lucky really. They didn’t really care. He had received his punishment and everyone would be back to ignoring him as per usual by the end of the week. If he lasted that long. Well, ok, now he knew he was being morbid, he had survived worse after all.

He was aware that he was leaving smears of blood on the walls of the apartment hallway as he stumbled and dragged himself to the flat he sometimes shared with Elias. His on-again off-again husband wouldn’t be at home, it was the middle of the work day after all and Peter had dragged the fog of the Lonely around himself like a thick blanket, enough to keep himself from Elias’s ever present gaze. His fingers were numb with cold and blood loss as he fumbled with his keys.

The apartment was cold, sterile. It wasn’t due to any real aesthetic reason, they were both simply not at home enough to both making any personal touches. A spark of hot pain lanced up his side and he fell into the wall, his teeth gritting as he dragged himself pitifully to the large black sofa that sat in the living room.

He had never been so glad Elias had convinced him not to go with the white sofa, they would never have got the blood stains out of it.

He slumped onto the leather with a huff as the impact winded him. Peter closed his eyes to block out the sunlight streaming in through the huge windows that took up the entirety of the eastern wall of the apartment. Exhaustion hit him quickly after that and he drifted off to sleep, arm still clutched around his chest protectively, unaware of the being stood at the window.

Half-way across London, Elias Bouchard received a phone call.

“Why is Peter lying half dead in your apartment Elias?” He couldn’t be sure whether it was the words or the fact that Simon Fairchild sounded so serious, that made his blood chill.

“What?!”

“Oh so it wasn’t you. Thank goodness, I was thinking of having to do something quite unfortunate.” The phone clicked off abruptly.

“Wait. What?”

Simon really wished he had bothered to get a key for Peter’s new flat, he had always had one for all his other places, just made it easier, and these weren’t the sort of windows you could just keep cracked open ‘just in case’. But Elias ‘liked his privacy’ which was the funniest joke the other man had ever made as far as Simon was concerned. Multiple lifetimes with varying interests had lead him to have at least a passing knowledge of how to break open locks but it still took him far to long to get the door open. He could barely see Peter through the fog the other man had summoned around himself, but he could see the blood pooling on the couch and dripping slowly onto the floor. The bright red a shock against the monochrome of the apartment.

Simon waded through the mist, placing a nervous pair of fingers to Peter's pulse. Alive, if weak. His presence probably wasn't helping matters, the Forsaken could heal Peter far faster than any vague attempt on his part to give him medical attention could ever provide. He couldn't just leave him though. Couldn’t just abandon the young man he had seen grow from a scared little child to a depressed and irritable teenager to a proud and confident adult that had enough power to be able to attempt his own ritual, even if it had been disrupted and failed so spectacularly.

Simon had always been so very proud of him.

He levered Peter up to slip his coat off him, throwing it in the sink with water and salt, might as well try and stop the blood staining the thing, god knows how fond Peter was of that coat. Blood had clotted and dried into his shirt and jumper and Simon ended up rummaging through the practically unused kitchen for scissors to cut them off him. Peter winced and shifted as he tried to gently pull the fabric away from his wounds.

Wiping away the blood proved to be a trial all of its own, immediately flowing again each time he managed to wash it away. A palm to his lad’s forehead proved him to be burning up, by which he was starting to reach the same warmth as someone who hadn’t accepted the Forsaken into their heart, which was a startling difference in temperature. He kept the floor to ceiling windows open and made a stiff breeze flow into the room. Far too cold for the average person but it should keep Peter at just the right level of corpse-like cold. He felt the skin under his fingers suddenly shift as Peter’s ribs snapped back into place. A disconcerting sensation but one that Simon was thankful for, knowing it meant that Peter was healing. The fog was starting to fade, the most life-threatening of the injuries having fixed themselves.

He knew the Lukas’s would be upset with Peter but this was a bit much surely? He had never wished so fervently that he had tried to persuade Peter over to the beautiful Vast when he was younger, before it became too late. He couldn’t imagine hurting any of his own protege’s, not like this, not even if they had truly disappointed him. He was just about to consider dragging Peter into a cold bath when the front door of the apartment violently slammed open, crashing against the wall with an almighty bang. A panting and sweating Elias stood in the doorway, suit jacket hung over his arm, eyes wide in alarm.

“What happened?”

Elias was panicking. He really wasn’t expecting to get a call from Simon on a Wednesday afternoon accusing him of attacking Peter. Apart from the mild hilarity of the thought of him being able to take down a man double his size and weight, he was also alarmed that he hadn’t noticed anything. He rushed out of his office, flying down the steps towards the lobby of the Institute. A body slammed into his own, the form of his Archivist standing in front of him, faux concern and sharp interest glittering in her eyes as she stopped him.

“Elias you seem to be in quite the hurry. Is there a problem?”

He pushed forward and grabbed her shirt

“Gertrude if I find this was you I will kill you myself. I didn’t do anything about you destroying his ritual but this is just unnecessary.” She frowned and he immediately was shown that she wasn’t the cause of Peter’s injuries. He pushed her to the side, her own surprise the only reason he was capable of doing such a thing. Elias stormed past, ignoring the calls of Gertrude and Rosie behind him.

London was a miserable place to travel through if you were trying to get anywhere in a hurry. He had a car but the thought of using it to get home in any sort of reasonable time at this hour was laughable in this traffic so he pushed his way to the nearest tube station, something he normally only did when his car broke down or he was particularly hungry. There was nothing like being packed in with so many people for sucking up all their trauma.

Right now all the people were getting on his very last nerve.

His jacket got caught on the door of the tube as he ran out and rather than stop he just pulled and pulled until the fabric ripped. Slinging it over his arm, he ran towards his rarely used flat, finding the door already unlocked he slammed it open.

Fog curled around his feet, emanating from the figuring lying on the couch and staining it with his blood. Simon was sat next to him, a handful of fabric pressed against a wound on Peter’s side.

“How is he? What happened?”

“I have no idea to be honest Elias. I thought it might be Gertrude but we both know he wouldn’t be alive if it was her”

“No it wasn’t her. I think it was the Lukas’s, probably Nathaniel organised it.”

“Oh dear. Yes I thought as much.” Simon said with an exasperated sigh that said a lot for how long he had been allied with the Lukas’s.

Elias reached for the Eye to tell him how Peter was doing but it just pushed back against him, angry of him using his powers to help someone rather than just watching, observing.

It took two days for Peter to wake up. the Forsaken protesting against their intrusive presence. Elias took time off work for the first time in a decade to watch over him. When his cold blue eyes eventually pried themselves open, it was to see Simon sat on the floor next to him, playing with something on his phone while he could hear Elias complaining down a phone to some poor employee.

“S’mon?” he mumbled, the fog of the Lonely already trying to whisk him away, misty tendrils wrapping around him.

“I’m here lad, don’t worry.”

“Hurts”

“I bet. Nathaniel? Conrad?” A shrug.

“Th’ watched. All of ‘em. Hired people.”

“Didn’t even have the balls to it themselves I see.” This was spat angrily from over his shoulder by Elias. A familiar ringed hand came over the back of the sofa and stroked fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and rested in the company of his two favourite people. Not that he would ever tell Elias that, the man’s ego didn’t need the boost, he would get simply unbearable. He listened to their hushed talking before slipping back to sleep.

The Lukas’s never knew that anyone found out what they did to Peter. They never linked the sinking of so many of their ships or the dropping of so many of their investments to that day. When a cousin that was brought before Court suddenly found a rush of evidence against him, well he should have been more careful. It wasn’t as if their longest allies would turn on them like that. They weren’t the type to keep in contact so if the hired men they had used went missing? Well that was none of their business. What happened to those men? Well Elias and Simon would never say, but the only one who was ever found was curled up crying at the top of Everest with his eyes clawed out. Peter stood at the stern of the Tundra, smiling as he watched one of the Fairchild’s ships pass his own as he pressed a kiss to his newest wedding ring.

#Peter Lukas #Simon Fairchild #Elias Bouchard #LonelyEyes #NaNo 2020

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disregardcanon · 3 years

Text

end of year writing meme

time for my end of year writing meme! this has been a tradition for me since 2015 or 16, so i’m excited to keep it up :) i normally do it ON new year’s eve because i write over winter break. but.

i have the depression/anxiety cocktail and have to go back to teaching next monday so i highly doubt i’ll get anything else written or posted by then. sigh

tagging @titaniumsansa @bodhimcbodeface and anyone else who wants to do it

Total Stories Written: 18 on ao3 19 completed total

Total Words Written: i know my ao3 stats are shifted p drastically this year because i updated two extensive drabble collections, but i do have more unposted drafts this year so i’ll just go with it. 96k Average Words Per Story: about 5k as the mean, which tracks Shortest Story: 370 words Heaven on Her Mind Longest: 11,875 words Academia Nuts

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted?

less! i knew i’d write less this year than i have in the past because student teaching and then first year of teaching are both supposed to be hell, but i kind of expected going into quarantine that would give me the time and energy to write.

but NO! in some months of quarantine i wrote less than i did during student teaching, certified most stressful time of my life

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write most?

pairing: cassunzel! coming in clutch at 6 stories

genre: no fucking clue

fandom: tangled was the most by number, but i think jedi fallen order is the most by word count because those two fics combined come in about 13k

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? uh, that’s probably rwby. i always knew that when i watched rwby i’d go feral but i didn’t expect to watch it this year

Did you take any writing risks this year? i think my biggest writing risk was writing a 12k fic with romcom tropes about a platonic relationship no one cares about from a mainly dead fandom

Academia Nuts, the one where merlin and morgana are bickering in-laws and academic rivals

Do you have any fanfic or general writing goals for the new year? i would frankly just like the time and energy TO write. this year has been the most stressful and depressing time of my life and that’s reflected in my writing output. i would like to see more output because i have more energy and drive to do the things that make me happy again

From the past year of writing, what was your…

Best story of this year: the thing with feathers fluttering in her chest the jedi fallen order fic about trilla suduri capturing cal kestis but still eventually deciding to defect

Personal favorite: Smoke Rises, Cinder Falls my personal take on the cinder backstory before it dropped! while i definitely like where the show took the backstory better because the hotel imagery is TOP NOTCH i still love what i did here. i think that i made good use of style and the information that we had, and i think that the salem connection works very nicely

Most under-appreciated: i know calling a fic with 65 kudos “underrated” is a bit ridiculous, but this is for a very large fandom. it might be dead but i still think it could drum up a bit more support :(

Academia Nuts, the merlin and morgana are bickering in-laws and academic rivals fic

Most fun to write: as a reward for being so fucking happy that biden won the election for real, i rewarded myself by writing the pines family reacting to it

Remember, Remember the 7th of November

Story with the single sexiest moment: how about that inquisitor caltrilla au?

I Want You to Want Me

Most “holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story: captive caresses, the one where the v shaped polyamory dynamic that i normally do with cassunzel and new dream isn’t so healthy

Most challenging to write: from a technical standpoint that would be academia nuts, but from a personal standpoint...

Scar Tissue, the steven universe fic about connie still keeping secrets from her parents

Biggest disappointment: frankly, nothing i wrote this year can be a disappointment because i put words on a page. however, i will say that i could have polished this one that i wrote years ago up more before i posted it

Holy Ground, the shireen/jeyne poole fic from like 2015

Favorite character to write: i didn’t get stuck on a fandom long enough to get a favorite character to write tbh

Favorite opening lines:

Sometimes, when Rapunzel wakes up in the morning, she likes to pretend that everything is alright. She closes her eyes and imagines that Cass is right down the hall, just like she used to be. Rapunzel will burst into her room as soon as she gets up, ready to plot some new mischief to keep them busy for the day. Cass will roll her eyes, but she’ll go along with it because she secretly enjoys Rapunzel’s plans. She’ll smile when Rapunzel isn’t looking, and she’ll call her Raps with a soft fondness that makes Rapunzel's heart melt.

