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#and i would like to put in at least a smidgen of effort into these
dilatorywriting · 1 year
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Heroes vs. Villains : Pomefiore [Part 2]
Gender Neutral Reader x Pomefiore vs. Neige Leblanche Word Count: 2.3k
Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. Pomefiore Version (Part 2)
ie. The scarf is an issue, because of course it's an issue. And Vil's sudden addiction to his phone is not going well for any of you.
[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3]
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“What did you do?” Epel hissed from behind an entire department store’s worth of facial products.
“What?! I didn’t do anything!” you argued. Trying to sound stern when you were also putting a concerted effort into not moving your mouth was apparently very hard. A lip mask, Vil had called it. ‘Pretentious goop’ was a far better description. But the Pomefiore House Warden had been particularly dour lately, so you’d been letting him slather you will all kinds of atrocities in the name of keeping the peace. You’d smelled like a walking Bath & Body Works for the past week at least. And worst of all, if you ever made that comparison out loud he’d probably hemorrhage. Or something. Because each of these products was ‘special ordered’ or ‘hand crafted’ and blablabla.
“Well pardon me for not takin’ your word for it,” the purple-haired boy snapped, spiteful. “He only gets like this when someone’s hurt his stupid ego. Or worse—his feelings.”
“And why does that ‘someone’ have to be me?” you complained.
Epel shot you a look and you sighed into the misty air. The aroma diffuser gave another lackluster puff, as if in agreement.
.
.
Ever since your shopping trip, Vil had been acting… not quite right.  
Oh, he was still icy and composed. He still tutted at your untucked uniform shirts and irritably plucked stray bits of fuzz from your jacket. But it was almost like he was too much of himself. You’d liked to think that your laid back ‘you’re lovely no matter what and I live in a literal condemned building so who am I to judge anyone’ approach had softened the House Warden at one point—even if only a smidgen. A singular hair out of place was artful, not lazy. The barely-there wrinkle in his vest was not the end of civilized times, but functional fashion. But now? It was back to the strictest of regiments, the most unforgiving of rules.
Jack had told you that Vil was even waking before him now—that by the time the wolf-beastman arrived for their early morning jogs, the blonde had clearly already been up and training for hours.
And you were worried.
Sometimes Vil would look at his phone and get this twisted up, venomous, expression on his face that sent little pangs of concern eating through your gut. Sometimes Rook was there to reach forward and gently ease the device out of Vil’s death grip. Sometimes he was not, and you were far too afraid of losing your fingers to even try.
It was a vicious cycle. The phone would make Vil angry and subsequently be abandoned in the opposite corner of the room. So then Vil would bury himself in new makeups, and outfits, and skin care. He would fret over new projects, or old projects—ranting about the incompetence of whoever he would ‘never work with again, believe me.’ Sometimes he dragged you along to his Film Club (you’d watched so many classic movies with him at this point that you were actually starting to become culturally literate). And then—slowly but inevitably—his brilliant, purple, gaze would drift to the expensive rectangle sitting all alone off to the side, wherever he’d carefully and strategically placed it to be just out of reach. Gradually his fingers would start to twitch, and then his jaw. He’d drum his nails against his knee, or irritably tap the pointed heel of his shoe against the floor. And then the phone would be back in his hands and he’d be looking at something that sent him spiraling all the way back to the beginning again.
“I don’t know what to do,” you confided in Rook one afternoon. You hadn’t seen him yet, but a bush off to your left had jiggled suspiciously at one point, so you assumed that he was probably somewhere in the vicinity.
After a moment, the hunter came and perched himself at your side.
“Do you know what’s bothering him?” you asked. Rook seemed to know everything about everyone, and Vil was his muse, his Roi de Poison. He had to have noticed something by now.
The blonde nodded, the feather in his hat bobbing as he did.
“...You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?” you huffed, not even attempting to bite back your irritation.  
Rook patted your shoulder sympathetically. “It is not my tale to tell, Mon Coeur. There are some things that I am told in confidence, and I cannot break that trust. Though I am sure he would greatly appreciate your concern.”
“Or you could just tell me,” you tried. “And then I wouldn’t have to be concerned at all.”
He tilted his hat at you, and then danced back easily when you tried to snatch it off his head.
.
.
“So, what’s the dealio,” Ace drawled, and he’d better thank his lucky stars that you didn’t startle quite as easily as you used to, because there was entire, opened, jar of Werecat urine in your hands that was just dying to wind up upended all down his white lab coat.
“What deal?” you snipped, carefully recapping the stinky ingredient and setting it off to the side. Tempting as the idea of dousing the redhead in supernatural piss was, Crewel would skin you for wasting components.  
“You spend a lot of time at Pomefiore,” Deuce added, much politer in his approach than Ace had been. “And lately their House Warden has been a bit…”
“Why has Captain Pissy-And-Perfect been so pissy?” Ace interrupted, leaning far too close over your cauldron to be any kind of safe. “Normally the only thing that twists him up that bad is Neige.”
Your mind whirled back to the incident at the mall. And as controlled as you liked to think you were about these sorts of things, your face must have done something because Ace pounced on you like Ruggie after a donut.
“What do you know?” he demanded, nearly spilling a whole bottle of Newt Eyes across the floor as he crowded into your personal space. “Tell me, tell me, tell me—"
“All I did was give Neige a scarf!” you snapped. “It’s not like it’s a big deal!”
“What scarf?” Deuce blinked back, confused.
“It was just some scarf that Vil put on me!”
The two of them made long, pointed, eye contact, and you immediately felt horribly out of the loop.
“Whelp. That tracks,” Ace sighed, just as Crewel popped up behind him to whip him across the back of his head with his pointer.
.
.
Your group of mangy idiots had gathered in the cafeteria for lunch—as was the ancient tradition of all starving students. The four of you had clustered around your usual table. Ace was busy squirting ketchup packets all over what would inevitably become Deuce’s seat when he finally got of the line. Jack was busy swishing said ketchup away with an irritated scowl. Epel sat across from you, as miserable and lemon scented as ever.
A lunch tray smacked the tabletop with an echoing bang and Deuce appeared behind it, frantically waved his cellphone in your faces.
“You guys have to watch this,” he said, deathly serious, before propping his phone up against your glass of water. It flopped forward with a resounding crack three times before he managed to get it to stay upright.
The five of you crouched around the teeny screen as the poppy chords of some Talk Show intro or other filtered through the tinny speakers.
“You know,” the interviewer beamed, all manicured sugar and over-bleached smiles. “With some of the things you’ve been posting lately, some people are saying that you’ve just got to be in love!”
The audience ooohed and aaaahed.
Neige Leblanche was sitting on the little leather sofa beside her, and he smiled in a way lit his entire face in a brilliant shade of pink. He was still wearing that goddamn purple scarf and immediately you could feel your temples pulsing with a migraine. This was going to be bad.
“Well,” he mumbled, bashful. “I can’t say you’re entirely wrong about that.”
Cue hordes of nearly rabid screaming. Ace winced and reached forward to tick down the volume.
“Why are we watching this?” Jack scowled, but he didn’t move his sharp glare from the illuminated screen.
“The Prefect gave Neige a scarf, and—”
“Shh,” Deuce hushed. “This is the bad part.”
“It’s a little bit silly,” Neige continued, glancing up at the host from beneath his dark lashes. “I don’t actually know their name. But we met a few weeks ago now and they were just—well they were amazing. They actually helped pull me out of a pretty sticky situation, and they were so composed through all of it! And then they didn’t even care about me being famous at all!” he rambled, getting brighter and brighter the longer he monologued. “They just helped me because I was a person, and, well, I think that’s very sweet.”
There was another wave of darling ‘awwws’ that could only have been scripted. Or, at least you hoped so. This level of saccharine infatuation should have been enough to turn anyone’s stomach. It had certainly twisted yours into all sorts of unpleasant knots. The secondhand embarrassment alone was on the verge of taking you out entirely.
“A little birdy’s been telling us that the scarf you’ve been modelling in all your latest Magicam posts was actually a gift from this secret lover of yours,” the interviewer whispered conspiratorially, and you wanted nothing more than to snatch that stupid purple cashmere back through the screen solely so that you could strangle her with it.
“Well, yes, actually,” Neige chirped, fingers reaching up to toy with the soft fabric.
“No it wasn’t!” you howled, indignant. “I just put it on him to distract him because I accidentally rambled to his face about how much more fuckable Vil was than him, and—”
“WHAT?!” Epel screeched. Screeched. At the top of his lungs. It felt like you could feel the glares of every single set of eyes in the cafeteria drilling into your spine. Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw a feather bob as it disappeared through the door, and you didn’t even want to think of the implications of that.
“No fucking way,” Ace gaped, looking for all the world like you’d just handed him a million Thaumarks, or an entire notebook’s worth of nuclear codes. Deuce and Jack both just looked like they were trying not to choke to death.
“Oh my God,” you wailed. “I did it again.”
.
.
When you next ran into the King of Poisons, you were so distracted by the impossible task of wrangling Ace into silence that you couldn’t have noticed the subtle changes in him even if you’d wanted to. The increased length in his stride, the gentler tuck of his hair, the less severe line of his shoulders—if you weren’t so caught up in trying to commit homicide, you would have been ecstatic.
Rook was chattering along at his side, his lips quirked into a merry grin. The tack-tack-tack of Vil’s crimson heels against the stone floors was familiar, confident, and loud enough to swim through your head despite Ace’s manic cackling.
“Potato.” Vil’s red lips quirked upwards into the smallest smile before twitching back down into a sneer. “And other potato. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Thankfully, at the end of the day, Ace was still nothing if not a no-good coward. He turned on the Pomefiore House Warden, ready to spill your deepest, darkest, secrets, and immediately withered under the third year’s spiteful glower.
“H-House Warden!” he squeaked. “I was just—Ahem. The Prefect was just—just saying that—”
“Go on,” Vil prompted, tongue dripping with all kinds of venom. “It must be riveting if it’s managed to stun you so thoroughly. Or maybe that’s just the extent of your comprehensive abilities as it is.”
Ace gulped. Audibly.
“Perhaps I should report your dallying to Riddle,” Vil continued, and that was when Ace really started to look panicked. “Remind me—your House Warden is known for his lenient stance on punishing rule breakers, is he not?”
The redhead darted off with one final squeak, practically wheeling around a corner in his haste to escape.
“Well?” Vil barked, and it took you a second to realize that he was addressing you now, and not that he was just going to continually roast Ace into an early grave. “Are you coming?”
“Where?” you asked, confused.
Vil rolled his eyes and reached out to grab your hand. “To Film Club. You promised to help pick out the new backdrop color schemes. Or is the forgetfulness of that horrible, spudling, friend of yours wearing off on you now too?”