Jeung

Sophie knows that she shouldn’t be walking home alone at this hour. Of course she knows that. She’s a tiny white girl who lives in Gotham with little self-defense training or experience in athletics. She’s had “don’t walk home alone” beaten into her head for so many years she wonders if those were the first words the nurse said when she came into this world.

Not “it’s a girl!” but “don’t let her walk home alone at night!”

Walk Me Home in the Dead of Night

Favorite closing lines:

“Follow me,” the fairy godmother ordered, taking a brisk step forward. Cinder followed without question, just a step behind. Following, following, following- just as she would be following her until the end of time. Cinder was her protege, after all, and must be prepared to take over the fairy godmother’s work someday.

That day would not come for many years, but it would come. And the fairy godmother would finally have everything she ever wanted.

Smoke Rises, Cinder Falls

Trilla can’t exactly have her second-in-command stay that low in the hierarchy forever. A consort to a queen needs to walk only a few steps behind her, after all.

I Want You to Want Me

Other favorite lines:

She can lead a horse to independent thought, but she can’t make him think.

The Name Game

When Trilla gets back to her room, she grabs the damn cube and throws it against her wall as hard as she can. It doesn’t break, because the holocron is made of stronger stuff than that. Cal Kestis is made of stronger stuff than that.

Maybe she’s the only one in the world who’s so capable of shattering.

the thing with feathers fluttering in her chest

“You don’t have to forgive him,” Fuyumi says, “just don’t kill him.”

“Because he can’t come back from that?” Dabi demands, “a corpse can’t decide that it wants to love its daughter, right?” Dabi watches as the knife twists, and Fuyumi’s facade finally crumbles. She slams her mug of tea down on the table, and they're both lucky that it's not full anymore or the hot liquid would have come flying out.

Justice Without Dispassion

“But you’re a good trainer,” Lillie says, “you’re what I want to evolve into.” Selene shakes her head.

“We're from different evolutionary lines,” she says, “you evolving into me would be like- I don’t know. A Charmander evolving into a Blastoise.” Lillie looks like she’s holding the fur even tighter, and Selene snakes her hand underneath to disentangle Lillie’s hand from the fur and give her something else to clutch. Lillie squeezes her hand like a stuffed Jigglypuff that people carry around to squeeze away their stress.

“But what if I’m stuck at Charmander forever, and what if Blastoise is better than Charizard, and what if I’m just- just not cut out for this?”

Even Gods Like Cuddles

“Do you remember when we were really little,” you say, “and I used to come over for dress up parties. I’d wear your extra princess dress, let you do my hair however you wanted.” You smile, thinking about how cute the pictures that Bianca’s mom took of you two looked. Your mother always said that they’d be good blackmail material, someday, but-

It wasn’t ever shameful, especially not if your mother didn’t make you feel ashamed.

“Of course,” Bianca says, “you were always the best at sitting still. No one else would have let me do their nails and makeup.” You’re not looking at her, but you can hear the soft smile in her voice.

“You were always so indulgent, Hils. I really appreciated that.”

“I wasn’t being indulgent,” you say, balling your hand into a little fist and rubbing your thumb over your knuckles.

“I always- I just,” you say, “I wanted to be that “girl friend” that you always wanted.”

Girl Talk

#end of year writing meme #writing meme #sunkelles writes

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the-darklings · 5 years

Text

—the space between fingers;

pairing: arthur morgan x female!reader

summary: What brings you back to life also gives you the means to destroy yourself.

word count: 5.3k+

warnings: a poor attempt at arthur’s pov RIP

notes: I would have had this out sooner tbh but you know ~life~ and ~drama~. Thank you for your insane support on my first two fics. You guys are amazing <33

tagging: the usual suspects: @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast & @deviantramblings

. . .

What brings you back to life also gives you the means to destroy yourself.

It’s a simple truth he has known for many years now. He has gone through phases of it—his parents, Mary, Eliza and Isaac. Fragments of his life he can neatly order into moments that are almost happy, and moments that don’t resemble anything close to happiness.

There is good in those memories but the good always gets vastly outweighed by the memories seeping with bloodshed, bullets and dynamite. Some nights he’s surprised he manages to sleep at all. Even something as simple as sleep feels like a commodity he’s undeserving of.

He has learned his lesson a long time ago though—was taught it time and time again—to stop caring, to not get attached, that the only thing that matters is the Gang and the job. Sometimes his thoughts bleed with Dutch’s voice and he wonders if it’s his own conviction anymore or if the only truth he knows is the one Dutch tells him. He’s his own man, always has been, but sometimes—lately—it’s been harder to tell the difference anymore.

Blackwater has changed something in them. All of them. It’s the kind of fundamental change no one acknowledges but Arthur can see and feel it everywhere he looks.

Some things, it seems, never change though.

Javier’s music still has a way to gather everyone in the camp together.

The people he considers his own are gathered in a merry circle of happiness and laughter. A bottle of whiskey is being passed around but it’s not necessary, considering the state Uncle and Pearson are already in. That, however, doesn’t stop everyone from indulging.

Javier’s music has always been vivid, exciting and full of life; the type of music that makes you want to sing and dance on instinct. On this warm summer night, Charles has also joined in with his harmonica, creating a completely new and exciting set of melodies.

Little Jack is a bustling ball of limbs as he leads Mary-Beth and Karen in a wild dance, much to the amusement of the two young women. Dutch is leading Molly in a more elegant but no less energetic dance that has the redhead blushing bright pink. As always, Dutch and his damn charms are irresistible.

And there, just behind grinning Lenny and Tilly, is you.

He hasn’t seen you smile or laugh since Blackwater.

But your grin is warm and genuine as Hosea spins you in a circle.

Arthur knows you are fond of the man, much like the man is fond of you. Hosea was the first to see more in you than a simple street urchin who decided to steal from Micah—much to the latter's embarrassment and irritation.

Hosea was the one to convince Dutch to take you with them, who taught you how to read and write. Much to his delight, you took to it like a duck to water too. Hosea often brought up—with a not-so-subtle stare in his and John's direction—how much he wishes his old students have been as adept as you are. You’ve become a bit of protege of his.

Arthur sometimes finds himself wondering if it’s simply an old man’s sentimentality, or if you are genuinely two people who have found deeper kinship in one another.

Hosea says something and your expression crumbles before delighted laugh slips out of your mouth, your head slanting back for a moment. The sound is rich and loud, slicing through the heavy, energetic beat of the music.

He feels the sound of it wash over him, and remembers once again why he hasn’t sought you out since Blackwater. Why he has been keeping his distance even more so than usual, why he’s been accepting jobs that take him out of camp for days at the time. He convinces himself it’s because they need the money—and they do—but there is also you.

You make it hard to remember why he stays away, why he avoids connections, why he focuses only on getting the job done and nothing else.

You make a lot of things hard for him.

A part of him wants to look away from you and never look your way again. Because really, he will be doing you a favour if he does. He sure as hell isn’t a nice man to be around, and despite your quick fingers and even quicker tongue, you are a good person. At the core of you is warmth and life—so bright and vivid you practically bleed with it.

That liveliness is also what makes it so hard for him to just look away. Because it’s so very easy to get addicted to gentleness and kindness. Genuine interest and care. So easy to look forward to those things and start to treasure them.

Kindness, he finds out after meeting you, can be a very dangerous thing indeed.

He feels the sting of tobacco on his tongue but doesn’t look away from you, despite the hard voice deep inside him telling him that he should. He isn’t much of a man for festivities, although a free drink is always welcomed. He’s happy to watch over others though, watch the tension and the doubts melt away from their shoulders. That mountain was hard on everyone, and Arthur wonders if things will go back to how they were used to be any time soon.

Dutch shouts something and everyone else cheers in reply, Javier promptly changing the tune to match the uplifted mood.

“Pretty little morsel, ain’t she, cowpoke? Won’t mind a little tussle in the hay with the likes of her.”

Smoke escapes his lips and Arthur grits his teeth for a second, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stomping on it. He digs his boot into the dirt, imagining it's the head of the man who decided to bother him.

"Now I don't know if yer brave or just stupid," he begins almost jovially as he glances at Micah from under the brim of his hat. "Because unless you fancy losin’ all of your teeth I would keep your mouth shut. Think before you speak."

A snake. That's the only way he can describe Micah—the only way he can ever describe the man that feels right. He slinks around the camp, leering and watching, muttering in Dutch's ear far too often for Arthur's taste. But Dutch is a stubborn fool, and whatever he wants to do, he will. When an idea enters his mind, not much can change it. He admired that, once. Now that stubbornness is starting to become a burden, is starting to make him near unreasonable to deal with.

But that doesn’t wipe out twenty years of loyalty. Twenty years of bleeding, fighting and running together. And Micah should know better than to slither his way in and hope he will ever be able to match up to what he, Dutch and Hosea have gone through together.

"Now, I don't mean no harm, Arthur," the man replies easily but there is a sliver of greed, of lust, when his eyes flicker in your direction once more, and Arthur feels something in his gut burn. "We all know you have yer eye on that one. It just surprisin', that's all. The great Arthur Morgan brought down to our level by a pretty face."

Arthur’s lips curl upwards as he glances down, his fingers latching onto his belt buckle as he chuckles under his breath. The sound clearly confuses the blonde man in front of him because after a tense moment he joins in unsurely, the sound more anxious and wheezy than he probably would have liked.

When he looks up at Micah, there is a tense sort of air around him, and it’s obvious where his confusion stems from. Arthur rarely engages him, and if he does, it’s seldom with a kind tone, much less a smile.

He takes his time in approaching the man, the half-grin still lingering on his lips as he looks up at him. There is a very particular kind of joy to be found in the way Micah flinches when Arthur lays his hand heavily on the blonde’s shoulder, squeezing tightly.

“I’ve been runnin’ with Dutch for odd twenty years now,” he says conversationally, patting Micah’s shoulder heavily. “And you wanna know what’s the one thing that always happens?”

Micah remains tense and silent, a disgruntled sort of scowl twisting his expression and Arthur grins wider, fingers sinking deeper into his shoulder for a moment, “When it comes down to it, every man eventually shows what he’s really made of. I’ve seen it time and time again. Those who think they can trick and weasel their way outta of things...well those poor fellows don’t do so well with us. And they sure as hell don’t last long either. So a little respect towards your fellow gang members might do ya some good in the long run. Now you think on that, hm?”

Micah’s expression grows taunt, and his scowl only deepens with every word, but he keeps quiet and Arthur is grateful for it because he’s not in the mood to hear the snake run his mouth again.

After another stretch of strained silence, Micah finally opens his mouth to say something but he never gets to finish.

“Well, well, ain’t this a blessed sight,” Dutch’s voice slices through the night, and Arthur glances to his right to see the older man approaching them with a deceivingly calm expression. “My two best men in one place. Glad to see you two gettin’ on for once,” he adds with an underlying bite in his voice that doesn’t go unnoticed by Arthur.

A slice of anger rips through him at the comparison, but he only dips his chin to not let it show. Whatever opinions he has of Micah are for Dutch’s ears alone, and he sure as hell isn’t going to give the snake the satisfaction of knowing that his presence often causes friction between them. There's no love lost between him and Micah, that much is true, and the whole camp is more than aware of it even if they don’t voice it. He’s glad that he’s not the only one who feels like something is wrong with the blonde though, even if most excuse it due to his impressive skills with a gun.

And no matter how much Arthur wishes he could say otherwise, he has to agree with others. Despite his less than savoury attitude, Micah is a good gun to have in a fight.

“Oh, nothin’ much, Dutch,” he replies, patting Micah on the shoulder a few more times before letting go. He notices how Dutch’s eyes track the misleadingly harsh motion as he turns to face the older man. “Micah and I was just discussin’ the values of respect.”

“That so?” Dutch drawls slowly, eyes fixing on Micah, “Good discussion?”

Micah shoots a harsh glare his way, and Arthur feels his fingers clench around his belt buckle. It will not do him any good to start throwing punches now, no matter how much he wants to.

“It wasn’t anythin’, boss,” Micah bits out, his voice laced with irritation as he rotates his shoulder as if aggrieved. “See ya in the mornin’.”

Dutch does not stop him and Micah walks away without a backwards glance, though the silence he leaves behind is something Arthur would much rather not deal with right now. Dutch pulls out a cigar, still looking in the direction Micah has disappeared in.

“Must you always do this?” he asks at last, his voice pitched low and Arthur can feel his anger spike at the near disappointed edge in Dutch’s voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry, next time I’ll be sure to go and sing him a nice lullaby, Dutch,” he snaps back, motioning in the direction Micah has walked off in. “I’m not startin’ a damn thing and you know it.”

Dutch’s eyebrows rise and he nods his head slightly, a thoughtful hum thrumming at the back of his throat, “I see. And what about how you treat him?”

“How I treat him? And how exactly do I treat him, Dutch?”

His gaze is dark when he answers, “Like he ain’t one of us.”

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief, “That’s probably ‘cause he ain’t,” he replies, words heavy with frustration. “Loyalty. Respect. We might be a bunch of crooks but I always thought that was at the core of our people. He has none of those things. Bell is the last man on this godforsaken patch of dirt that I would trust to ‘ave my back.”

“Enough, Arthur,” Dutch cut off sharply, taking a forceful drag of his cigar before he addresses him once more. “Micah has proven himself to be a fine fellow and valuable addition to our ranks, so I will hear no more of this, is that clear? It’s been a long day, son. You oughta get some rest. Wherever this animosity between you two comes from, I want it dealt with as soon as possible. We can’t be fightin’ amongst ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Arthur intones quietly in reply, bitterness welling in his chest. Besides Hosea, Dutch is the smartest man he knows, and yet when it comes to Micah, he refuses to budge. “Yeah, whatever you say, Dutch.”

He grits his teeth and turns to leave but a hand on his shoulder stops him, and he glances sideways towards the man who looks at him calmly but flatly.

“Son, you must understand,” Dutch begins softly, “I can’t have pointless fightin’ in the camp. I need ya with me, Arthur. I know I’m askin’ much but can you at least try?”

Once, it would have been so easy to turn a blind eye to it all, to simply trust Dutch’s judgement and let him handle everything. Now, Arthur is no longer sure what to make of any of this. Perhaps Blackwater shook his own faith more than he cares to admit.

“Sure thing,” he says at last, still torn, still unsure what the hell has happened to them. Who is responsible for this tension between them. “I’m always with ya, Dutch. But you better have a word with that fool because next time he runs his mouth, it will not end so well for him.”

He pulls back, stricken with the realisation that he can’t stand the thought of lingering here, that for some reason Dutch’s request feels almost like a stab of betrayal. Something in his gut twists at the thought and he tries to push it back as swiftly as he can. Dutch asking him to try and get on with Micah doesn’t mean he’s choosing favourites. They’re not kids for crying out loud. And yet—

His feet start carrying away before he even realises fully what he’s doing. But he doesn’t feel bad about leaving Dutch with those words because he means them and he needs to think, he needs—

“Arthur?”

He freezes.

It takes few blinks to slip out of his daze as he looks over his shoulder to see you standing there, your lips parted and a worried frown twisting the planes of your face. He hasn’t realized he’s stormed past the campfire till that exact moment, the lack of music leaving a near tranquil quiet in its place. Most of the camp has cleared out already, leaving only passed out Uncle and Sean by the fire. Hosea sits beside them, smoking his pipe as he gazes thoughtfully into the flames. You both stand just far enough to be covered by shadows but close enough to still see the glow of embers in the distance.

“Arthur?” you repeat softly, more worried this time as you take a step closer towards him.

You rarely speak his name. Usually, it’s ‘Mr. Morgan’ or some other version of identification that did not require his name. It’s only during rarest, most private moments that you forget yourself enough to use his first name. It warms something in his chest when you do; the worry and concern you so clearly feel towards him, even more so. It’s just another reminder that he has no business involving you in any of this though. It’s true you confide in him but he’s unsure if, just this once, he can return the favour.

“You ought to get some rest Miss (Name). Tomorrow—”

“Are you alright?” your question is brimming with genuine concern as you approach him, and it stops whatever words he’s about to say. “You look...upset.”

He wants to dismiss it but there is something disarming about the look on your face as you gaze up at him.

“It’s nothin’, don’t you worry…” he trails off before something catches his eye, and for a brief moment he forgets Dutch, forgets Micah and focuses only on you, his lips twitching upwards slightly. “Your Highness.”

He bows his head briefly, and his grin widens at your confused frown. There is a moment of suspended silence before your expression clears and you laugh, your hand flying to the top of your head where a freshly woven flower crown sits. Your expression is one of pure delight and he almost sighs at the feeling of lightness that blooms in his chest with it.

“Oh! Um—little Jack made it for me this morning,” you tell him with an affectionate grin, and he turns to face you fully as you come to stop right in front of him. “It was awfully nice of him, and he didn’t ‘ave to but he still—sorry, you’re probably busy! I don’t mean to waste your time Mr Morgan, just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

He watches you from under the brim of his hat, tracking the nervous twist of your fingers and wonders if you realise how endearing this nervous habit of yours has become. Except he shouldn't really care, certainly shouldn't notice it. And most certainly not feel better with you near. Like it’s easier to see things clearly, like your mere presence is enough to calm the simmering anger burning away in him.

But the thought of Dutch and Micah brings back the bitter sting and he feels his small smile wilt. He trusts Dutch, he does but—

“Mr Morgan?” your voice sounds again, and suddenly you’re close enough to touch, to smell, to feel the subtle heat coming from your body. He tells himself that the shiver that races down his spine is from the night chill and not your closeness. “Are you sure you’re fine? I’ve been tryin’ to ask you somethin’ but...I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t wanna,” you trail off, but he notices the sad break in your voice, and there is a part of him that tells him that he’s better off not knowing.

But.

“Apologies, Miss (Name), my head is all over the place today,” he says carefully, noting the way your eyes flicker back to rest on him. He knows that due to the dark and the angle his head is slanted in, you can’t really tell he’s looking right at you. “What was you sayin’?”

“Would you care for a dance, Mr Morgan?”

“Excuse me?”

From everything—anything—he might have expected to hear from you, that most certainly hasn’t been it. For a moment he’s uprooted and unsure because that cold, logical part of him is already rebelling, spitting how not only will this be improper but it will also be dangerous.

You are dangerous.

With your easy smiles, gentle yet understanding eyes and a sense of humour that would make most nuns blush with shame.

He’s been a fool for a woman’s love once.

A love that he has never managed to live up to, never managed to make his own. With Mary it’s always been a race to change himself, to shift his very being into something that will suit her and her high society life.

With Mary, it has always been take, take, take.

With you…

He hasn’t even notice when or how you managed to crawl your way behind the walls he kept so tightly around himself. Not only because he’s undeserving of such happiness but also because after Eliza and Isaac—

His heart—whatever little he ever did have of it—has been destroyed too many time to let another in. To risk the pain and agony of another loss.

But you stand there, looking up at him hopefully, shyly, and he feels so goddamn helpless at the sight of your unguarded expression.

With Mary, it has always been take, take, take.

With you, it has always been give, give, give.

Undoubtedly ironic, considering that from you two, Mary is the elite lady and you are nothing more than another runaway with little to no money to your name.

“There’s—er—no music Miss (Name),” he says finally, his throat dry because this is not the turn he ever expected his night to take. “It’s kinda hard to dance without it, ain’t it? Besides, I ain’t much of a dancer.”

A slight smile curls your lips, and he wonders why for a moment you look so relieved.

“Why Mr Morgan, there’s always music,” you tell him seriously and he feels his eyebrows rise, head tilting so you can see his dubious expression. “You just gotta know how to listen.”

You raise your hand to him, palm outstretched as you wiggle your fingers a little, “May I have this dance?”

Tell her no. Push her away now to spare her the pain later.

He wants to push you away—he really does—but as if in a daze, he cautiously takes your hand in his. Your fingers are so much smaller than his. He hasn’t realised until this moment just how small when in comparison to his. He feels you move them till your hands rest securely against each other, and he allows himself the foolishly indulgent moment of feeling the simple warmth of your skin.

It feels much nicer than he would care to admit.

“Now, just listen.”

His eyebrows knit together in confusion and he glances around, “To what?”

You chuckle under your breath, the sound warm and breathless as you look up at him and he wishes you haven’t. Suddenly he’s painfully aware of your hand in his, of your closeness, of his other hand resting on the curve of your back.

“—relax and listen to everythin’ around you, of course,” you tell him, almost teasingly, and he blinks, realising too late that he is so focused on your nearness he failed to hear you. “Nature is the best provider of natural music. Mr Morgan—Arthur—just relax.”

He clears his throat uncomfortably, and shifts on his feet, “Like I was sayin’ not much of a dancer, that’s all.”

Your head tilts and after a moment of silence, you start humming under your breath, drawing his straying gaze back to you. It’s hard to look at you. It’s still even harder to look away. His fingers itch with a sudden urge to pull out his journal and sketch the visage of you. He wants to remember this moment; the slopes of your face, the curve of your lips and the ghost of a smile on your mouth as your eyes remain shut. You look peaceful. So peaceful, he feels like he’s intruding on the moment even though he’s in the moment with you.

It’s then that he realises that your hums are matching the sound of crickets and owls, of a whisper of leaves caught in the wind, of nature itself. You’re swaying side to side unhurriedly, clearly lost in the moment and Arthur feels his breath seize in his lungs.

Is this his punishment then?

To be given a chance to meet someone as wonderful, as fiercely alive as you, and know he has no right to your heart. Because what could he possibly give you? You deserve someone better than him. Not an old, ugly, bitter outlaw with a bounty on his head, and a past soaked in the blood of the innocent.

You deserve some handsome city dweller who can buy you a pretty house with a picket fence and a dog. Someone who can give you kids who will adore you, and a garden where you can grow flowers when you grow old.

The pang of longing that cuts through his chest is sharp, near acidic, and his grip on you tightens just slightly. Your eyes flutter open and you blink up at him, lips curving down.

“Mr Morgan?”

Your voice is a mere breath that fills the space between you, and suddenly a thousand different things burn at the back of his throat. He wants to say so much and yet—

What can he possibly say? What words can possibly do this—do you—justice? What can he say to you that will not make him appear like a complete, smitten fool? Can he really look you in the eye and tell you how he thinks you’re lovely and kind, and better than anything he could ever deserve? How he could spend the rest of his life doing nothing but good and still be unworthy of you.

“Don’t you worry yourself, ya hear?” he answers with forced calmness, and reads your doubt in the subtle narrowing of your eyes. “Just an old man reminiscing, this is quite the relaxin’ end to my night, believe it or not.”

You’re silent for a long moment, the two of you still swaying side to side leisurely as you continue peering at him.

He’s always liked that about you too. That no matter what people tell you about him, what you hear or see, you always look directly at him. Like you can see him, like he’s real and doesn’t need to hide away or pretend. No fear, no resentment; not even after your less than friendly first meeting.