You had promised Vil so many things in the last few weeks that you honestly probably wouldn’t even have remembered if you’d offered to sell him your soul, so looking through page after page of tone combinations that all looked absolutely identical to you but whatever was probably the best you could hope for.
More importantly, he seemed… better. Less stiff, certainly. You wondered idly what could have happened in the span of a few hours to mend his mood so thoroughly. If it had been Neige related all along, then probably some slight against the dude, right? Maybe something had popped up online? Industry drama, or whatever. Or maybe—
‘Because I accidentally rambled to his face about how much more fuckable Vil was than him, and—'
You froze, like a deer about to mowed down by a semi. Vil’s grip on your hand was the only thing that kept you from immediately faceplanting into the ground.
But, no. No one aside from your immediate entourage could have heard you say that! It wasn’t possible! It—It wasn’t—
Amidst your sudden wave of mortification, you caught Rook’s mischievous green, gaze, with your own. The feather on his hat bobbed playfully, mockingly, and he winked.
.
TAG LIST (CLOSED AS OF 12/10)
21.3.76
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thegoldencontracts · 1 month
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Too Late!
You and Azul are texting each other one day when he accidentally sends you some more honest texts.
Note/Warnings: Azul/Reader, fluff with a smidgen of angst (specifically Azul insecurities, he gets comforted tho)
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You loved Azul. A lot. You'd been dating him for quite a while now, after all. But you couldn't deny that it felt like he was a bit- formal with you, to say the least. Sometimes, it felt like he was playing the role of a perfect boyfriend in a Romance Novel's screen adaptation. How did he really feel? Was he happy to be somewhere, or was he just playing along so that the other students in his dorm could see how attractive and understanding he was while they seethed in envy at the fact that they were single and he wasn't?
Which was why when Azul slipped up one day when you were texting, you were very, very happy about it.
It was a boring evening, like always. You were texting Azul, complaining about your homework while lounging in your bed like always. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Zuzuuu <3: You know, if you'd like, I'd be happy to assist with your homework. It'll even be on the house, just for you.
Me: cant believe im dating a capitalist mf /lh
Me: really tho, tysmmm for helping <3 I don't deserve u bbg...
And then, something completely out of the ordinary happened.
Zuzuuu <3: how could you say that you're literally so perfect? I love you so much I keep doodling you bc you're so. Pretty. I simp so hard for you plz never say that again <3
At first, you wondered if Floyd wrote the text as a joke. It was pretty in character for him, after all. But that didn't make sense. This wasn't Floyd's way of texting, nor did it even attempt to imitate Azul's. When Floyd was in the mood to prank someone, he put in the effort to make it good.
Whatever. You took a screenshot of the message so you could treasure it forever. And lucky you, because right after you did, the message was deleted.
Zuzuuu <3: Please don't say such things about yourself, even for comedic purposes.
He was not being slick with that. You sent a text in response, giggling all the while.
Zuzuuu <3: Regardless, would you like to come over later today?
Me: Real slick hehe... Plz show me ur doodles of me they probably look so good bc you're good at art just like everything else somehow
After a while, Azul replied.
Zuzuuu <3: I don't know what you're referring to. Regardless, would you like to come over?
As much as you wanted to press, you decided not to. Too much pressing would just make Azul clam up more. You'd just have to get him in person, where it'd be harder for him to run away when you showed him the screenshot.
Me: Sureee! Heading over right now
And so, you set out for Octavinelle, evidence in hand. You were going to make him admit he sent that text.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the time you got to Azul's room, you had everything planned out. He wasn't usually so candid with you, and he was clearly ashamed of it when he was. You were going to figure out why.
You knocked on the door, and Azul opened it, letting you in.
"Come in," he said, tone even more formal than usual, by some miracle.
"Thanks," you said, taking a seat.
"So, about that text-"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Azul said, quick to cut you off.
"So quick to interrupt, Azul!" You said with a mock-pout, before grinning as you pulled up the screenshot on your phone. "But I think you do."
First, Azul's mouth hung open in shock. Then, his whole face turned red, lip quivering as a high-pitched whine left his mouth. Then, he moved to snatch the phone from your hands.
You narrowly dodged, and you couldn't resist sticking out your tongue at him.
"Too slow!" You laughed as he tried to grab the phone from you again, only to fail even more without the element of surprise on his side, because for all of Azul's many strengths, speed wasn't one of them.
"Delete that at once!" He shrieked, voice cracking in the middle.
He kept trying to grab it for a while, before finally giving up.
"Fine, fine," he grumbled, pouting like a kid. Cute. "You win. Are you satisfied now?"
"Very," you said, "because I get to see you. Your actual thoughts. Not just the ultra-filtered version."
Azul scoffed at that, seemingly in disbelief, though you saw the way he stifled a smile.
"Don't flatter me," he said. "My 'true thoughts' are not something you'd want to see in the slightest. Merely a more pathetic, messy version of what I already tell you."
"And that's precisely why I want to hear it," she said. "You sound so perfect all the time that I wonder whether you're really being honest with me, you know. It's just so refreshing to see you be gushy and candid about things. And pretty cute."
"How odd," he said, before turning to you with a face more genuine. "Thank you. For what little it's worth, I'll try to be a tad more honest with you. I can't promise anything, though."
You smiled.
"That's all I ask."
And really, truly, that was enough.
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Bonus:
"So, how'd you learn so much internet lingo? Never took you for that kinda guy."
"I'm in the board games club with Idia Shroud. What did you expect?"
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duuhrayliegh · 11 months
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bartender!eddie x dancer!reader
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just an idea i’ve been tossing around, lmk what yall think!!!
okay but imagine that eddie munson finds himself at a burlesque lounge on the sunset strip. he’s immediately entranced by the energy and the music and the women. he absolutely had to get out of hawkins so he made the trek to LA, hoping to find some smidgen of fame with his guitar skills. instead he finds burlesque. he finds the dancing, the jazz, the women, the drinks, the overall ambience and he just knows he has to be apart of it. so he finds the band manager, begs for an audition for the band only to be redirected to the owner who denies his request but offers him a position as a bartender. does he want to be serving drinks? no, but it’s a foot in the door.
so he stays, serving drink after drink, longing to be performing in the band, performing for the hundreds of customers that pay the overpriced cover charge of the burlesque lounge. he makes it a weekly habit to ask if the band needs coverage for the guitarist, and every week the band manager says no. so he falls into a monotonous loop, one that involves him creating cocktails, checking IDs, applying an almost ungodly amount of eyeliner (and subsequently never being able to get it all fully so he looks like a raccoon as he reapplies), acquiring a numerous amount of tattoos from his tips at the bar, continuing to write songs and aching to be on the band stage. 
all of this causes him to slump. he would never admit it of course. but he’s single, in his mid-twenties, working at a bar that is continuously packed with some of the most beautiful people he’s every had the pleasure of laying eyes upon. the best view on the sunset strip with no windows. no way out. he’s slowly finding himself back in the monotony that he was trying to escape from in hawkins. he’s probably about two seconds from putting in his notice when you walk in.
you stroll in, hair bouncing against your shoulders, every bit of you looks like a dream. you stand in front of his station, eyes wide and watching the women dancing. you seem in a trance, the same trance that eddie was when he first witnessed the burlesque lounge. he knows it all too well. he can tell by your general vibe that you’re new to town so he offers you a drink “on the house, baby doll” you blush at the name, your shoulders raising in an effort to shrink yourself. “you from around here?” he knows the answer but he wants a conversation, a connection, a spark, something to make waves. “unless i’ve suddenly transported back to the land of cows and endless nothingness, no i’m not from here” “well dorothy, welcome to the land of oz” he toasts your drink before reluctantly returning to his job. 
two hours later, you emerge from the backstage area, an excited look dawning your features as you approach the bar again. “you might be seeing me around here more often mr. bartender sir” his eyebrows shoot to his hairline as he cleans the wine glass in his hand. “and that would be because?” he prompted your answer while swinging the white towel over his shoulder. “because i have a dance audition” “oh you dance baby doll?” “mostly in the mirror at home, but i know that i can learn really fast” “that what you told ol’ nance up there?” “i did, and she agreed to at least let me audition” he leans against the bar top, his hands coming to rest just beside yours on the dark grain wood. “you’re ambitious, anyone ever told you that?’ he watches your lips curl into a beaming  smile, clearly praise looks good on you “i tell myself that every day” 
your finger taps the tip of his nose before you bounce off the barstool. he watches as you flit out of the door of the bar yelling a quick goodbye over your shoulder. he realizes now that his life is about to get a whole less monotonous with you around and he can’t help but smile about that. 
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neverchecking · 8 months
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All the found family, all the time. One of them accidentally calls Daruk 'Dad' and there's no turning back. Teba and Saki have Ultimate Parent energy and are somehow the only other people who can even slightly truly corral the Trio aside from Tia. (They share custody.) One big family.
I do like the idea of the Champions gaining their counterpart's memories as well (even if their's are slightly more... traumatising than the Sage's) so it is a bit of a struggle at first to separate Aaliyah and Sage from their past selves, but they've also been through this before. I think Champ would've been a lot more like Cal due to the pressure put on him, despite Tia's efforts to shield him from that. So while it would take them a little bit to adjust, it's also a quicker adjustment than one would assume. They still slip occasionally, but no more than they do with Champ or accidentally get Champ and Sage confused. I doubt there's any real hard feelings about it since they all know how confusing this is.
But also Daruk snuggling with Aaliyah like a particularly feral kitten trying to take chunks out of him while he thinks it's cute. Aaliyah is just straight up gnawing on him.
Even when Tia enlists his help to try and get her to slow down for five minutes Petal ffs you're 8 months pregnant!
Tia just plucking her feral idiots out of the air gives me life. She spent a lot of time being slung over shoulders now it's her turn to haul them off.
Only Aaliyah gets a little bit more leeway than the boys because she's the one who listens to all of Tia's bitching during teatime. It's gotten to the point Aaliyah started spiking her tea and Tia's not far behind.
("I just want to share some intimacy and closeness and get my back fucking blown out. Is that so much to ask?"
"Tia, I am begging you. Please stop talking about that asshole. I will hear anything else."
"Petal. Petal, I have plans for those scarves and Twi's pelt. I am going to make such a mess of those men. If I can still walk the day after my wedding, I've failed and will need to remedy it for the whole day."
"Tia. Please. How the fuck do you even know about this? You are so virginal and yet!"
"When my study isn't fucking occupied, I read."
"..."
"A lot.")
Tia just wants to get laid, but her three are so respectable and honorable and courteous. Can't they take at least a little bit of advantage? Just a smidgen? Anything?!
It's getting to the point Aaliyah wants Tia to get laid and Tia getting laid isn't something she wants to think about. The day one of them figures out how to make like 99% effective contraceptive tea is the day both of their problems are solved. (Look Tia deserves to have her back blown out. With the amount of bullshit she's been through, minimised or generally averted, she deserves this and so help her, Aaliyah if one of you intervenes, you're all dead to her.)