Something about the knowing, gentle scrutiny of your gaze makes him feel alive.

“I know...I mean, I understand that you don’t owe me nothin’ Mr Morgan but…” your breath catches, eyes slipping away for a moment and he wonders what, exactly, is the source of your internal struggle. You swallow audibly before looking back up at him. “I know you may not trust me but—”

“I do,” he utters before he can stop himself, and he can feel danger crowd him. Having you so near is clearly clouding his sense of reason, and he doesn't want to dig his grave any deeper than it already is. Your expression is frozen with shock, lips slightly parted in disbelief and this time it’s his turn to swallow heavily. “I do trust you,” he adds, ignoring the unfamiliar taste of those words in his mouth.

How many people have ever warranted his complete trust? He can count them on one hand.

Trust is not a currency he deals out freely or often.

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes wide and he feels the tremble of your fingers in his hand. “I—oh. I’m glad.”

And damn it all. Damn that beautiful, soft smile that lifts your lips into a sight that etches itself into his mind, right into his heart too. Damn it all to hell.

This whole thing is becoming a goddamn mess. He knows he shouldn't have done this, knows that this level closeness to you was going to affect him. There is a reason he always opts to stay away. It’s better this way. For both of you.

But this—you—

He lets his hand drop from your back before taking a small step back, and lifting your other hand above your head. You let out another chuckle, seemingly even happier than earlier and it feels worryingly nice to know he’s the source of that joy.

You turn slowly as if savouring the moment, and for one, irrational second he doesn’t want to let you go at all. He wants to stay suspended in this moment of peace, cocooned by your warmth and shadows of the night, with nothing but a song of nature for company.

But all things come to an end, including your spin. Your fingers are still interlaced when you come to a stop right in front of him, grinning down towards the ground. You glance up, moonlight dully illuminating the flower crown sitting on your head.

There is a lull of silence, your fingers still entwined together, and the beat of his heart is the only thing he can focus on at that moment.

He’s about to pull away reluctantly but before he can, you move first by letting go of his hand. You step closer and he feels himself still when you duck your head down to not disturb his hat. The feeling of your soft lips against his cheek is the last thing he expects. It’s brief; nothing more than a fluttering brush of softness and warmth against his ragged skin, but everything about that moment—about the heat of your lips, the smell of your skin mixed with flowers, and the gentleness of your movement—gets committed to memory.

All things end, and you pull back so quickly, he knows the moment only lasted a few seconds. His skin burns, he burns with it, and his fingers clench into fists in an effort to keep himself...calm. He needs to control himself before he does something he will regret later. Like kiss you.

“Thank you, Mr Morgan, for the dance.”

He says nothing but that has never deterred you before—if anything, you understand better than most his need for quiet, and have always been respectful of it.

He finally nods his head, realises that he already misses the heat of your palm in his but refuses to voice his thoughts.

“I’ll oughta let you rest now, I’ve already held you up enough,” you note quietly, that faint smile still lingering in the corners of your mouth. “Goodnight, Mr Morgan.”

With another nod, you turn to go but he reaches out first, his fingertips brushing against your hand and you stop dead in your tracks. He pulls back like your skin has burned him, and it might as well has. He feels the heat of you sink into the very marrow of him, and it makes him grit his teeth briefly.

“Do me a favour, will ya?” he begins, his tone raspy and he forcefully clears his throat before continuing, “If Micah Bell ever so much as looks in your direction, you go straight to Hosea or Charles, alright? Or...me. Whichever you prefer.”

Your shoulders curve slightly and you look positively troubled. “Is there somethin’ wrong?”

He shakes his head sharply because the last thing he wants is to worry you with this. But the memory of the leering look Micah shot you earlier lingers in Arthur’s memory, and he finds that he can’t quite let it go.

“Nah, still, you never know,” he retorts calmly but you don’t look convinced, so he adds, “Don’t forget your shootin’ lessons tomorrow. Better get some rest, or I will be frightened for my own life come next sunrise.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head but the mock irritated look on your face is brimming with tender affection that feels like a kick right in his heart.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” you call with a slight laugh, waving over your shoulder. “See ya tomorrow!”

He watches you walk away and every step feels painful, leaves him feeling bruised and raw even though it shouldn't.

Let her go you fool, let her go. Let her be happy.

He wants to. He really does. He wants to look away and do you that favour in return.

But he hears the thud of his own heart, feels the electrified buzz of his blood rushing through his veins, and finds that he can’t.

What brings you back to life also gives you the means to destroy yourself.

And perhaps you’re the kind of destruction he doesn’t mind.

. . .

an: Mr Morgan is fascinating to write. I truly hope I did him some justice with this fic. He feels things so deeply (based on his actions and journal entries) but rarely, if ever, voices his inner feelings. It’s interesting to try and realistically look at how he might handle having feelings for someone, but still being plagued by his self-hatred, doubt and overall insecurities.

This fic is very much a test run for something much larger and elaborate I have cooking in my head. So any feedback on how I handled his character (and others) and how I can improve would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading guys <33

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur x reader #red dead redemption x reader #arthur morgan imagine #red dead redemption imagine #arthur morgan fic #rdr #rdr imagines #dutch van der linde #micah bell #hosea matthews #arthur's pov...#what did it cost?? everything.

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diinofayce · 5 years

Text

Shadows on the Horizon - 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC! Layne Hardin | Word Count: 3k | Warnings: Swearing, mentions of past alcohol abuse, light mentions of sexy time (18+ below the cut to be safe) | Authors Note: This is a sequel to my series Like A Whisper in the Night | Shadows on the Horizon Masterlist

Layne leaned against the kitchen counter, still in her gear from the mission. A sealed bottle of beer stood solid and real in front of her, rivulets of condensation ran down the sides and created a ring around the glass bottle. She licked her lips and spun the little poker chip on the counter every so often the little golden ‘9’ catching the rising morning sun.

She’d been awake for over 24 hours and somewhere in the middle of waking and now her whole life had turned upside down. Biting the side of her tongue hard with her back teeth she sucked in a ragged breath, trying to keep her composure and control. Tears burned hot behind her eyes and all she wanted to do was throw the stupid little blue chip across the room and slam that beer in two gulps.

Flick, spin, spin, spin, spin, wobble, clink. Flick, spin, spin, spin, spin, wobble, clink. Over and over she spun the poker chip that celebrated nine months of sobriety, that she kept in the pocket of everything she wore so that she could feel its hard reminder. She had been doing so well, Bucky told her constantly how proud he was of her. But Bucky wasn’t here. He was this morning - yesterday morning - and now he wasn’t. Now there was a stranger in his body and his mind, one that everyone had been so sure was long gone.

All she wanted was her Bucky back.

~*~

“Mmm, do we have to go on this mission?” Layne pouted, looking pleading at her boyfriend. The morning sun was just breaking above the horizon and filtering in through their blinds. The rays catching dust motes and falling softly over the planes of Bucky’s bare chest.

She ran her fingers across his skin, brushing her fingers through the soft, dark curls that splayed across his pecs and circled his nipples. He reached out with his metal hand and with the utmost care brushed the long strands of brown hair from her cheeks and tucked them behind her ear. Layne’s heart stuttered at the love and gentle nurturing behind the gesture and she bit her bottom lip to stop her smile from splitting her face in two.

“Of course we do,” Bucky rumbled, his voice still deep and thick with sleep.

“But what if I want to be selfish and lay in bed with you all day? Maybe do some other things in bed,” Layne teased, rolling so she was half laying on Bucky’s chest and wiggled her butt in the air to tease him.

Bucky groaned and grabbed a handful of flesh over the thin white sheet that covered Layne’s naked form from him. “Is that an order from the squad commander?” Bucky questioned leaning forward so he could capture his lips in hers.

Layne melted against him with a soft moan, Bucky’s lips were like heaven to her. Soft and plush, but protected by the prickly little hairs of his beard and mustache - the itch they caused against the sensitive skin around her mouth making her crave to feel his cheeks between her thighs. She pulled away, tugging Bucky’s bottom lip between her teeth and releasing it with a soft snap, giggling at the sound. Bucky grinned his lopsided little grin at her antics as his hands slid underneath the sheet and slowly ran up and down her sides.

“I don’t think I should use my power so egregiously the first time I get it,” Layne responded, sounding disappointed.

“Hmm, probably not. Steve would be very disappointed in his little protege.”

“Can you not talk about Steve when you’re playing with my nipples?” Layne requested as Bucky plucked both of her hardened nubs at the same time.

Bucky laughed and buried his face in her neck, sucking softly on her pulse point, not hard enough to bruise but enough for heat to flood across her skin.

“Think we can still make it to the briefing in thirty minutes?” Bucky asked against her skin.

“I think they’ll hold the jet for ten minutes if they need to.”

~*~

In one swift move, Layne snatched the chip up off where it was mid-spin on the counter and the bottle of warming beer. Placing the chip under the cap of the beer and using it as a fulcrum in her hands she popped the cap off just as Sue, Sam, and Steve walked into the kitchen.

“Layne, come on, what are you doing?” Steve admonished softly. He didn’t want to scold Layne, but he knew she would regret it in the morning.

“My doc said having one every now and again during particularly stressful events was okay as long as I could stop at one,” Layne gritted out, her knuckles white around the bottle. The problem was she wasn’t sure that she would stop at one.

“But do you want to risk it, sweetie? Possibly undo everything you’ve done?” Susanna asked, stepping up behind her and placing her hand over Layne’s on the small bottle.

“No, dammit!” Layne barked, slamming the bottle down on the counter, the beer foaming up over the mouth and running down the side. She stared at the froth on her hand, tempted to lick it off before swiping them angrily down the legs of her suit. “But what the fuck else am I supposed to do right now?”

“We make a plan,” Steve answered as Sue passed Sam the bottle who then tipped it upside down in the sink. Layne watched the beer pour out with a defeated heart and sighed, leaning heavily against the counter.

“There is no plan, Stevie. You guys almost killed each other the last time this happened, I’ve seen the footage on the internet,” Layne argued.

Steve hummed in agreement, his eyes not wavering off of the bruise blossoming on Layne’s throat. He stepped forward and with the back of his first two knuckles he tilted her chin up. She tried to hide the wince, but Steve felt the pull of her spasming muscles and knew that it had to be sore. She wasn’t enhanced like they were or super strong and able to take a blow like Sue. She was skinny and her big attitude clouded the fact that she was actually quite frail no matter how much exercise they forced upon her.

Sam nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought Shuri was supposed to get all of this out of him?” His tone was grim and annoyed all at the same time. No one in this building had fond memories of the Winter Soldier, but as Sam very nearly died a handful to times thanks to him he was feeling rather grouchy.

“You can’t remove memories,” Layne whispered, jerking her chin out of Steve’s grasp and glaring at him. “Only bury them.”

She had learned that the hard way when she tried to make a persistent ex-boyfriend forget about her. Whether it was the fact that she pulled two years worth of memories out at once or it shouldn’t really be done, to begin with she wasn’t sure, but he was currently in a nice facility for adults with traumatic brain injuries drooling down the front of his shirt.

“Barnes said that you’ve been helping him with his mind. Did you see that anything was starting to resurface?” Sam asked and Layne smiled wryly.

“Careful, Sammy. Keep it up and I’ll have to tell him you care about him,” Layne halfheartedly teased.

“Look, all I’m saying is this stuff doesn’t just pop on up from nowhere.”

Layne shrugged but it was Susanna’s point that made her freeze and really think about the mission.

“What I want to know is, if you guys already destroyed one of those books, how many are there and why did they just happen to have one available?” she asked looking over her shoulder as Thor and Loki came into the kitchen, squabbling like always. She smiled as Thor settled into place behind her, one hand resting casually on her hip.

Layne looked away sharply, trying very hard not feel jealous towards her best friend or scared that she may never get Bucky back to where she would ever have such casual intimacy like that again.

Steve chewed on his bottom lip and looked over at Sam, worried etched deep into his face. “That’s…a really good question.”

“You think there’s a leak?”

Steve let out a huff of air and combed his fingers through his blond locks. “I don’t know. It was also Siberia, that’s where most of the Winter Soldier training facilities were. Maybe they had backups in different locations?”

“Suzu, you said during the mission that when Bucky took off it was because he seemed to know the guy he was chasing?” Layne asked remembering suddenly.

Sue nodded and scrunched her brows together in thought. “Yeah, I think the guys I took care of working as his escort. He didn’t have a weapon or anything and he definitely knew Bucky. Got one look at him and high tailed it out of there.”

“It’s possible we didn’t round up everyone that was involved with D.C.,” Sam offered.

“Whatever you decide for a long-term solution, we should probably come to a short-term one. Rabid dogs are usually not content locked in cages,” Loki warned ominously.

“He’s not a rabid dog, Loki,” Layne grit out just as a warning siren pierced through the air of the tower.

“Code Snow,” came Friday’s pleasant, yet urgent voice.

“Son of a…” Layne swore as Loki opened a portal to the subbasement.

The group rushed through only to see the large glass container standing in the middle room without a scratch, door still closed and locked, but empty of any captive.

#bucky barnes x layne hardin #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #shadows on the horizon #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction

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terriblelifechoices · 7 years

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So, I couldn’t stop thinking about what @st00pz said about poor Jauncey and his autobiography regarding Ilvermorny: The Graves Years. I suspect that would read more as an unintentional comedy, so maybe he decides to write a how-to guide for educators instead.

Specifically: how to deal with exceptional students who require very careful handling, because that thing about how if you give someone an inch they take a mile? Yeah, that’s the Graves brood in a nutshell. Like 90% of his examples are probably about Graves-specific.

Educators from other schools (because of course there are other wizarding schools in America, what the hell, Rowling) probably look at those examples and go: “There’s no way that actually happened.”

To which Ilvermorny’s beleaguered instructors go: “AHAHAHAHA. Sit down and let me tell you a story about the man we call Ilvermorny’s Bane and all his damn kids.”

TL;DR, more comment fic happened. This is a follow up to this comment fic about Gawain vs. his potions instructor.

Galahad should probably not be allowed to plan things. He tends to go zero to ‘full scale military assault,’ which will probably serve him well as an Auror/Director of Magical Security, but is sort of exhausting in a seventeen year old.

“And now I have detention,” Gawain concluded.

Galahad pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the inevitable headache. It didn’t help.

This was not how Galahad wanted to spend his evening. He had, maybe, three hours of free time all week to spend with his girlfriend. He did not want to spend them attempting to beat common sense into Gawain’s head, mostly because he was pretty sure that was a lost cause.

Sam, well versed in Graves sibling dynamics, just made an amused noise and kept her attention firmly on her book. Sam thought most of the Graves sibling interactions were hilarious, as long as they kept her out of their drama.

This was Professor Jauncey’s revenge for the dueling club. Galahad was sure of it. And, okay, fine, Galahad could have been a little more subtle about taking over the dueling club, but Professor Branagh was an idiot who barely knew which direction to point his wand in. Teaching people the proper forms and etiquette was all very well and good, but Dad always said that survival was more important than your manners.

Galahad agreed with Dad. Jauncey probably did too, although he was not above making Galahad’s siblings Galahad’s problem. Galahad couldn’t really blame the headmaster. He was the oldest and therefore responsible for the rest of the little monsters. If he could’ve foisted responsibility of them onto someone else ....

Well, he still wouldn’t have done it, because they were his siblings, but he’d have been pretty tempted.

“I’m not intervening with Papa on your behalf,” Galahad said. Dad like to pretend he was a total hardass -- and he could be, with his Aurors - but of the two of them, Papa was the disciplinarian at home.

Gawain looked at him like he was stupid. “I don’t want you to intervene with Papa,” he protested. “I want you to help me make Jauncey see that Thompson is dangerous.”

Galahad folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “Dangerous how?” he asked. Thompson wasn’t a disgusting pig, like Saunders. He was a bit of a dick, yeah, but he’d never struck Galahad as being much of a threat to anything other than people’s free time. Thompson was a bit too fond of giving people detention.

Gawain’s you must be stupid look went frustrated with a side of incredulity. “He wanted us to test our Pepper-Up potions on each other,” he said.

“So?” Galahad asked. He remembered that unit from second year. Olwen had done it, too. It was part of the curriculum. It was just the way things had always been done.

“So we’re students,” Gawain said, throwing his hands up in the air for dramatic emphasis. “Libby Frasier’s in my class, and she’s melted more cauldrons than anyone. Her potions never come out right! If she’d drunk her Pepper-Up -- or if someone else had -- they’d probably be in the infirmary being treated for -- I don’t even know. Accidental poisoning, probably. Our potions are supposed to be, y’know, experiments.”

“He’s got a point,” Sammy murmured, not looking up from her book.

Gawain beamed at her. The little brat knew full well that if he got Sammy on his side, Galahad would fold like a house of cards.

“How d’you reckon?” Galahad asked.

“Libby Frasier’s been in the infirmary for potions burns six times already this year, and it’s only October. That’s almost once a week or so. The poor thing’s a danger to herself and everyone around her,” Sam told him. Sam -- whose childhood knack for healing charms had blossomed into the sort of talent that hadn’t been seen since the Bluebird -- worked as a student assistant in the infirmary. Having a girlfriend who worked in the infirmary was very helpful when it came to dealing with his siblings; Galahad always had the inside scoop on whatever dumbass stunts they’d actually pulled versus what they wanted him to think they’d been doing. (The Bluebird maintained that was a uniquely Graves trait. Galahad suspected it was just what happened when most of your extended family was made up of Aurors, who were almost pathologically incapable to admitting to being injured, much less how badly said injuries hurt.)

“No one wants to be her partner in potions,” Gawain piped up. “And Thompson’s not helping her much, either.”

People who were reckless with the lives entrusted to their care didn’t deserve that trust. Dad had taught him that. So had his siblings. Looking after his brothers and sisters wasn’t quite the same thing as being the Director of Magical Security, but Galahad would have done anything to keep the little monsters from harm, just like Dad would have for his Aurors.

Sam’s mom maintained that Dad was the best Director of Magical Security MACUSA had seen in ages, because he knew that the lives of his Aurors weren’t coins to be spent cheaply. People trusted Dad because they knew he wouldn’t put them in harm’s way unless he thought they would come home again. (Or unless he absolutely had to, but that was a lesson Galahad suspected Dad hadn’t wanted him to learn just yet.)

“Alright, brat,” Galahad said. “I’m listening.”

Gawain relaxed. He was still young enough to believe that Galahad could fix anything.

“The thing is,” Gawain said, “Rosamund’s right. It’s dangerous having students test their potions on each other.” He scowled when Galahad raised an eyebrow at the mention of his crush, but Galahad figured a bit of brotherly ribbing was his due, seeing as every single person in his family had been completely insufferable while he was trying to work up the nerve to ask Sam out. “It’s like Uncle Robert says, when he’s doing the lab safety speech.”

Galahad held up a hand. Gawain had already given the lab safety speech once today. And magic knew he’d already heard it enough; potions was pretty much the only safe after-dinner conversation during the holidays. (Mostly because politics got dangerous with Dad and Aunt Seraphina in the room, wizards didn’t put much stock in religion, and who was having kids was … well. Pretty much always Dad and Papa and therefore not all that interesting.)

“Student potions are especially problematic,” Sammy murmured. “The dosages aren’t held to the standardized scale, and if you give a kid the wrong dosage for their body weight … There’s a reason potions are supposed to be prescribed by a qualified healer.”

“Or a potions master,” Galahad pointed out. “Which Thompson is, or he’d never have been hired here.” He considered that. “That might actually be worth looking into.” He made a mental note to follow up on that with George, Dad’s current protege. George owed him a favor, after that thing with the murderous tomatoes last summer.

Sam sniffed. “I doubt he’s run them for every single student. I don’t know that anyone has, at least not past Isolt Sayre. The Pepper-Up unit is taught as a hands on one because that’s the way it’s always been.”

Gawain set his jaw stubbornly. “Just because that’s the way something’s always been done doesn’t mean that it’s right,” he said.

People liked to make a big deal about Galahad being Dad’s heir. Or his clone, or Director Graves in miniature. Galahad didn’t mind the comparison, although sometimes it chafed a little. He knew that he took after Dad. He had Dad’s ridiculously overprotective personality and his talent for silent, wandless spellwork, with Papa’s reserves of magical ability to back his talents up. Olwen was like Dad, too, even if she deliberately modeled her behavior after the aunties.

Gawain, though. Gawain was like Papa. Out of all of them, he was the only one so far who had inherited Papa’s sensitivity to magic.

And, apparently, Papa’s habit for revolution.

“We can do better,” Gawain told him. “Professor Thompson should be tutoring Libby privately, so she learns the same as the rest of us. Or if he doesn’t want to do that, he should at least make one of the older kids do it. And the rest of us ought to be taught how to be safe in a lab. Even if we don’t go on to be researchers or potions masters or anything like that, it’s a good skill. It’ll teach us to be clean, and aware of our surroundings, and to think about things methodically rather than just dumping shit in pots and hoping for the best.”

“Language, brat. There’s a lady present.”

“You’ve said worse,” Gawain argued.

That was true, but Galahad’s point remained. He caught his younger brother up in a headlock and rumpled his hair while Gawain squawked indignantly.

“Sorry, Sam,” Gawain muttered. He shoved Galahad’s arm off and said, “Will you help me?”

“You’re my brother. Of course I will.”

Gawain beamed at him.

“So, first thing’s first,” Galahad said. “Sam’s going to get us some numbers.”

“Oh, am I,” Sam murmured, in a tone that promised he’d regret trying to give her orders later. Sam Collins took orders from no one.

“Sam, darling, my sun, my moon, my stars, light of my life, would you please take pity on us poor idiot Graves boys?” Galahad asked.

Sam sighed. “Fine,” she said. “But only because I’ve got a soft spot for you idiots. Someone’s got to look after you. Merlin knows you won’t do it yourselves.”

“Can you look into how many cases there are of … Hm. Student medical complaints after self-administered potions?” Galahad asked. “Going back a couple years?”

“You’re lucky that you’re good looking,” Sam said tartly.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Galahad promised, all innuendo and dark intent.

“Gally,” Gawain whined. “Ew.”

“Shut it, brat, I’m helping,” Galahad said. “Next thing to do is get your classmates on board.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be hard,” Gawain mused. “Thompson’s a dick.”

Yeah, neither did Galahad, honestly.

“After that, we get someone who’s really good at potions to tutor you guys. Maybe with some private lessons for Libby.” Galahad flicked through his mental roster of the students in his year and the one below it. Toussaignt would make the poor Frasier kid cry. Hartman was his first choice, but Hartman hated him.

“There’s no one better than Andrea Hartman,” Sam pointed out.

“Hartman hates my guts,” Galahad reminded her.

“No, Hartman hates Olwen’s guts. You, she hates by extension, but not quite as much.”

“How is that going to help?” Galahad asked.

“If you make Olwen make nice with Hartman, Hartman will agree to help you.”