The biting thing becomes a massively running joke, especially after Tia breaks the streak. One that suddenly turns on them when Tia starts deliberately turning it into a "It has been x amount of days since Tia last gave a hickey to one of her suitors." which in turn Sage takes as a challenge and well, at least none of them are biting the general population any more. The jokes at the wedding get wild.
FNOFNF One of them accidentally dropping the 'D' word and the fam just never letting them forget it. Teba and Saki are the parents man. They're calling the four at like 3 A.M. being like "Where are you?"
"...Bed."
"Wanna try that again?"
"No."
They just have that sixth sense, ya know? HOGHG They have custody days <33
I feel kind of bad that the champs get the memories of like...dying. I doubt Sage and Aaliyah take it personally, but like...It does kind of put them off for a second. Like, they kind of have to take a moment and remind themselves its not on purpose. And it's probably a quicker adjustment like you said. They still slip, but it's momentary and quickly fixed.
I love the idea of people just confusing Champ and Sage until they do something so undeniably them that they're quickly reminded of whose who.
NOFNF Yeah Aaliyah is using the Gorons as a personal chew toy <3 bc they don't feel a thing. And the Zora chew them back >:( And the Rito's have feathers >:(( And the gerudo are all muscle >>:(((
Its a group effort to keep her off her feet at that point. Sage keeps them handcuffed <33
Tia being the buff baby <3 We love her. Dragging away the trio like its nothing.
Aaliyah is the favorite and they can't say anything about it so they just sit there like >:(
Aaliyah doesn't even hide it at one point and Tia just downs like three shots like its nothing. Then just spills her guts. At this point, Aaliyah knows the blond's fantasies better than her own..
("I just know he's a giver. I just know it."
"Tia, please. I don't care. At this point I'd be more willing to hear about Cece's Day."
"I'm telling you. I want to be carried in the day after my wedding day. Like just no usage of my legs. At all."
"I think I'd chew my own ears off rather than listen to this-"
"I mean absolutely just destroyed-"
"OKAY-"
"...You and Sage gonna have to run the kingdom for a day-"
"STOP TALKING-")
Tia fighting for her life fr- Like her boys aren't even holding her hand. They're sitting with enough room for Jesus Hylia in between them and her, hands in their laps. It drives her nuts. Like if she can just get them to brush up against her, she'd be okay for the night.
Aaliyah doesn't wanna think about anyone's sex like other than her own, and now she's being forced to. At this point, it's her life's mission to find a contraceptive. She does find a couple (Wild Carrot Seed, smartweed leaves, Rutin, etc.) and she nearly cries in relief. Its practically thrown in their faces before shes stomping off, yelling about how she doesn't wanna hear shit anymore. (That does not stop her from hearing all of the nitty gritty details, but after that point Aaliyah assumes it's fair game and is able to go into just as disgustingly intimate detail.) At that point, Aaliyah is helping to distract Sweetpea and Sage. Just dragging them off to some made up duty she pulls out of her ass.
The biting thing is their biggest inside joke. Until Tia turns it. Then it turns back into that when Sage turns it back on her. Aaliyah comes so close to buying a muzzle. The general public is relieved that their no longer at threat to being bitten, but everyone else who has to deal with these two are not happy >:(
FIFBF THEIR WEDDINGS (All three) WOULD BE SO MUCH FUN FHOFBF
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saipng · 3 years
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me: im not getting lazy i can still draw for a long time
also me: draws heisenberg like this
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mai-sau · 3 years
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Prompt "give me attention" for kidnap family?
"haha, im gonna take it easy with prompts this time around, only a few hundred words -" cue spongebob title card "2.3k words later"
seriously tho thank you for the prompt!! (and sorry about the wait!) i had fun working on this one bc well i love any chance to write about this lil family of murderers and tiny bois :') hope u enjoy!!
Prompt: "Give me attention."
“Nelyo.”
“Nelyo.”
“Ne-”
Thump. Maedhros slammed his book shut. A puff of dust wheezed out from the crusty pages; Maglor could make out the swirl of particles flying about in the dim shafts of sunlight peeking into his brother’s study from windows that he was sure were clean at some point in their existence.
Said brother tossed a glare over to Maglor from the other side of his desk.
“You’re allowed to be here. Quietly.” Maedhros threw a pointed look towards the abandoned scroll in Maglor’s hands.
“But I’m so very lonely, Nelyo,” Maglor pouted, and dropped the scroll on the desk. The parchment rolled out towards Maedhros, whose face was fast approaching the same shade as his hair. “Besides, I’ve already taken care of all my correspondence for the day. Nothing much else to do, really, but seek out the company of my darling brother.”
“I’m older than you,” Maedhros grit out, rubbing his temple in terse little circles. Which one of them he was reminding Maglor couldn’t say.
“Only by a few years,” Maglor teased. He let the corners of his lip curl up - he was well aware this made him look like “a cat about to feast on the fattest saucer of milk it’s ever conned” according to his brother, and that was why he did it.
On top of that dusty old book, Maedhros’ fingers twitched. Got you.
“Come on, Nelyo,” he whined. “Give me attentiooon.”
Maedhros threw him a positively hateful look, but Maglor knew he wouldn’t throw him out just yet. By this point, Maglor liked to think he knew his brother well enough.
There were some things he didn’t, of course, and this was fine. When his brother would wake and traipse out to the courtyard in the dead of night, staring at the moon hungrily for hours and hours as if he would never glimpse its light amidst the pitch dark again; when one of the many elves around Amon Ereb would do something wrong - not when one of their craftsmen made the same excited little exclamation as Curvo used to, or hunters fletched their arrows just how Tyelko did, Maglor understood these, at least - but a request phrased too sweetly, an abrupt movement, a smile too wide, and Maedhros’ throat would tighten, his words clipped, before excusing himself to go lock himself in his room for an hour, or two, or three: these parts of his brother Maglor may never know.
But he knew much, or at least enough. A few months after they’d taken in the twins, Maglor had just finished mopping an explosion of jam on the dining floor and sweeping up the shards of what was once the hefty jar that contained it. He’d first gently let Elros know that if they wanted food, they need only ask; he’d then let him know that no, of course they wouldn’t cast him out for breaking the jam jar, with no small amount of tears or internal panic on either end of that conversation.
By the time Maglor slunk into Maedhros’ study that evening to go over reports from around the fortress, he was maybe a bit tired. When Maedhros told him to wait for just a few minutes while he wrapped something or other up, Maglor might’ve let slip a touch of petulance and no small amount of theatrics into his voice when he asked when his dear Nelyo could spare just a moment for his poor baby brother, simply wilting away from the neglect.
Maglor had frozen, fearful of what his second-most severe brother would have to say in response to - well, whining. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d let himself do so. Oh, he’d been quite the brat in Valinor, and used to be quite proud of that fact, thank you. Each and every one of his brothers’ last nerves practically had his name on it. But it seemed ever since they arrived here, it was as if they simply couldn’t afford the waste of time. Ribbing was a favored pastime of his in Aman, but Beleriand offered no such frivolities.
But living with the twins, putting on playful words and coaxing laughter from two young faces that Maglor couldn’t bear to see two seconds from breaking anymore, had apparently loosened his discipline.
He’d thought Maedhros would treat him to one of his signature frowns, barking at him that neither of them had time to make things any harder for each other, but instead he’d… laughed. Just the slightest huff of air, yes, but a laugh nonetheless. Maglor hadn’t heard his brother laugh since…
Well, if anything, he was honoring his cousin’s memory.
So Maglor experimented over the years, let a few more teases and whines slip into his day-to-day interactions with Maedhros. His brother had since mustered a valiant effort to act annoyed, but Maglor could still catch a muffled chuckle or smothered grin here and there.
So. All in all, he’s sure he knows his brother pretty well at this point, and Maedhros was not troubled (bad), just bothered (good).
Which, of course, meant they could continue to play; Maglor would show no mercy.
“Please? Please, please? Just a smidgen of tender love and care from my dearly beloved big brother?” Maglor asked, eyes wide and pleading, hands clasped in front of him as he leaned over the desk. His hair, inky black, spilled all over his scroll.
Maedhros’ nose twitched. His right ear flicked. Oh yes. He was close to a chuckle now, he could tell. His dearly beloved big brother stood no fucking chance.
“Oh dear Eru, let my brother pay attention to - MANWË’S TITS!” Maglor shrieked, springing up from his seat after spotting a dark shadow peeking through the window.
His brother whirled around. Quick as a viper, his hand darted out to grasp the hilt of his sword. Despite this, Maglor could hear a choked noise he was more than halfway certain was the chuckle he had so desperately hunted. Oh well.
A chubby face stared right back at them, eyes round as saucers. Wait, make that two faces.
Both Maglor and Maedhros sagged with relief.
“Elros, can you please come in?” Maglor croaked, feeling five feet to the left of his physical body. “You too, Elrond.”
The two of them nodded bashfully, heads bobbing as they fumbled over to the glass. And they were… flapping. Each twin sported small brown wings on their back, looking much like the falcons Tyelko used to play with as a child. Maglor supposed, thinking of a great bird soaring away over the sea with light itself clutched tight in its talons, maybe they should have expected this one in particular.
Elros pushed once, twice at the windows, tiny arms straining against the pane and looking more panicked by the second. Behind him, Elrond simply pointed to the - oh, the window latch. Yes.
Maedhros stood up and flicked it open. Elros came tumbling through, nearly bashing his skull on the desk before Maedhros caught him midair.
Elrond flew in smoothly and landed on Maglor’s empty chair, wings neatly folding in. Maedhros dumped Elros on his own chair. His wing smacked Maedhros’ arm by mistake.
“We talked about this. No new shapeshifting without me or Maglor there,” Maedhros said, fixing each of them with a stern look.
Both the twins looked down at this. Elrond wrung his little wrists.
“We’re sorry!” Elros burst out, tears welling up in his eyes. “We won’t do it again, promise!”
“That’s what you said last time, sweetheart,” Maglor told him.
“And the time before that,” Maedhros grumbled.
“What we’re saying, dear, is that we understand that you’re sorry. But keeping your word has to take first priority,” Maglor explained softly.
Maedhros coughed.
“Or, er, not doing it again,” Maglor corrected. “That’s what counts.”
“We understand,” Elros sniffled. “It’s just, we wanted to hear, but you weren’t there to check with, because well, you were here, and, well, um, yes -”
“Bringing us to the next point of order,” Maedhros rumbled. He raised a brow at both of them. “Eavesdropping. We have also been over this.”
Oh dear. Elros looked like he was about to drown in a puddle of tears. Maglor rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades soothingly, careful of the new feathery appendages.