Galahad laughed. No one made Olwen do anything. She’d followed where Galahad led, but she did it kind of like Dad did with Aunt Seraphina. By choice rather than blind obedience, and will the knowledge that if Galahad proved unworthy, she’d take over in his stead.

Sam waited patiently.

“Shit. Seriously? You don’t want me to do something a little easier? Like, I don’t know, pulling a star out of the sky for you to wear?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gally,” Sam said tartly. “A star would be much too big.”

“Sam,” Galahad whined, because he’d outgrown that ridiculous baby name over a decade ago and really disliked the reminder.

“Galahad,” she retorted.

“Oh, fine,” Galahad said. “The things I do for family, I swear.”

“How is getting good at potions going to make Jauncey see that Thompson’s dangerous?” Galahad asked. “If we’re good at potions even though he’s a dick, it just makes him look good.”

“Oh, that’s not what Hartman’s going to be teaching you,” Galahad said, watching the plan unfold in his head. “I mean, yeah, I do want you guys to learn lab safety because you’re right about the things it teaches you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on. Can you repeat that?” Gawain ducked back, laughing, as Galahad took a swipe at him. “What do you want Hartman to teach us?”

“Let me see if Hartman’s on board, first,” Galahad said. “I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

Andrea Hartman was something of a potions prodigy. Galahad knew for a fact that she was being scouted by the Fisher Institute and the Niehaus-Cormier group. No one who wasn’t top of their class got to work for the Fisher Institute. (See Exhibit A: Aunt Dindrane and Uncle Robert.)

He hadn’t expected her to have such a knack for teaching, though. He’d sat in on the lessons - mostly to make sure that Ollie did not snap and murder Hartman, since Hartman had only agreed to help out if Ollie would play her assistant - and Hartman was actually really good at what she did. She was thorough and methodical, which worked well with the students who were good at following directions, but just enough of an out-of-the-box thinker to be able to relate to the students who didn’t quite see the world in an orderly line. She’d probably do really well at the Fisher Institute.

“Alright, minions,” Hartman said brightly. “Today: the reward for all your hard work.”

Forty-odd second years looked up at her in semi-worshipful anticipation. Or, in Libby Frasier’s case, actual worship.

“Today,” Hartman said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I am going to teach you to safely blow shit up and make a huge fucking mess of the potions classroom.”

“You are the best big brother in the history of ever,” Gawain told him.

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on. Can you repeat that?” teased Galahad.

Gawain shoved him in the side.

“Make me proud, brat.”

Jauncey stared at Professor Thompson. The man looked as though he’d tripped sideways into a surrealist painting, possibly while said painting was still wet. He appeared to be wearing nothing but his underclothes, although that was hardly noticeable beneath the layer of orange slime he was wearing. And that was mostly covered by the strange purple foam.

The purple foam smelled strongly of asafoetida and other, less pleasant things.

“I want that little brat expelled,” Thompson yelled. “This is all his doing! Do you know how many cauldron’s have exploded this semester?”

“Yes,” Jauncey said, because the director of finance had already raked both of them over the coals for that. The phrase “does it look like I am made of cauldrons” had come up. “Forty-seven. A new school record.”

“Forty-seven!” howled Thompson. “They’ll be coming out of my paycheck, next.”

“I think Fontaine was joking about that,” Jauncey soothed. He really hoped Fontaine was joking about that, because if Fontaine wasn’t, his paycheck was likely to be sacrificed next.

“And if the cauldrons aren’t exploding -”

“Or melting,” Jauncey put in, because that had happened at least a dozen times too.

“- or melting, then the potions themselves are just -” Thompson made a vague gesture indicating a geyser of some sort. Or possibly fireworks. “Except what they turn in is perfect.”

That was honestly the biggest mystery. Jauncey had a few theories about how and why that was happening, and it mostly centered around Andrea Hartman’s brand new unholy alliance with Olwen Graves.

“Expelled!” Thompson said.

Jauncey sighed and summoned one of the Ilvermorny elves. “Peridot, would you please bring Galahad to my office?” he asked.

“Not Galahad!” Thompson shouted. “Gawain.”

Jauncey resisted to slam his head against his desk. “On second thought, Peridot, just bring me a bottle of whiskey. The sort Cook favors will be lovely.”

Peridot had been an Ilvermorny elf for longer than Jauncey had been alive. “Will sir prefer the whiskey Cook drinks, or the whiskey Cook puts in the food?”

“Are they different?”

Peridot shrugged.

“Then I trust your judgment. Bring me whatever is the least likely to make Cook come shout at me, please.”

“Sir,” Thompson protested, aggrieved.

“No,” Jauncey told him. “I am not debating this with you now.” Merlin’s balls. He thought Gawain had gotten this out of his system.

Evidently not.

“I will discuss this with you once you no longer look like a walking advertisement for the importance of lab safety,” Jauncey informed Thompson. “Merlin’s beard, man, why haven’t you showered it off?”

“I did,” Thompson said through gritted teeth. “The reaction melted my clothes and resulted in this.” He indicated the purple foam.

Memory nagged at Jauncey. He’d seen that particular potions reaction before, but where?

Oh, hell. Arthur Graves-Flores.

“Right,” said Jauncey. “Then I suggest you head to the infirmary, and see if Healer Cole can do anything for you. I will discuss this with you tomorrow, Thompson.”

“If you won’t do something about that boy -” Thompson said warningly.

Jauncey smiled blandly. The students of Ilvermorny were under his care. He was not the duelist he had been in his youth, but he was still equal to the task of defending them.

Thompson shut his mouth.

“I will deal with Gawain,” Jauncey promised. And Galahad, and Olwen, and Andrea Hartman. And probably Sammy Collins, too, for all that the Graves’ siblings were adamant about leaving her out of their mischief.

“See that you do,” Thompson snarled, and stomped out.

Jauncey put his head down on his desk. When he looked up again, William the Pukwudgie was staring grouchily down at him.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Jauncey told him. “Or do you want to give an old man a heart attack?”

William’s judgmental silence got a bit judgier.

“I know you’re older than I am,” Jauncey said. “At least, as far as the stories go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” William snapped. “I don’t look a day over one hundred.”

“You know, remarks like that really don’t help,” Jauncey told him. Even he didn’t know if William was the original William who had known Isolt Sayre.

Peridot reappeared with a bottle of whiskey for Jauncey and a bottle of berrywine for William.

“Thank you, Peridot,” Jauncey said.

William grunted something that might have been thank you.

“What do you think I should do?” Jauncey asked.

“With Thompson? Or with the Graves brats?”

“You like the Graves brats.”

William shrugged. “So do you. They’re entertaining, and they’re good about not making extra work for us.” By us he meant the pukwudgies and the house elves.

Jauncey hadn’t missed the way the pukwudgies on staff watched the Graves children after the Thunderbird Incident. The pukwudgies complained about having to look after wizards - who were too naive and helpless to look after themselves, according to William - but he’d never heard them complain about Galahad and Olwen and Gawain. He suspected he wouldn’t hear them complain about the rest of the Graves brood, either.

“Fine. What do you think I should do about Thompson, then?” Jauncey asked.

William mimed shooting an arrow. “Target practice?” he suggested. “Or you could let them explain,” he added, seconds before there was a knock on the door.

Jauncey sighed and put the whiskey bottle in his desk. “Come in, Galahad,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Galahad said politely, stepping into Jauncey’s office.

He really did look just like his father, Jauncey thought. There was a bit of Credence Graves in the tilt of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw, though. Olwen stood at his right hand, and Sammy Collins at his left. Andrea Hartman stood next to Olwen. Three weeks ago, Jauncey was fairly certain Andrea wouldn’t have even deigned to breathe the same air as Olwen, but he’d been teaching for long enough to know that teenage friendships were fickle and terrifying.

“I was hoping I might have a word with you,” Galahad said, still with that exquisite politeness. He’d learned that from his Papa. Percival Graves did not have much use for manners, but Credence could bring a man to his knees with just a few well-placed words.

“By all means,” Jauncey said, conjuring up chairs for the lot of them. “Take a seat.”

#comment fic #my fic #Possible 'verse #The Graves Brood #The Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny #Galahad Graves #Gawain Graves #Samantha Collins #st00pz

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loppy132 · 6 years

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My Sixth Team and the current team that needs SP growing. Right After Dragon Heart’s leader Eliwood and his team members fulfill their role in Observing the Order. He passed the Torch of Observation to the leader and the Former opponent that once battle his Wife Ninian in the Dragon Gauntlet…

Team Astral Ocean: Cor (Male Corrin): The Vallite King who is the Twin Brother of Princess Corrine (Female Corrin), The Husband of Vallite Queen Azura and the Father of The Crown Prince Shigure and Vallite Princess Kana. He is also the Foster Father to a girl named Genny, who was under the protection of his Wife. A sweet yet honorable Dragon who can help anyone with the skills that combined the powers of The Sun and his Dragon Blood. Like his Twin sister he can Transform into a Dragon, but Unlike her, he cannot control his Dragon side which can cause a lot of Damages that he creates around him. He is reunited with Azura whom she befriends a Girl named Genny whom she was looked after and in which he took her in as their Foster Child, and eight months later they had a child named Shigure. However his personality is the opposite to his twin. Though his Twin embraces the culture of acting like a human, but he embraces the culture of acting like an animal. Having the fondness of Animals and the nature he gets along with them and also learning the ways of living and acting like them. Behind his kind-hearted nature he inherited his mother’s way of thinking, and sometimes has regrets whenever he gets into an argument with his Hoshidan and Nohrian siblings or even his twin sister which leads him into a draconic rage that overwhelms his personality and turning into a dragon in which he has a hard for him to control. His Wife Azura is the only person who can suppress his dragon rage. Azura (Black and White): The Actual Heir to Valla but passed on the throne to her Husband who in turn marries her and Become his Beloved Queen of Valla. Kindhearted and surprisingly knowledgeable, she can assist her Husband in battles and also tends to be Naive when she spends time with her family and her sister-in-law. She is the Mother of Shigure, Kana and also her foster child Genny whom she looked after. Her Pendant she wore in Particular allows her to rejuvenate her allies or becalm their aggressive thoughts in which there are little side effects that can cause her a great pain and exhaustion shortly after use. While living in Askr with her family, she receives the Moonlight Blessings from the harvest moon festival in Askr which allows her to Control the Moon and it’s light. Later she receives the Power of the Ocean’s Heart that allows her to Control Water along with the side effects of turning her into a Mermaid (whenever she gets contacted by water) and each forms develops an improvement of her skills in singing. Her personality differs whenever the Pendant reacts when using Moonlight’s Blessings and Ocean’s heart, If The latter is greater than the former she develops The personality of being naive, affectionate and mischievous. If the Former is greater than the Latter she carries the personality of being a reserved and stoic. She has a weakness for cute things and enjoys telling scary stories thanks to Genny’s talent in Storytelling and writing. Shigure: The Crown Prince of Valla who is the Son of Corrin and Azura and the older brother of Kana and his foster sister Genny. Having the natural love for arts and singing like his mother. This young Prince has a calm, collected, kind, and gentle personality in which he can be quite moody sometimes. Like his parents who can harness the power of the Celestial heavens in battles, He harness the Power of stars. which was evident whenever he sings to it at night on the rooftops of their Hoshidan-style Manor or at the sea on the clear nights. He also carries a Pendant which is similar to his mother which has the same effects of rejuvenating allies or becalm their aggressive thoughts. But there are some side effects that differentiate from his mother. Though the pendant’s power can lead them in exhaustion. The Pendant that his mother wore can give her a great amount pain and also killing her by dissolving into water. while he can only lead him into three stages of being unconscious and eventually die during his sleep. In Outside battles, he spends time painting, singing with his mother; He also inherited his Father’s love for animals and his Dragon blood that allows him to transform into one and often spends time in the forest training with his father or alone. He also has a liking towards his foster sister Genny whom she has a great talent in storytelling and story writing. This impresses him and earn his interest on her. His passion of Art and her great story writing skills is what makes them a great duo in Art. He often gets a call from his little sister through Genny’s Magic Genny: A Cleric who was raised in Priory where she had lived and trained at for years. She has friends with Celica Mae and Boey whom the four lived together, and later adopted by different families. Genny in particular was adopted to the Royal Family of Valla on behest by the Vallite Queen Azura whom she is under recover from giving birth to her son and the Vallite Crown prince Shigure. While living with the Royal Family of Valla, She develops telepathy which allows her to Communicate the dragon forms of her foster father, Brother and her little sister. and the fascination of living in a world where things are impossible for her. Her skills in Healing are very handy towards the family. Her Meek and gentle personality serves as a Substitute towards Azura’s Pendant, her words of Calming and sweet motivations nearly calms them before turning into a dragon. Though she was adopted by her family she never earned a royal title instead she earns the titles of “The Ward of the Vallite Royal Children” and The Protege of the Vallite Queen” She befriends and kept a Steel White Dragon named Huck whose dream was to become a Dragon Knight of Valla. While she was not in battles she spends her days in developing new skills in healing and magic, writing her Fairytale stories, and taking naps in the Manor’s Veranda next to the spot where Shigure was painting. She often write letters to her friends from the priory who have adopted from different families or caretakers. Huck: A White Dragon whose dreams was to become a Dragon Knight of Valla. Constantly under the care of Genny whom he calls her his “familiar friend”. He serves as the Unofficial Mascot of the Astral Ocean after he was discovered by The Vallite Royal family, His purpose of siding with them is unknown. but he mentions that he is observing on The Grannvale’s Imperial family and catastrophe befalls upon them.

#fire emblem heroes #fe heroes #azura fire emblem #male corrin #fire emblem corrin #Azura #performing arts shigure #shigure fire emblem #fire emblem genny #genny fire emblem #Performing arts azura #Fire emblem #azurrin #hackmon #hackmon digimon #Fire emblem heroes with a crossover of Digimon

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kingdoms-rp · 6 years

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Sebastian ‘Seb’ Royce ❖ 28 ❖ Werewolf ❖ Competitive Fighter ❖ Living in Calydon ❖ FC: Tyler Hoechlin ❖ TAKEN

+ Carefree

- Sarcastic

Biography:

Very few people know of Sebastian Royce’s true background, and he prefers to keep it that way. His childhood does not hold fond memories for him, and he’d rather leave it in the past where it belongs. He was the son of a wealthy merchant, but Seb would have given up all the money in the world for a father who actually cared about him. If Seb stepped one toe out of line, then his father would make him regret it, and even Seb’s mother was not safe from his violence. Seb often found his mother battered and bruised and did his best to help her, but there was little a young boy could do to protect his mother from the abuse of his father. When he woke up one morning and his mother was gone, Seb assumed that his father killed her and accused him to his face, which earned him the beating of a lifetime and his father swearing to kill him if he ever brought up his mother’s disappearance again. As long as Seb obeyed his father, things remained calm. He stayed out of the house as much as possible, and often only returned when he knew his father would be out. He kept up this avoidance for years until his father collared him one day when he was seventeen, and told him he was to marry the daughter of one of his business partners. Seb went along with it, but as the preparations were made for the wedding, he started to feel more and more trapped and realised that he was old enough to fight his own battles now. Despite the fear that his father still inflicted upon him, Seb was younger, stronger and faster. He could hold his own against his father now, but not without humiliating him first. Seb continued to go along with the wedding planning as if he had every intention of marrying the girl, but when the wedding day came, he never showed up.

His father was humiliated in front of his business partner and returned home to give his son the beating of a lifetime, only to find Seb gone. Having planned ahead, the boy had packed up the few possessions he wanted to take with him and left a note for his father that simply said he was not his son any more. He had nowhere to go, and Seb soon learned that you had to be ruthless to survive on the streets, and that was where he started to develop his fighting skills. It was the only way he could survive and gave him an outlet for all the years of pent-up rage when he’d wanted to fight back against his father, but had been too weak. He was eventually found by one of the kingdom’s professional fighters who recognised Seb’s skill and took him under his wing as his protege in the fighting matches. At first Seb was reluctant to compete because of his abusive upbringing, but his mentor advised him to let that go. Competitive fighting could be an easy outlet for his aggression, and everyone he fought against was perfectly willing. He would never be fighting someone weak and defenceless, it would always be someone who understood and was willing to take the risks involved in competitive fighting.

Over the years, Seb has become pretty famous in the competitive fighting scene, with people gambling large amounts of money on him and he has made a decent living out of it. Some of the people who regularly came to watch and bet on his fights became his patrons since they spent so much gambling on him. Seb rarely loses a fight, making him a sure thing to bet on, which the locals know and use against people from out of town who are not aware of Seb’s skill. One of his regular patrons started bringing his wife along to view the fights and Seb noticed that she stared at him a little more than was decent for a married woman. When she started bringing him gifts and showering him with as much money as her husband did, Seb realised that her interest in him was much more than a gambling woman’s interest. She wanted him, and he was never one to turn down the affections of a beautiful woman. The two of them began a secret affair, and although he suspects she developed feelings for him, Seb never returned them. His heart had been hardened, and she was just another patron to him. When news of the affair got out, her husband did not even attempt to confront or fight Seb, probably out of fear that he would be pulverized. Instead, he moved away with his wife and Seb hasn’t seen her since.

However, the news of the affair soon led to other wealthy women using money and gifts to draw Seb into their beds. Plenty of the people who watched his fights lusted after him, and he had no problem with that. It was when they thought the relationship might become serious or thought they could change him that Seb left them. The ‘relationships’ he has with these women can hardly even be called that. For him, his job just has the added perk that beautiful women want him in their beds, and he is happy to oblige. A casual fling is no problem for him, but a committed relationship? Not a chance. It’s not like he leads them on. They all know exactly what they’re getting into when they have a fling with Seb, so he doesn’t feel guilty when some of them believe he genuinely cares for them when he made it no secret at the start that he’s not the kind of guy who cares about people. He doesn’t see the harm in letting these women fulfil their fantasies of spending a night with with a rugged fighter, as long as he’s getting something out of it.

Connections:

Vianne Bourchier - Friend. Although she was initially an outcast in Calydon because she is a witch, Vianne soon ingratiated herself into werewolf society by proving she was not afraid to get down and dirty with the best of them. Since the werewolves believe the witches and warlocks of Zagoré have very high opinions of themselves, as soon as Vianne showed she didn’t think she was high and mighty, she was accepted. Seb met her when she started coming to watch his fights and the two became fast friends thanks to their similar ideologies. They’ve slept together a few times, but their relationship has always remained strictly casual, and they’re probably one of the few success stories of two friends sleeping together without developing feelings for each other.

#rp #rpg #roleplay #tyler hoechlin #teen wolf #sebastian royce #werewolves #commoners #at #tm

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cienie-isengardu · 7 years

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Hector Barbossa, Will Turner & Carina Smyth and PotC in general

Yeah, you guessed right, I finally watched Pirates of the Caribbean: Salazar's Revenge (a.k.a. Dead Men Tell No Tales) and now I feel strong urge to rant about it a bit. Mainly about my favorite pirate Hector Barbossa and relationships between characters in general but also about opportunities I think new movie wasted. Spoilers ahead!

From the original trilogy, Barbossa and Will Turner were my favorite characters. One because of his ruthless yet steadfast nature, the other because of loyalty and willingness to sacrifice for beloved and friends / allies. Jack always was a fun character but from perspective of time, he doesn’t really change much. And Elizabeth I liked in general, but the whole love triangle between her and almost all main cast of male characters was too much for me since I have little to none interest for unrequited romantic drama(s).

Will and Barbossa through the course of story changed in many ways. So before I will rant about them in more analytical way, let me tell you what disappointed me the most in recent movie:

The final scene between Will, Henry, Carina and Elizabeth (well, hello ex-Pirate King it was so nice to see you’re still alive) for the following reasons :

it would be cool to see at least some interaction between Elizabeth and Carina, because this movie really lacked presence of female characters (Carine and Witch/Shansa were like only two that really mattered but they were never seen in the same scene, what a shame, the witchcraft vs science has so potential!) but also Elizabeth was Pirate King that lead alliance of pirate lords to victory over Davy Jones & Beckett’s force and she won Barbossa’s respect, she deserved some attention too. Something more than Sparrow’s few words related to her body / sex.

The whole point of Flying Dutchman was to collect all souls who died at sea and carry them to the afterlife. I can forgive that Will couldn’t show up earlier and aid main team with help against Salazar for whatever reason - though I think it would be much interesting if Will Turner had offered to take the bunch of cursed undead to the other side but was refused because of Salazar’s hate for Sparrow (who once again would fail/suffer due to his own pride). Also, wouldn’t it be fun to see Carina’s face when she learns that Henry’s dad is a actually a captain of Flying Dutchman that just showed from the bottom of ocean in the middle of fight? Priceless.

BUT WHAT REALLY MAKES ME UPSET is no mention of Barbossa. I repeat: Will’s sacred task was to collect souls of people who died at sea, Barbossa drowned to save his daughter. So he should be taken by Flying Dutchman to afterlife. WOULD IT KILL ANYONE IF HENRY ACTUALLY INTRODUCED HIS GIRLFRIEND TO WILL, SO HE COULD SAY SOMETHING ALONG THE LINE THAT HE ALREADY KNOWS WHO CARINA IS BECAUSE BARBOSSA TOLD HIM EVERYTHING DURING THEIR LAST(?) MEETING?? Seriously, I would love to see dead!Hector and Will meeting after so many years.

Also, shouldn’t Will be dead for good after curse was removed? His heart was cut out of the body like 17/18? years ago

One more thing that upset me so badly is lack of recognition - Henry was son of Elizabeth and Will who both played major role in events of previous trilogy. Elizabeth even won Barbossa’s respect in the end while Will was fated to became a new captain of Flying Dutchman and since then it was quite possible that he would meet other characters after their death at sea. Yet, only Sparrow knew about Henry’s parents (and learned about Carina’s connection to Barbossa), while there wasn’t any reason why Barbossa couldn’t be informed about young Turner especially since a) Henry talked quite openly about saving dad from curse and b) if Henry knew about Sparrow, there wasn’t any reason why he wouldn’t hear about Barbossa and Gibbs, so he could just said his whole name and biological ties (like Will did in the first movie, “My name is Will Turner! My father was Bootstrap Bill Turner. His blood runs in my veins”). That should make anyone think twice about tying up / trying kill a son of captain of fucking Flying Dutchman and (ex-)pirate king.

There is so missed opportunity to acknowledge: former events, fame of Elizabeth and Will, but also a chance to dispute about magic & science and for Henry (and still unknowingly Carina) to hear about his (their) parents, what people they were before.

All things aside, I may never call this movie a true masterpiece yet I enjoyed watching it and frankly Barbossa & Carina plot interested me the most. Maybe because Carine in many ways is similar to Will Turner from the original movie. She doesn’t know her family and her love for father is a bit colored by her own imagination (like that he was a good man while in truth he is one of the most feared pirates). She is very smart but at the same time she is looked down because of her gender - if she was a man, other people would call her a science genius not a witch that should be killed in public execution. So I guess we can agree she hard worked to get so far despite all the hate and rejection by society. Sort of like Will who worked so hard at his swordsmanship and blacksmithing yet all the praise was given to his drunken useless master. And both met their supposedly dead fathers (pirates!) just to lost them so suddenly.