Thankfully, Elrond stepped in. “We remember, it’s not nice because we like to be in private sometimes and it’s not fair for us to not let other people be too,” he recited shyly. “Um, we just… we know you both meet up a lot like this, and we know it's important… but… um…” His lip trembled; his voice cracked. “Do you... talk about us? Do you not want us to hear because it’s bad? Because we can do better!” He promised quickly, eyes wide and wet. “Elros is getting really good at his music lessons, he’s practicing a lot! And I’m working on my writing lessons every day!”
Something in Maglor’s chest twisted. “Oh, honey, no -”
But his brother beat him to the punch. Striding out from behind the desk, he knelt down in front of Elrond. “Can I hug you?” he asked very quietly.
Elrond bit his lip and nodded. Without another word, Maedhros wrapped him up in his arms.
They stayed like that for a moment, Maedhros’ hulking frame wrapped around Elrond’s body, like a drape of russet locks, leather and rich furs. When his brother finally pulled away, he gave a heavy look to both children.
“We will never give you away because you’re not good enough. Alright? You will always be good enough. Both of you,” he told them. He reached out and covered Elrond’s tiny hand with his own, fingers curling around and intertwining. “And not because you’re caught up on your lessons, or do what we say.”
“Though those are certainly nice,” Maglor added. He flashed them a teasing grin before taking care to soften his expression once more, and laid a gentle hand on Elros’ shoulder. “You will always have our love. And nothing, not even the worst jam spill, or missed harp lesson - don’t think I didn’t notice that last week, dearest - can ever reach in and steal it. It is your’s by blood and birthright.”
“Love you,” Elros sniffled. Elrond echoed him, voice no less wobbly.
Maedhros gifted them with a small smile. “Love you both, starlights.”
“And -” Elros started, hiccuped, and continued. “And same for me too. Nothing can change that! I’ll always love you two.”
Maglor felt a pang of sickly guilt invade his chest and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maedhros stiffen.
“Me too,” Elrond said, voice suddenly clear. Maglor glanced at him and met a gaze that seemed years ahead of its time; he froze, rooted to the spot. “We’ll always love you no matter what you do.”
“Well -” Maglor started. “That’s…”
“No need to worry about us,” Maedhros recovered quickly, waving his hand. “Now then, it’s nearing bedtime, hm?”
“But wait!” Elros cried. “What were you two talking about then?”
“Yes! We saw Atya going like this,” Elrond clasped his pudgy hands together and shook them. “And his voice sounded all funny, and then he prayed to Eru about Atar paying more attention to Manwe’s t-”
“ALRIGHT!” Maglor yelped, clapping his hands. His face must’ve been steaming, his cheeks were burning, oh stars - “Bedtime!”
“But we want to know why you were saying all those funny things,” Elros complained loudly. His voice slipped into a high pitched whine, dripping with petulance. “Nelyo, Nelyo, give me attentioooon -”
“I do not sound like that!” Maglor gasped, scooping up a giggling Elrond to be carried to bed.
“I do not sound like that!”
Maglor turned around, gaping. That was not Elros’ voice.
Maedhros stared back. His eyes glinted with mirth and the most shit-eating grin curled his lips. In his arms was a starstruck Elros, who looked no less shocked than if the clouds themselves had just burst into song and danced a lively jig. And quite frankly, Maglor would be less surprised.
Maedhros dealt him one last smirk before twirling on his heel and walking out of the room to go deposit one elfling in his bed. Maglor still had the other, who poked his cheek.
“Atya? Are you okay?”
Slowly, ever so slowly, Maglor felt a smile grow across his face. His eyes stung with tears. He quickly wiped them with his sleeve before they could fatten and spill over his cheeks and probably make Elrond worry even more.
“Wonderful, dear.” He frowned for a second, considering. “Although I think there is a dreadful amount of mockery in my future.”
He looked down at Elrond. His son merely tilted his round head, offering a blank look. Maglor sighed happily. “But that’s okay.”
XXX
In time, it became clear that there was no need to worry about the looming threat of brotherly teasing paid back in full; Maedhros may have been looser with his laughter, but even this was a rare occasion still. Maglor did not mind, for any time he saw his brother’s eyes alight with anything other than fatal passion was a gift.
The true threat that lurked within Amon Ereb made itself known eventually.
Two weeks later, Maglor was scurrying to meet up with one of the smiths to discuss pending repairs but stopped short in front of a small figure in the courtyard blocking his path.
“Not now, sweetheart, Atya’s very busy,” Maglor told Elrond, harried, ready to flag down someone on the way to attend to whatever his son needed.
And then it happened. Elrond’s face crumpled just so. His eyes widened: big, round, and wet. His lip wobbled. When he opened his mouth, his voice took on a tone so absolutely, horribly pitiful that Maglor half-suspected the echo of Lúthien herself lived in his words.
“Please, Atya,” he begged, every word a death sentence. “Give me attentiooon.”
Oh Eru, Maglor despaired, even as he opened his arms for an evil little elfling to leap into, repairs forgotten. I’ve made a monster.
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Sneak Peek, Round 2! Chapter 12: Roman Profile
I apologize in the delay for the chapter in it’s entirety so I hope that this relatively lengthy snippet can tide you over until it’s done! 
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“Oh for fuck’s sake. You’ve got to be fucking joking,” is all Daniel lets him say, it feels necessary to burn off a smidgen of the steam that was already threatening to pour out of him since the mental door he was now struggling to slam shut to ensure that the remainder of cuss words, vulgar gestures and threats stayed in his head, wouldn’t be able to close and stay that way if he didn’t free up a little space. 
It doesn’t take any conscious effort or thought to get him moving, no, he reacts instinctively and takes a step forward, swiftly putting himself in front of you, using himself like a human shield, the last line of defense between you and the group of photographers and journalists, who’d evidently been waiting for the two of you to arrive.
Daniel is standing with his back to the crowd, all of whom had started shouting questions out at you and him, the sheer volume of their combined voices almost enough to bowl him over, as the lights of their cameras started flashing brightly enough that it felt almost as if night had been turned to day. 
“Dan,” the fear in your voice only feeds the anger already churning in his stomach, a fury that is already threatening to become autonomous and take over his entire body, “what in the hell is going on?”
He turns around quickly, putting his back to the mess of journalists so that he can face you and assess the damage since he’s more than aware that at the best of times, even when you’re expecting there to be probing questions being asked and camera lenses focused on you, you just barely scrape by at staying calm and not letting the anxiety get to you. 
“I don’t know,” Daniel’s stomach lurches violently at the lie but he pushes on, rationalizing with himself that the lie is a necessary evil at the moment when the only goal is getting the both of you through the sea of people clamoring behind his back and into the vehicle, unscathed and in one piece. “But it’s going to be okay.” 
Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Daniel pulls himself together, shoving down the question of how exactly the media had been tipped off on where to find them, let alone to know enough about you and him to be asking the question they were currently calling out since the article hadn’t even been published yet. 
That seemed like the least of his problems right now and was undeniably something he could figure out later, especially because it was painfully obvious you were shutting down before his eyes and that if he didn’t get you moving soon, things would quickly go from bad to worse. But he’d be damned if he was going to let something as ridiculous and trivial as a cloud of nosy, invasive vultures like the journalists behind him ruin tonight. 
So, standing as close to you as Daniel dares, albeit still further away than he’d like to be right now, he only manages to keep himself from reaching out and taking your hands in his because he knows that will be a fail-safe way to turn the entire situation into a feeding frenzy. 
Instead, he shoves both of his hands in his pockets, trying desperately to ignore the way his palms seem to itch with the urge to reach out, to find out if letting himself touch you would provide you both the tiny bit of little comfort right that he thinks it would if he could only put an arm around your waist or feel your skin against his. 
Leaning in, Daniel digs deep, clobbering together a plan as quickly as his thoughts will permit him to, a process that must have only taken a handful of seconds but feels like a million more, determined to know exactly what the two of you are going to do before he even bothers with opening his mouth. 
Once the rough outline takes shape, shaky at best but enough to work off of, only then does he speak, though he’s careful to do so in a low, clear voice, one he hopes that the sound of it will somehow resonate with you and provide you with some sort of calm, cool baseline to cling to, along with the reminder that though he isn’t touching you, he’s only an arm’s length away. 
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Daniel says to you, noticing the way your bottom lip is bordering on the edge of trembling, “I’m going to go first so just keep your head down and follow me. Don’t look up, don’t engage, don’t listen to anything they have to say. It’s important you don’t stop moving until we get to the car, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, got it,” you mumble back, nodding your head in agreement. Daniel hadn’t even been expecting a verbal response, so he lets himself count the four words as evidence to the fact that you’re both handling this far better than he’d been prepared for, choosing to purposefully ignore the voice in his head that tells him he’s putting far too much stock into a barely whispered reply. 
“It’ll be over and done with before you even know it. Just stay as close to me as you can and it’ll be a piece of cake,” at this point, Daniel’s spilling platitudes that are as much for his benefit as they are for yours.
“Piece of cake, got it.” 
“Piece of cake, exactly,” he nods his head emphatically, “ready?”
“What do you think?” the look you give him as you ask is enough to have a light smile playing at the corners of his mouth again, the unamused expression that demands to know if he’s too stupid or blind to know the answer without having to inquire is a more comforting sight than he would have expected it to be. 
“Doesn’t matter either way,” you shrug at him, as if conceding the point, before he continues. “On the count of three?” 
This time all he gets is a halfhearted jerk of your head but it’s still enough for him to be sure enough you heard him that he starts to turn back around, already mentally psyching himself up for this when a whispered comment from you has him freezing in place, body half twisted around in a nearly cartoonish position.
“I wish you could kiss me right now.” 
The confession is so soft and quiet that Daniel isn’t even sure you’d actually just say what he thinks you said. If he didn’t know with a finality that borders on absolute certainty that even if he wanted to, his brain wouldn’t in a million years permit itself to imagine those words, or any ones like them, coming out of your mouth, he wouldn’t have believed his ears. 
But clearly, you must have said them because when he whips his head back around so that his gaze can find yours, you’re already looking at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted like you can hardly believe what you’ve just said either. In that instant, Daniel knows what he wants to say just as quickly as he knows he cannot say it, the decision to keep it to himself already made before the idea is completely formed.
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bluegarners · 3 years
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“someone slips on ice and gets hurt... hurt/comfort pls!” ~anon
For 12 Days of Batfam prompts! 
Gotham is cold.
He doesn’t mean that metaphorically, like Batman would normally brood over. Sure, Gotham was pretty heartless when it came to certain things, and yeah, Bludhaven wasn’t any better, and sure, Gotham sometimes felt like one endless cycle of insanity day after day, but he’s getting away from the point.
He’s talking about the frigid kind of cold. Not the kind of cold where snow falls lightly from the sky and dusts the world in white. Not the kind of cold where it’s just chilly enough to put on a jacket and some gloves and start a fire (a contained and safe fire, mind you- arson is not part of that description) and maybe sip some hot chocolate and roast a couple marshmallows for the heck of it. 