The fact that Barbossa cared so much for Carina’s mother - who could be just a prostitute? - made me thinks that he is one of really few male characters in PotC that had more complex relationship with women in general. Of course, we have the whole “love triangle” involving Elizabeth and Will, Jack and James Norrington (and later Sao Fang??) but then again through the series we saw scenes when Jack was slapped by angry prostitutes or is implied he had one night stand relationships or still chose being pirate over any relationship. Not to mention awful many sexual overtones toward both Elizabeth or Carina.

Will was more respectful towards female characters in general but then again, this is Will we talk.

It seems like Barbossa was in sort of long-term relationship with Margaret Smyth; he was aware about their child (or did he learned that after her death?) and was near the place where Margaret died since he personally gave the baby to an orphanage with note who she was (Carina Smyth) and a book as a sort of farawell gift. We know Barbossa named his daughter after the The Brightest Star in the North - a star that lead to home, so was an important symbol. Ultimate Barbossa chose his own freedom over duties to family, but then again he was already(?) well known pirate so maybe it wasn’t that selfish choice after all. I swear, the moment when he figured out that Carina was his daughter, the way it affected him was amazing moment to watch.

It’s sad that father and daughter didn’t have much time to catch up on. Still, Barbossa - the cruel, ruthless pirate lord - so easily thrown everything away for barely known daughter. Also, he was one of few male characters in the movie who trusted her knowledge & skills despite her gender nor make a joke at her expense. What frankly reminds me about Elizabeth and the way their relationship changed through the series. In the first movie he could be real jerk towards her (at least two times he said something with sexual?? overtones) but then he didn’t go around talking about her like Sparrow did. The more they worked together, the more Barbossa respected her in the end. I think their duo is similar to Turner & Sparrow team; the same as Will changed while working along Jack, young Swann’s character grew up under Hector’s influences (is it safe to say she became sort of his protege?). Elizabeth at least 2 times in saga was inspirated by Barbossa’s words that she actually used in her monologies to win approval of other pirates:

Barbossa: “[...] the code is more what you'd call "guidelines" than actual rules.”

Elizabeth: “You're pirates. Hang the Code and hang the rules! They're more like guidelines.”

or:

Barbossa: “In another age, at this very spot, the First Brethren Court captured the sea goddess and bound her in her bones. That was a mistake. Oh, we tamed the seas for ourselves, aye. But opened the door to Beckett and his ilk. Better were the days when mastery of seas came not from bargains struck with eldritch creatures, but from the sweat of a mars brow and the strength of his back alone. You all know this to be true.”

Elizabeth: “You're right. Then what shall we die for? You will listen to me. Listen! The Brethren will still be looking here to us, to the Black Pearl, to lead. And what will they see? Frightened bilge rats aboard a derelict ship? No. No, they will see free men and freedom! And what the enemy will see is the flash of our cannons. They will hear the ring of our swords, and they will know what we can do. By the sweat of our brows, and the strength of our backs... ...and the courage of our hearts. Gentlemen... ...hoist the colors.“

Beside Carina and Elizabeth, Barbossa had also deals with “witches”. Tia Dalma brougt him back from dead so in return he helped to free Calypso from her human form. That sounds rather like strictly business than anything else (though I need to rewatch the trilogy) still one may wonder why she chose Barbossa from all of the people?

Now, the newest movie presented Shansa, a witch that Hector saved from noose and in return she helped to destroy all his enemies / rivals on sea. The witch adviced him to stay on land as it was the only place where Salazar can’t attack / kill him. Barbossa refused, because first of all he is a pirate and he will not let undead captain to take away his treasures. For what she replied if those are really worth dying for it? What made me feel like their relationship isn’t so strictly down to just bussiness and maybe they were fond of each other on their own specific way? Like, maybe it’s just me, but Barbossa seems to have better relationship with younger women than with most men, so maybe it’s all unconsciously linked to his lost daughter? The witch could be around the age of Carina, so maybe it somehow helped. I mean, Barbossa was quite protective and fond of the monkey Jack, so maybe the pet and later, the witch filled the void in Hector’s heart as the replacement for the lost family? Yeah, that probably more headcanon than a real matters, but still, Barbossa was really touched (and proud) when it comes to just-met Carina, so maybe it is not that far stretched after all.

As much as the movie was fun to watch, I would love to see more interaction between Carina and Barbossa or dead!Barbossa and the captain of Flying Dutchman (and seriously, Will shouldn’t be cured). That said, the idea of the next generation of Barbossa and Turner became one merry family while Jack can just watch the “happy end” from afar makes me smile everytime when I think about the irony(?).

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ryttu3k · 7 years

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For the ask meme: Sycamore for 3, 6, 7, 12, 14, 19, 28, 30, 33, 34, 45, 49!

Oh boy howdy let’s go :D These will generally be for both gameverse and animeverse versions, although where they diverge, I’ll note it down.

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

Just working at the lab is pretty good exercise! Looking after the Pokemon in the enclosure and running around after them, giving squirming baby starters their check-ups, meeting up with students - he doesn’t have an official exercise regime or anything, but does plenty of running around just in his everyday life.

6. Eating habits and sample daily menu

Vegetarian, although that’s very much the norm in my headcanon Pokeverse. His eating habits are best described as ‘holy shit dude how are you not malnourished’, since when he gets right into working, he pretty much subsides on pastries and coffee, aside from when friends/family/concerned coworkers actually get him something with actual vitamins and minerals that aren’t caffeine and go “EAT THE FUCKING HEALTHY FOOD, AUGUSTINE” and stare at him intently until he shows a bit of self-care. …Ahem. If he was to go out for dinner or something, he prefers comfortable, homey dishes like ratatouille and minestrone and green salads and some nice crusty bread, nothing super fancy. He is a bit pickier with his coffee, though, and has pretty refined tastes there.

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Drawing. He’s a natural doodler. Given a few spare minutes, out come the pencils, drawing everything from still-lifes of his surroundings, to Pokemon, to people and landscapes from memory. He does tend to feel guilty about wasting time, though, and will generally tell himself off and make himself get back to work. Animeverse version also enjoys TV, including watching performances. (Great use of lab equipment there guys A+.)

Putting the rest under a cut, it’s getting long ;D

12. Favorite book genre?

Very much with escapism, he’s pretty fond of fantasy, when he’s reading for pleasure. It’s pretty rare these days, but he enjoys it a lot just as an escape from everything else, and there’ll often be a novel at the bottom of his bag.

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

So if we’re including disabilities, then technically Aspergers and ADHD comes under this? So, comorbid Aspergers and ADHD, yeah, although they’re much more just… neurotypes rather than disabilities.

On an actual illness note, for the gameverse version, he also has depression, anxiety, and is prone to insomnia, so general health issues resulting from not enough sleep and a fairly shoddy diet. Medication-wise, he takes an antidepressant for it, something Diantha encouraged after everything with Lysandre.

The animeverse version doesn’t seem to have the same depression and anxiety issues, I feel? He’s still autistic and has ADHD, but basically has his life together more. Still kind of prone to overworking, weird sleeping patterns, and not eating as well as he should, but not quite as badly as gameverse.

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

For both versions, work work work, lots of thinking about work. Gameverse version tends to have a lot of dark/sad/upsetting/guilty thoughts about everything with Lysandre, which, honestly, is a big part of his insomnia. Animeverse version had a lot of trouble sleeping through stress after the Flare incident, mostly in the form of guilt about not realising what was going on with Alain sooner, but that’s slowly working out, especially since he knows that Alain is sleeping comfortably in the next bedroom.

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

Best friend is Diantha, and that’s true whether they’re twins (gameverse) or unrelated (animeverse)! Although her career does tend to mean she’s pretty busy, they get together as often as they can and just. Hang out. In animeverse, Meyer is also one of his closest friends as well as his partner.

Worst enemy is… uh, in gameverse, it’s basically himself :| Lots of guilt over Lysandre. In animeverse, it actually is Lysandre and his only regret is not being able to punch the fucker in the face in person for everything he did to Alain.

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

Gameverse, he canonically does the whole “:) :) :) Nothing is wrong :) :) :)” thing. Like the Couriway scene, he starts out pretty flat and sad, using a lot of ellipses, generally subdued body language, actually turning away from the protag. Within seconds, he’s all smiles and energy and !!! again, so basically suppress, suppress, suppress, and fall apart when there’s no one else around.

Animeverse strikes me as being more emotionally honest and proactive? Like gameverse did make moves to stop Lysandre from behind the scenes, but animeverse, when Gabby was stolen, actively and immediately went out to find her and like. Flung himself down a cliff to defend her! He acts quicker and actually shows much more honest expressions - when he’s angry with the Rockets, it shows, when he’s scared, it shows. So I feel animeverse would react to intrapersonal disaster by actually reaching out to people and not bottling everything up (unless he’s trying to keep a strong face for someone else, like Alain or the kids).

33. Concept of home and family?

Family and home are basically synonymous! I see him having a pretty good relationship with his biological family (gameverse Diantha, Auntie Drasna, parents, et cetera), but also others becoming part of family of choice. Best example, of course, is in animeverse, with Alain, who is definitely his son, and his relationship with Meyer, and Clemont and Bonnie becoming his stepkids (and he’s already great with Bonnie even before that, like lifting her up to pet Gabby in the second episode!), and he’s sort of adopted all his other students too, especially Manon (protective Papa Wolf Sycamore defending Manon from the Flare grunt was SO GOOD). Whoops, he’s acquired another child :’)

Gameverse version pretty much adopts all his students too, although since they seem to be older than in gameverse, the dynamic can sometimes be more like a mentor and protege than a parent and a younger child. Sina and Dexio, for instance, are more like grown-up offspring - he’s still protective and proud of them, but also trusts them more to be independent. He’d have quite a different dynamic with 10-year-old Serena (a child, he’s protective of her, is proud and encouraging of her, and basically looks after her during the Flare crisis) than he would of 17-year-old Serena (still protective, proud, and encouraging, but he knows she’s much more capable of taking care of herself, and sees her more as a protege or apprentice than a dependent).

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

Private, definitely, although he’d basically joke about TMI without actually like… revealing actual things. So he’d basically deflect attention with masks and jokes, because he doesn’t want to worry people, or he doesn’t think it’s anyone’s business, stuff like that.

45. Superstitions or views on the occult?

So I always get stuck on this question for the Pokeverse because they have like. Actual canonical Ghost-types and various Gods and stuff like that, haha. Ghost-types definitely exist! Ghosts of Pokemon and people, probably, there’s been reputable sightings. Also, frankly, the Paris/Lumiose underground is probably A Mess thanks to the catacombs, I bet they’re packed with Ghost-types and. Actual ghosts. Probably more ‘it could definitely happen but haven’t personally encountered them’ for the actual ghosts. Superstition-wise, I bet there’s a ton related to the legendaries, and I’d bet the ones relating to Zygarde become a whole lot more interesting for animeverse version now that he’s actually met them! “Oh, yes, the deity of the balance between life and death? Yeah, swabbed the little one, they didn’t seem too pleased. My stepdaughter carried them around in her little bag. Cool li’l bean. Well. Big bean.”

This question becomes really funny for my Xerneas!Sycamore, incidentally.

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

OPERATION HIDE BEHIND THE GARCHOMP. …Okay no he does grab that Flare grunt but, uh, that wasn’t really a fist fight, and he was still pretty quick to get Gabby out, haha. He’s, um, not formidable. (Gameverse is basically the same except it’s OPERATION HIDE BEHIND THE CHARIZARD or something XD )

AND DONE.

#pokemon #memes #professor sycamore #long post #whew!

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