That’s the kind of crisp weather Dick would like, but as he said: Gotham is cold.
Which brings him to where he is now, jogging in place and trying his best to stay warm on what may be the most boring stake-out he’s done in months. His suit isn’t built to be warm. It’s not bulky and though it has kevlar in it, the material is meant to help stop bullets and deter knives from gracing themselves into his, unfortunately, vulnerable organs. Point being, the skin tight and relatively thin suit he’s wearing isn’t built for Gotham’s icy chill. 
His fingers had gone numb a while ago, and Dick’s absolutely sure he’s sporting a new shade of blue lipstick from Fenty Beauty, and were someone to see him, Dick’s also certain they might mistake him for Rudolph. He wouldn’t mind being recognized as such an icon, but it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing to intimidate criminals with.
Efforts at staying warm prove futile, and the exercise he tries to do without being obvious also does little to put back some feeling into his toes. He’s thinking about calling it a night, the drug deal he’d been hoping to catch the last few weeks a bust, when a classically suspicious white van pulls up. It’s laughable, in a way, how stereotypical some of Gotham’s “lesser” villains could be, but Dick’s not one to complain.
Makes his job easier after all.
Two men exit the van, shuffling through some contents in the back. They’re both wearing ski masks, somewhat appropriate for the weather actually, and seem to be in a hurry. Hushed whispers go between the two as they wait stoically by the front doors of the van, what looks to be a small ziploc back clutched in one of the goons hands. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s a drug deal, or at least something related to it, and Dick feels a smile creep onto his frozen face as another person slowly walks up to them, shifty and anxious.
A newbie then, Dick thinks, crouching down and carefully making his way closer to them from his vantage point. Must be a kid then.
Based on the height and general demeanor of the newcomer, it’s safe to assume that the buyer is indeed a teenager, at most a young adult. Perhaps not even old enough to buy alcohol. How they heard about the new drug, and where to get it, was a bit surprising, but seeing as the deal was happening in the poorer districts, Dick was sadly not perturbed. 
There are few quick words exchanged, an envelope of cash being handed over for the ziploc baggie, and Dick knows it’s time to finally take action. A good thing too, seeing as it feels like the soles of his boots had become suspended to the frozen concrete.
His entrance startles both parties, the men in ski masks immediately reaching for weapons and the teenager backing away, stumbling over himself in an effort to run. Perhaps if they were more experienced, or at the very least a second more prepared, they would have been able to put up some sort of defense. As it were, though, Dick had been stalking this particular drug for weeks. He knew where most of the suppliers were, knew what areas they liked to sell in, knew their demographics and the supply chain, and also knew who and what the dealers consisted of. 
This “new” drug was really just a potent mixture of PCP and bath salts. A dangerous combination, but not valuable enough to have competent dealers and proper weapons for protection. 
Which is why the take down of both men lasts all of about seven seconds, Dick easily knocking them out before they could reach for any weapons they happened to have in that van of theirs. He’ll give them props for trying though- it’s not everyday Nightwing, of all people, decides to ruin your one job.
With the dealers out of the way, Dick turns back around to see the teen, baggie in tow and still clutched tightly in his fist, booking it across the street. It’s dark enough to the point where the boy just looks like a flighty shadow in the night, but the flickering lamp-posts give just enough light to show exactly where he was heading. The confidence in his gait suggested that he knew where he wanted to go, and if Dick had to make a hypothesis, he’d say the kid was heading home. 
The only place in the world that could feel safe after something like this.
Dick feels a frown pull on his face, the skin tight from being exposed to the bitter air, and not for the first time, feels a smidgen of sympathy for the situation. He brushes it off though, shelving that particular thought of his to the back of his mind, and grapples onto the building over, pulling himself over the ledge. 
He follows the kid from the rooftops, leaping over gaps and darting across fire-escapes to keep up with the twists and turns the teen took. If he knew he was being tailed, then the kid was doing a pretty good job at evading, but he was no match for someone who had trained for years doing this exact thing. Dick may live in Bludhaven now, but Gotham would always be his first home. He knew this city almost as well as Bruce, and the only reason he didn’t know just as much was because he hadn’t given his soul away to it just yet. Bruce had shaken hands with the city and signed away his being when he donned the cowl. 
Dick was attempting to do the same with Bludhaven.
The kid bolts into an alleyway, coat flying behind him in his mad dash, and Dick thinks now is the time to stop the chase. He descends from the rooftop, landing in front of the breathless teen, and holds out a hand firmly. It’s a little funny, the scene he makes. Not only does he look like Rudolph, but with the pose he’s made for himself, he might as well be a crosswalk guard with his hand up to halt speeding cars.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, not unkindly. “Let’s do this the easy way, kid.”
The teen takes a step back, the drugs held tightly against his chest. “You’re… you’re Nightwing.”
“The one and only,” Dick smiles, taking a step forward. 
“But-but this is Batman’s city. Why are you here? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Honestly, kid, that’s not your biggest concern right now. If I were you, I would be worrying about how to explain those drugs you’ve got there.”
As if realizing the contents of the baggie for the first time, the teens eyes dart to it, panic setting in as the situation’s gravity, and what it could mean for him, overwhelms him.
“Th-These aren’t mine,” the kid tries. “I-I swear I wasn’t gonna use them.”
“Uh huh,” Dick says, taking another step closer. “Why don’t you try again, uh, what’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you that.”
“Okay,” Dick shrugs, easing his way nearer. “That’s fine, I’ll just call you Buddy. Now, Buddy, there are two ways this can go. One, you give me that bag and you’ll only be reported for minor drug possession. Gotham has a fine ranging from 30 to 50 dollars for that sort of crime, so it won’t be too bad. The second option is, well, I don’t think you want the second option. So, what’s it going-”
Now, Dick could blame about ten different things for what happened next. He could blame his mouth, as he gets too chatty with the younger ones sometimes. He could blame the poor lighting, seeing even more difficult at this time of night. He could even blame the wind for being too loud, lest he would’ve heard the quick intake of breath and shuffling feet. 
Dick could blame many different things, but as it were, Nightwing was being pushed, hard, and he hadn’t seen it coming. 
The unexpected shove throws him off balance, arms waving in the air for some sort of hold, and Nightwing probably would’ve been able to stop the fall on any other night, but, as he keeps being sorely reminded, Gotham is cold tonight.
Gotham’s cold was unforgiving and instead of snow, it produced ice. And, lucky him, a patch of black ice presented itself right where his unfortunate footing was trying to find some stabilization. His feet fly right out from under him, all four appendages now in the air and flailing comically.
Dick has the awareness to at least look where he’s falling, craning his neck just so, and he internally groans as the sight of an open garbage can meets him. For whatever reason, Gotham liked using metal cans, of all things, and this one did not have a lid on it. 
Fantastic.
He can’t catch himself, his arms out of his control (Dick also blames the cold for the numbness in his hands and, hence, lack of grip), and it’s all he can do but brace for impact. Oh, he’s so going to-
The side of his head slams into the rim of the metal bin, and the world goes white. He crumples against the frozen ground, boneless and suddenly without vision. Something warm, or decidedly extremely cold, slides down his neck and Dick can barely keep his eyes open. There’s no pain, at least not yet his muddled head reminds him, but he can’t seem to move or do anything for that matter. Sensations fail him and the lack of any visuals besides the blaring white and static in his eyes scares him. His tongue feels fuzzy, and there’s something smooth and metallic dribbling past his lips, but his biggest concern right now is getting up.
Laying here, injured, was a big no no. Vulnerability was a dangerous thing. If he could just… If he could just move his arm, he might be able to do something. Call for backup maybe. There’s a drug bust that’s going to go down soon and he’s been tracking these guys for weeks now and it would be a shame if they were to get away. Those drugs were dangerous after all, and in the wrong hands could get someone killed. It could get kids killed. It could get his… his buddy killed. Did he have a buddy? Buddy?
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Dick hears the distorted voice from above, the sound crackly and pitchy. 
“Oh, god, I-I swear- oh my god. I didn’t mean to do that, I swear, I swear. Oh my god, what do I do. What do I- oh my god, I killed him. I killed him.”
If he could, Dick would roll over and try to console the obviously panicking person. He can’t exactly make out everything they were saying, but it sounded bad. What happened? Were they hurt?
A hand is jostling his shoulder now. 
“Sir, Nightwing, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please wake up, I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Wake up, wake up please. I’m sorry, oh my god, I didn’t-”
Another sound pings in his ear, like the toll of a tiny bell, but Dick doesn’t have the presence of mind to really register it. It’s the last thing he hears before the static overpowers him and the white disappears.
.
.
.
Tim hates being sick. He hates being benched even more, but he’s only benched because he’s sick. So maybe he actually hates being sick more than being benched. He’s not sure.
The head cold he’s been nursing, begrudgingly, the past few days has been steadily getting better. He woke up this morning without feeling like his head was being squeezed into a compressor, so it was progress. Alfred still won’t let him drink anything but water, something about hydration being key, but as he sips some hot chocolate from his favorite mug, Tim thinks that what Alfred doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
He’s on monitor duty currently, a task assigned to anyone who wasn’t out on patrol. Barbara was on a break tonight, taking the time off to sleep and try to catch up on other things, so it was left to Tim to handle the comms. It’s boring, horribly so, but it’s the only thing he’s allowed to do without being wrestled to his bed to rest.
He begins pinging everyone for their hourly check-in, a new protocol Bruce decided to implement after “the incident” (Tim still believes that the check-ins are unnecessary- it only happened one time! One time!), and waits for their response. He gets a few pings back, Spoiler being the only one to actually say hi, and waits for Nightwing to answer. 
A minute go by and Tim pings Nightwing again. Most likely, Dick was distracted. He’d said he was on a stake-out tonight, hopeful to catch some dealers in the act. Maybe he finally did. Maybe he didn’t. Tim doesn’t really care; the warm drink in his hands was making him sleepy.
Another minute passes, and Tim lethargically pings again. Concern is slowly seeping into his stuffy brain, but he’s deciding to give Dick a little more time to answer. Dick was a chatter-box sometimes, and though he doesn’t have a headache right now, Tim’s not eager to gain one.
“This is Red Robin, requesting a check in,” he says into the comms, frowning a bit when there’s still no answer. “Nightwing, report.”
He’s technically not supposed to do this, privacy being a very important part of all their lives, but the silence was making him nervous. With just the slightest bit of hesitance, Tim opens the communication line so he can listen to what, exactly, Dick is doing. The comms are two way, and with Tim having access to the main port, he can time into anyone's’ comm and hear the situation. Typically it’s yelling or curses on the other end, the normal reason for not answering the ping being a fight or some unavoidable situation.
What Tim isn’t prepared for, however, is the labored breathing that sounds horribly wet and pained. Like someone was breathing through a straw and drowning at the same time. Okay, not a great analogy, but he’s caught off guard and suddenly very aware of the fact that Nightwing is injured and, probably, incapacitated. 
There’s someone in the background as well, their voice not quite decipherable but panicked all the same. It’s definitely not a voice Tim recognizes and that amps up his anxiety a bit more. 
Quickly tuning to the shared channel, Tim urgently says, “Nightwing’s down. I’m sending out his location. Whoever is closest needs to get there ASAP. Someone’s with him as well, but I don’t know who it is. They might’ve been the one to attack him.”
“Robin and I are close. ETA two minutes,” Batman grunts, the slight pitch change an indication of his worry. “Is Nightwing’s comm broken?”
“No,” Tim sighs, unable to do anything more but listen to it all unfold. “He didn’t report in for the hourly. For whatever reason, he can’t respond. He’s injured, but I don’t know to what extent. He might be unconscious.”
“How long has he been down?” Robin demands.
“I don’t know,” Tim responds, growing frustrated. “He didn’t say anything earlier or call for backup.”
“Have Agent A prepare things,” Batman orders. “Treatment for hypothermia may be needed. Batman out.”
“Robin out.”
The moment of silence after is haunting, but the feeble breaths that come through a second later make Tim’s stomach churn. It fills the Cave, echoing and reverberating sounds of sickness and hurt.
He can’t turn it off though. He has to make sure Dick is okay. That he’s still breathing because although it’s grating and gut-wrenching to listen to, it’s a sign of life.
Tim hates being benched.
.
.
.
The one hundred and twenty three seconds it takes to get to Richard’s location is tense. It’s a blinking blue dot on the radar, flickering in and out as they draw nearer and nearer to the dank alleyway Nightwing was laying in. 
Batman and Robin had opted to patrol with the Batmobile that night, the bite of Gotham’s frost a needless pain to endure. Damian hadn’t made a comment about Richard’s foolish idea to do a stake-out in below freezing temperatures, it wasn’t his place to ridicule the man he looked up to on something so trivial, but Damian thinks he’s regretting that decision a bit. 
Richard listened to him. Not all the time, and frequently the older man possessed more knowledge on what was to happen, but he did consider Damian’s advice and for that, he was grateful. Now, Damian wished he had just slapped the man to get him to see straight. Clearly, the plan had been inane from the beginning, and now Nightwing needed to be rescued and assisted. 
An imbecilic situation.
They reach the entrance, or perhaps exit, of the alleyway, the path too dark to see clearly through. As soon as he opens the door, Damian hears the sounds of flighty footsteps and immediately plunges into the dim. He can see the figure now, a gangly and awkward excuse of a man running to the other end of the alley. Damian can sense Batman behind him in his pursuit, the comfort of backup strange. 
If this man, who they were chasing, was strong enough to incapacitate Nightwing, one of the best fighters in the world, then they may have a problem on their hands. 
Damian stops short though, almost falling onto his face as the gleam of ice appears in his peripherals. It catches the light of a dull and yellowing streetlamp, but it’s just enough to reflect onto the ice and reveal yet another figure, slumped over and unmoving.
Careful of the ice, Damian approaches cautiously, peering closely at the lump of mass laid against the brick wall. Batman keeps in pursuit, and soon, his cape disappears from the alley, determined to catch the fleeing perpetrator. Robin is alone now.
Taking out a flashlight from his belt, Damian directs its beam to the form and nearly gasps.
It’s Nightwing. Richard.
Immediately rushing closer, Damian is startled to see the sheer volume of blood weeping down the older man’s face, a stream of red that flows down his jaw and soaks the hemline of his suit. Taking in the situation, Damian sees the knocked over trash bin, a corner of the top suspiciously rust colored. Additionally, the ice patch that’s near the base of Richard’s feet, and the position he currently lays in, would suggest that Richard had fallen or been pushed over, slipping due to the ice. 
The amount of blood still flowing out of Nightwing is concerning, but if it was from a head wound, then it wouldn’t be surprising. As Richard liked to say, head trauma was the most dramatic trauma. 
The older man is unconscious, lips blue and face much paler than would be healthy. He doesn’t respond to Damian’s attempts at waking him up, including shining the flashlight directly into his eyes after peeling away his mask. However, in doing so, Damian also learns that Richard may be suffering from a concussion or worse, as his pupils barely contract when he passes the light back and forth.
“I have the suspect,” Batman says into the comms. “A teenager named Ben Purole. He claims he pushed Nightwing, resulting in him hitting his head on a garbage bin.”
Damian nods to himself, satisfied with the confirmation. “That is likely,” he responds, applying pressure to the now located head wound. “Nightwing is suffering from head trauma, perhaps a concussion, but appears to have no other wounds. He is bleeding and unconscious though. It would be wise to get him treated quickly.”
There’s a grunt on the other end to signal affirmation and less than twenty seconds later, Batman appears, carefully taking Nightwing into his arms and walking towards the Batmobile still parked at the entrance of the alley. Without prompting, Damian opens the side door, crawling in after Richard had been set to lay down.
The movement and sudden change in temperature seems to rouse him, a groan escaping his lips. Before Damian has properly fastened his seatbelt, the Batmobile is off, gliding easily across the icy roads. Father doesn’t like to drive fast during this kind of weather, though he knows the tires of the vehicle are built to grip onto slick surfaces, but there is a sense of urgency in the way he weaves between cars and runs lights.
“Wh’ happn?” Richard slurs from where his head rests in Damian’s lap.
“You were being brainless,” Damian responds, sniffing slightly, “and slipped gracelessly into a trash bin.”
“Skate?”
“No, you did not skate. What you did could hardly even be called falling. It was tasteless.”
“M’ head hurts.”
“Like I said,” Damian whispers, annoyance fading, “You fell. I believe your head collided with the edge of a metal bin.”
“Bleedin’?”
“Yes.”
“Con..concuss...con…”
“Yes, it is likely you have a concussion. You will be scanned when we arrive at the Cave to be sure.”
A moment of silence passes, nothing but the growl of the Batmobile’s engine to shake it.
“Richard?”
“Mmfph?”
“Are you… Are you alright?”
Two seconds.
“M’ cold.”
“Oh,” Damian says, slightly embarrassed. That was obvious, really. Why had he not provided a blanket yet? Or any sort of jacket or heat pad? Perhaps it was not just Richard being brainless tonight.
Gingerly, Damian shifts about, searching for anything that might provide warmth for the duration of the drive. He finds nothing though, the majority of their winter equipment most likely in the trunk. Richard’s lips are still blue and his shoulders shake in what might be shivers. His skin is cold to the touch, eyes squeezed shut and pained, and Damian cringes at the drying blood beginning to crack around his cheeks.
Now, Damian could provide multiple excuses for his next course of action. Not excuses, no, not that. He’d come to the reasonable conclusion that Richard was cold and may have hypothermia. There was also the conclusion that Richard most likely needed comfort, as he was still greatly disoriented and concussed. Damian’s actions were for the sole purpose of providing means of ensuring Richard’s safety as well, as even though Father was a good driver, one could never be too cautious, especially on such icy roads.
So, yes. Damian draping himself over Richard’s body in an awkward hug was purely for safety reasons. He intended to provide warmth with his own body heat and it was purely for Richard’s comfort. Nothing else. It was to help Richard. Damian did not need anything nor did he seek comfort. 
The hug was for survival reasons. Yes, survival. Exactly that.
Damian will never admit to the small smile that crept up his face when Richard hummed, a small and frozen grin of his own spreading.
The rest of the drive was spent in easy silence and when they arrived at the Cave, Tim and Alfred were waiting for them. By then, Dick had become slightly more coherent. Not exactly lucid, he still slurred his words just the slightest bit, but it was safe to conclude he was in no real danger.
Of course, as soon as he was cleared, Bruce took one last glance at Dick before heading back out again. Damian stayed in the Manor, watching his brother sleep on the cot they kept out for occasions like this. Dick had been given three blankets and a hot pack to hold onto. Hypothermia hadn’t set in, but the bright pink of his fingers and toes were a sign of future trouble if they didn’t immediately correct it.
Hours later, some time in the early morning when the sun had just barely begun to rise, did Bruce return. Alfred had sent both Tim and Damian back up to the Manor, a reprimand of something along the lines of, “Heaven forbid you two be the ones to catch a cold rather than Master Richard tonight,” shaming them enough to carry themselves to their respective rooms and settle in.
Taking off his cowl, Bruce’s eyes instantly travel to his eldest, still swamped with absurdly fluffy blankets and a ridiculous amount of pillows. He’s by his side in seconds, gazing at the color that had returned to Dick’s cheeks. Running a hand carefully through his son’s hair, Bruce frowns as he feels the familiar bumps of fresh stitches, his mouth pulling down further when he sees Dick’s brow twitch in irritation.
He keeps his hand there for a moment longer though, closing his eyes in what might be thankfulness. He’d left to check the garbage bin Dick had slammed into, scanning it for signs of rust or other ill-effects of time. Bruce had felt a surge of relief when he found no signs of oxidation in the metal, calling Alfred to tell him that tetanus was unlikely. Seeing Dick lay there, unresponsive and slurring, had scared Bruce more than he wanted to accept.
He’s a man always prepared for the worst, but never knowing what to do in the aftermath. That part of him that whispers his greatest fears screamed at him tonight, only subsiding once he’d returned. He was a coward, he knew this, but there was hardly anything else he could think to be.
“Bruce?”
He opens his eyes to look down, taking in the sight of his eldest son, rosy cheeked and smiling, no longer covered in red stains and frost. It was a good sight. A great sight. Bruce isn’t religious, but he might even call it a blessing.
“Hey, chum. How are you feeling?”
Dick responds by leaning into Bruce’s touch, content and warm. There’s a suspicious wetness building in the graying man’s eyes, but neither make a comment. It was rare, these moments between them. Far and few between, but appreciated nonetheless.
“I hate the cold,” Dick grumbles, sinking further into the mass of blankets. “Winter in Gotham sucks.”
As if on cue, a hearty sneeze erupts from out of Dick’s nose, startling the both of them. Dick sneezed like he was a married man with three children; purposely loud, dramatic, and with enough force to throw his back out. Bruce blinks, processing the sneeze and trying to decide if something like that was even meant to come out of a person, much less a concussed person. 
He needn’t think too hard about it though as a giggle, yes a giggle, makes itself known, filling the Cave with a lightness it doesn’t often experience. 
Dick is laughing and it’s one of the most beautiful things Bruce has ever heard, and he can’t help but chuckle too.
Gotham is cold, but the small med-bay felt like the warmest place in the world.
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sardinesandhumbugs · 3 years
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30 "when you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart" with Ratty and Mole?
(Also, I haven't actually watched any starkid musicals those were suggested by @residentofskinnymandria but I will be looking into them this weekend :D)
A/N: Thank you for the prompt and for your patience! I procrastinated somewhat on this because for my other OTPs, I would usually go straight for the romance with a starter like this, but by now y'all know that when it comes to Ratty & Mole, the line between romantic and platonic tends to be up to reader interpretation :)
Also a shout-out to @wolfiethewriter for unwittingly providing inspiration for this ficlet, by getting hilariously drunk a few nights back during our Midnight Sun readthrough. I only hope you fared better the next morning than Rat :D
x
Categorically, Rat knew there were worse ways to wake.
But, as Toad started on his fifth verse of 'What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?' Rat found he could think of no such examples.
He muttered something unsavoury and buried himself deeper into the recesses of the caravan, far from the prying, headache-inducing light of day, and far, far away from Toad's over-exuberant singing – for what little good it would do him. For Toad had inherited his mother's operatic lungs, if quantifiably not her pitch-perfect tone, and both were on full display that morning.
(It could not be said that Toad was a bad singer. It was simply the case that enthusiasm preceded vocal form, and he cared little for meddling things such as keys or sharps and flats when the mood took him. Regardless, even if Toad's voice had been flawless, Rat wouldn't have had the patience for it. Not today. The careening key changes were just the icing on the cake.)
The song briefly rose as the caravan door opened, and Rat recoiled as much from the intrusion of light as he did from Toad's blasted singing. Then the aroma of eggs and bacon hit him, and he begrudgingly shuffled his snout out of the cool, dark safety of the bedcovers.
Mole stood before him, fried offering in paw, and looking significantly less the worse for wear after their previous night's inebriations than Rat. He grinned, and set the breakfast down on the table beside the bed. "Well," he said, "I've never seen you sleep in this late."
"This isn't sleeping in," Rat muttered. "It's suffering."
"Maybe you should have thought about that before drinking so much yesterday," Mole said, the faint admonishment in his tone outweighed by the amusement.
"I'm not a lightweight," Rat grumbled. "It's just whatever Toad puts in his damn drinks to make them green always knocks me out."
"And makes you very drunk, apparently."
Rat hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to know the answer to his next question. "How drunk?"
Mole grinned again. "Nothing too embarrassing. You mostly just gabbled and then got distressed when you couldn't pronounce a word properly."
"What word?"
"I believe it was library."
"...Library?" Rat echoed. "How–"
"You kept saying 'liblary' instead."
"Libla...?"
"Liblary, hm-mm. The second 'l' kept creeping in, however hard you tried otherwise." The humour in Mole's voice betrayed that Rat's efforts, while in vain, had been quite the show.
Rat considered this as best he could while the sensation of galloping horses gallivanted between his ears. Eventually he located what he hoped would be a safe question. "Why were we talking about libraries?"
"Oh, we weren't – just you. Goodness knows why, and we thought it best not to ask."
"DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, URL-EYE IN THE MORNING!"
With a wince, Rat turned a reluctant ear to Toad's questionable shanty rendition, trying to figure out if the words were indeed what he was hearing, or whether it was simply the effects of the hangover. "What verse is Toad on now?"
Mole chuckled. "Ones of his own creation. I think he ran out of official verses he could recall a while back."
As if to compound that fact, Toad skipped the refrain entirely and overshot to the next verse, of which the origin was undoubtedly a Toad Special.
"PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, URL-EYE IN THE MORNING!"
Rat winced again. "I'm not living this one down, am I?"
"Oh, Toad will forget in time," Mole said, with surprisingly surety for someone who had spent only a day and a half in Toad's presence. But, then again, Toad was not the most complicated of creatures. However, Rat noted that Mole didn't make any mention of himself forgetting any time soon.
Mole nudged the plate closer to Rat. "Eat up. You'll feel better for it."
Rat had half a mind to make a comment about food being Mole's solution to everything, but then he caught another whiff of breakfast and his stomach gave an audible rumble. He pushed himself up and made a start on the meal.
"Just out of curiosity," Mole said, "why did you drink so much of Toad's cocktails if you know you always suffer the next day?"
"Honest answer?" Rat asked. "I forgot."
"You... forgot?"
"I had..." and Rat paused as Toad butchered another verse, "more pressing issues on my mind."
Both animals waited out Toad's latest crescendo, enduring the new volumes before he petered out to more acceptable levels.
"Would those issues be green and singing?" Mole asked.
"Usually."
Rat had worked his way through a rash and a half of bacon before Mole spoke again, and the distance between the words belayed an uneasy deliberation. "You didn't have to come along," Mole said. He sat on the bench that ran along the inner of the caravan, which served as table space and seating as the need arose, and the ledge was set just a smidgen too high so that his paws only brushed the floor. "You know, out on the open road. Not if you didn't want to."
"Ah, well," Rat said, "then who would keep you and Toad out of trouble?"
"I think we would have managed."
Rat squinted. "No offence, Moley, but I know you, and I know Toad–" he gestured to the window from which Toad's performance was still going strong, and then immediately regretted it as the alcohol residing in his system sent his head spinning "–and you are both many things, but 'out of trouble' is not one of them."
"We survived this morning without mishap."
There was a crash from outside, followed by a cry of, "It's alright! Everything's good! No need to check!" from Toad.
"Mostly," Mole amended.
"Definitely sounds like you have everything under control here," Rat deadpanned.
"I'm sure everything's fine."
There was another thump, this time accompanied by the unimpressed whinny of the horse.
Mole and Rat exchanged glances.
Mole closed the window. "Look, Ratty, all I'm saying is that you needn't have felt obliged to come along if you'd rather have stayed on your river." He glanced to the wicker luncheon basket that was still half-full from yesterday, and which had seemingly swayed Rat in his decision to accompany the caravan. "We could have had our picnics on the riverbank instead."
"We?" Rat echoed.
"Well, of course. Do you really think I would have gone off on the Life Adventurous without you?"
Rat didn't immediately respond. The horses in his head had calmed, but the outcome was simply that he had more space to think properly through the last couple of days. Truth be told, he hadn't quite been sure which Mole would have chosen – him or the open road – and he hadn't been interested in putting it to the test. His mind played back the eagerness with which Mole had rootled through the caravan, exploring the compact living wagon and settling in with an ease that made Rat wonder whether the caravan's claustrophobic space reminded Mole of his own beneath-ground home. It certainly was a far cry from Rat's riverbank abode, where the house had the space to sprawl along the shoreline and the freshwater breeze meant the air was never still. Not like being underground, he was sure.
"Ratty?"
He had been lost in his thoughts for too long, and now Mole leant into his line of vision. Rat had to think quickly to recall what exactly Mole had asked.
"No, of course not," he said. "Only – well, I would have hated for you to have stayed on the riverbank only on my behalf."
"Like you came along here on mine?"
“And for the picnics,” Rat added. “Don’t forget the picnics.”
“Right,” Mole said with a laugh that said he wasn’t buying Rat’s offhanded dismissal any more than Rat believed it. “How could I forget the picnics?” He patted Rat’s paw and swung off the seat. “Well, you can put all thoughts of picnics from your mind until you’ve recovered — and maybe in future we stick to drinks we’re familiar with, hm?”
“Maybe,” Rat conceded.
It was as Mole threw him one last grin and disappeared out of the caravan that Rat came to the reluctant conclusion that, whether or not his housemate was aware of it, Mole had him wrapped around his little claw. He set the emptied plate to one side and collapsed back into the bunk, thankful for the small mercy that at least Toad had stopped singing—
“Feeling better finally?”
Rat jolted back up, and had to steady himself against the table as his head swam. He located Toad at the window. “Toad! How long have you been there?”
“I don’t know; I wasn’t keeping track.” Toad leant in against the windowsill conspiringly. “If I had known all it’d take for you to join me would be the smile off an undergrounder, I’d have dug him out ages ago.”
Rat grumbled but decided he was still too hungover to bicker over it.
Besides, it was somewhat difficult to argue with when it was true.
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oooh could you do protective headcanons for the golden deer too??🥺
{I most certainly can. Y’all know I love these tropes so keep ‘em coming. Hope it’s to your liking! :3}
Claude: 
6/10
Neutral, with just a tad bit of nerves. 
Look. Claude has bigger fish to fry than what you’re gallivanting on about during the day. The man has a dream to catch with literally a country and 1/3 (woot woot alliance) on his shoulders. 
First, the future. Then, you. Can’t have a life together if there is no place for it to be had, yeah? 
This doesn’t mean that he never worries about you. Quite the contrary, if he begins then he can’t stop. So he doesn’t tinker the thought. 
Instead he has his most trusted allies at your back. During the Academy days you were left under Hilda’s watchful eye, and during the war you are always nearby (courtesy of matchmaker Prof.Byleth) 
Once he puts a ring on it you’ll have guards. No problem. 
He also trusts your own capabilities. One doesn’t train every day to walk out with nothing  
Also
You make me laugh if you think Claude believes you’ll ever cheat on him 
Not that he’s cocky okay, maybe a bit  but no one would dare put the moves on “The Master Tactician’s” s/o
Any suitor coming your way is peasant fodder. If not to him, than to your own personal retaliation. 
Yupp, nothing to worry about. You’ve got it covered. He’ll only step in if you physically come ask him 
and with a bit of teasing he’ll comply 
However, Claude is very sensitive to illness for obvious reasons. This is why he’s listed at a six. He always insists on tasting your food
It was a gimmick at first, and in the beginning he’d make banter to sneak a bite while you remain all unknowing of his true intentions 
He’ll be damned if someone ever poisons you. They won’t ever get the chance
Ignatz: 
9/10
Let us face it. Iggy is a worry-wart.
He freaks out over the most minuscule of situations. The poor lad nearly gets a heart attack at least once a day 
And no, i’m not just referring to his pre-timeskip self. Ignatz may have grown a head taller, got a backbone, fancy harem artist pants--but no, he did not lose his inner anxious zealot. That trait will cling until the day he dies sadly 
Having you at his side only makes things worse (in a good way. The trouble is worth it to him) 
Especially if you’re more of the risky sort. Expect him to mother hen if you cause ruckus around the monastery. He can and will lecture you to death (only to apologize and hide away after)
Now not only does he worry about his own issues, but also yours. I swear Ignatz acts like you are his second being. If someone scolds you, hurts you, etc. he acts like they did it to him 
Can be a bit dramatic, not gonna lie. He gets so worked up that his ears go red. Like, you can just t e l l he’s holding so much back because he doesn’t want to go too far
Don’t even get me started on if someone tries to make a move on you 
He becomes t o r n. It isn’t his place to tell you who to hang around, but ohmygodwhatifyourealizeheisn’tgoodenough 
iggy no, bad iggy. don’t think like that
He feels threatened so easily and not many would peg him the jealous type. He is, but hides it very well. 
If need be he will talk out his feelings with you. That’s something noteworthy of Ignatz: he uses his words. He may find communicating such thoughts aloud difficult, but if he truly is concerned then he will be honest with you.  
Raphael: 
10/10
Raphael believes in trust. He expects you to be honest and to not keep anything important secret. In return he’ll do the same. 
This is why he doesn’t care if someone is flirting. He could give less of a thought on gossip, rumors, or anything really. That effort can go towards training 
He truly, honest to Sothis, trusts you with all his heart. There isn’t any time to spend doing otherwise. Raph just wants to live happily and that means having you by his side 
Nor does he feel intimidated by anyone else either. I’m not saying that he reeks of resolved confidence, but Raph believes that you love him. Love topples any mindless flirting that other people throw your way 
but let’s get one thing straight 
If anybody, and I mean ANYBODY, tries to hurt you 
This guy’s having them for b r e a k f a s t. Pounded, sliced, and Smoked. The same way he liked his bacon. 
You are his family. Raphael protects his family, and those he cares about. 
You will never be alone. Goddess if you cry and someone else is the cause then he will take action. One fault of Raph is that while he’s a sweetie, he doesn’t think before acting a lot. Similar to Caspar, he just goes for it 
It takes a lot to get underneath Raph’s skin. 
In short: do not f*ck with his loved ones. He would take on Nemisis himself mono-e-mono if it meant protecting them 
Lorenz: 
8/10
Y’all going to sit there and try to convince me that Lorenz Hellman Gloucester doesn’t try to establish dominance? 
Key word: try
He’s quickly shut down
“Lorenz if you tell one more person that we’re betrothed, I swear that I’ll shave off your eyebrows” - You, one month post-confession 
Saying that you’re his perfect match is no excuse. Considering all the preaching he does on noble humility, you’d think he would want your private affairs off the notice board? 
It doesn’t take long for your peers to start complaining. Claude finds his behavior entertaining, but not a day goes by that someone doesn’t beg you to make him shut up 
Lorenz is also a bit old fashioned. He doesn’t like the idea of you fighting more than necessary
Once again, shut down 
Best way to deal with Lorenz is to let him think he has his way, then just do whatever. He gets upset, pouts, spouts his normal lecture, but then relents. All in due process with him 
Never thought I’d say this, but perhaps requesting not to be in the same troop together is the best option? You’d think he would fight better with an S tier relationship at his side? Nahhh. HE TAKES YOUR KILLS IT IS NOT FAIR 
He gives too much attention to what you’re doing, and not the enemy. Best if you stay separated
Ugh pray no one hits on you in front of him. Just... *screams* I don’t think anyone will, just to avoid him getting defensive. I swear the other deer take extensive preventative measures to avoid it.  
Hilda:
6/10
C’mon. This is Hilda we’re talking about 
You two most likely grew closer because she “asks” you for help so often 
Just like Claude, she has bigger fish to fry. The last type of person she wants to be is Holst (she loves him though don’t misinterpret that)
She does worry though 
Not enough to make her take the front lines, but a smidgen. Just to where you’ll get periodic check in’s 
Nothing obvious. A simple “what’s going on?”  as she inquired about your well-being 
A precarious scan-over as she checks for any new scars
She does get jealous though. There’s an entire castle full of available people and someone chooses to flirt with you? 
That just doesn’t make sense. Perhaps the “once something is taken it becomes more desirable,” saying has some truth 
She’s quite the clinger. You’ll just be walking and suddenly, BOOM, bubble-gum pink arm-candy in the corner of your vision
Once you two bypass the ‘puppy-love’ early stages, she changes. 
Despite her negligence beforehand, she does become overprotective   
Will fight if needed. Say you have a paralogue? Just so happens she was nearby and wants to tag along 
She also has to protect you from Holst. My dear, you cannot do that yourself. Brotherly wrath beseeches you, my god. Run dude run 
Marianne: 
3/10
A possessive streak is nonexistent in her blood. Such thing is a personal fear of her’s. Marianne refuses to conform to the stereotypes associated with her crest 
However, she does believe that one day you may leave her side. Marianne isn’t the most confident person. She...doubts 
Often does she wonder if you’re there solely to make her hurt. To love her and then one day disappear without a trace 
Anxieties like so will not go away overnight. She will not seek reassurance, which makes her more uncommunicative than most partners 
but no one is perfect. Neither are you. All you personally can do is politely decline any advances, and do your best to let Marianne know that you love her 
She isn’t particularly protective in any other sense either. She’ll heal you if needed, but special attention isn’t there
Marianne treats being a healer like how an ER doctor operates. On the field, everyone is equal. She is needed everywhere and cannot stay by your side. Otherwise lives will be lost, and that won’t be good for her conscience.
The same goes for all other aspects. If you’re gone, then you’re gone. If you’re sick, then you’re sick. She cannot give you special attention and acts in accordance to severity of the situation. Patients cannot be weighed in value via personal bias 
She has a surprisingly strong sense of self control, let me tell ya.
Lysithea:
7/10
She...does not have much time. Entering a romantic relationship was not a possibility that crossed her mind once before you 
Why bother when the ending is certain? Why leave someone brokenhearted, or a widow? Why give herself that extra stress when she’s already under so much as it is?
You can’t blame her for being extra cautious. While her life may be hanging on a string, that doesn’t mean yours has to end 
After some time she develops a resolve. If needed she would gladly lay her life down if it meant you could live another day 
A problematic conclusion. You two will argue often over how she cannot trade a ‘life for a life,’ just because of her special circumstances. Her mind always enforces that it’s the logical decision, and has trouble recognizing her own value
I suppose that comes with being a know-it-all, huh? Once her mind is set then there is no changing it 
Despite her brain sending all the signals that acting on jealousy is wrong...well, we know Lysithea 
She won’t come out and say she gets protective for your sake. Apparently anyone flirting with you already had business with her
Business that miraculously unfolds once you leave. Then suddenly they no longer have an interest? 
What’d she do? Threaten to shove a thoron up their rectum? No one knows 
Leonie: 
9/10 
She is the mom who’d create a strict morning routine for her kids to follow before school 
Or a thorough itinerary on a vacation 
Not a moment or bullion to be wasted! 
Cannot express enough how much this girl cares. She can become annoying from all the interference, but you’ll never become a bum with her in your life 
You might want to ask her to butt out. Remind her that you’re not one of the kids from her village, and that you can handle yourself 
Sometimes you’ll joke and say “yes mom,” because she gets b o s s y 
Which will earn you either: a) a glare, or b) her playing along and confusing everyone else 
So in a sense, yeah she’s protective. Overbearing in her own Leonie way 
Not the jealous type. Leonie doesn’t look at what other people have, and instead focuses on her own life. If someone wants to shamelessly throw themselves at your feet then that’s their issue. You know better than to cheat on her 
I can see her complaining to the captain or to Byleth though. Why waste time when the issue can easily be solved? Obviously someone with the time to flirt has time to do training drills  
Bonus! Cyril: (because during my first play-through I kept expecting GD to take him under their wing. They did not, and Nintendo missed out.) 
5/10
He personally hates being treated like a child. When someone doesn’t take him seriously Cyril’s self restraint goes b o o m 
So he won’t do that to you. You’re a capable individual and that’s that. Nothing more for him to interfere with 
His only protective streak lies when you’re incapable of doing things yourself. Aka: injured, ill, resting, etc. 
He’ll nag you for not being careful, but it’s not hard to miss the tears pricking his eyes 
He’s also very perceptive towards break-in’s. Many people have tried to kidnap/assassinate people of higher standing. He’s witnessed many attempts towards lady Rhea. I see him taking night shifts for patrol often, and after the war the habit sticks with him.
He takes a lot onto his shoulders often. It’s not bad. Being dedicated is an admirable trait, yet if you’re down someone will have to stop him from picking up the slack. 
He’s no healer, and leaves that job to the professionals. However he doesn’t want anyone to disturb you with the work your missing. So he’ll do it in your stead 
Manuela lets him stay in the infirmary past visitation hours. Mostly because he’s so busy during the day that he can’t come by 
He won’t return to his room those nights. He prefers to be by your side, just in case. 
Other than this type of situation- no, he’s not protective in the slightest.  
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Doctor Strange & Worth: MCU Meta
So this has sat unposted in my drafts for the longest time, but I’ve decided to dust her off and let her see the light of day, after all. These are just some of my thoughts regarding Stephen’s character development and journey in the Marvel Cinematic Universe film: his growth from someone who cannot see the true worth in himself or anybody else to someone whose eyes are opened to the beauty of everything. Not to mention how that eye-opening allows him to evolve from someone who cannot love to someone who loves fully and truly, and how Kaecilius plays a vital role in opening his eyes to the error of his ways.
Without further ado, let’s get into it! 
Let’s start with the beginning of the movie.
Stephen flounces around the hospital like he owns the place and flexes his overbearing, boastful personality without a second thought. Like, most people have at least a smidgen of consideration for others and some degree of self-consciousness or ‘filter’ regarding how they treat others, but Stephen has zero. He talks down on staff members, orders people around like inferiors regardless of their status, and acts as though he is God almighty and the hospital would go to the dogs without him, overestimating his self importance. He legit acted like an overgrown child that’s yet to be struck with the reality everything is not about him. Stephen seizes every possible opportunity to show off even when inappropriate, and does all he can to assert his correctness and prioritizes it. It’s clear from the get-go that Stephen has some kind of overinflated sense of self.
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All this would certainly seem to indicate beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is a generic arrogant, selfish bastard 101, but let’s skip ahead a bit, just for a sec.
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This line isn’t him joking around, rather, it’s the confirmation that Stephen truly thought his own behavior was endearing. As much as he liked himself, he was convinced everybody else did, too. He genuinely, sincerely was convinced that his antics were somehow winsome and charming. And of course, having been in a position of power as a Chief Surgeon and his state of world renown, there’s no way anybody would have told him otherwise. Nobody would really be frank and honest with him — I mean, yeah, sure, Christine was, but seeing as she was the only one he was on friendly terms with who he held in high regard and was frank with him (exclude Nick, and all probable others Stephen smugly thought very little of, and their opinions), there’s no way he’d take one person’s word over that of the masses. And it’s just obvious how overcrowded he was with sycophants that overfed his deluded ego and made it harder for him to wake up to his own self deception revolving the ‘charm’ he was convinced that he possessed.
Just look at the way he hits on her! Look at the denial! We did too have fun! 
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You know how people say “the bigger they are, the harder they fall?” 
Yeah, this story really does live up to that.
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The lie Stephen was living was cut short when he lost it all and his fall from grace leaves him at the mercy of people’s honesty. All those “people skills” he thought he had do him no favors, and suddenly anybody and everybody can speak freely to him, and he’s not getting sugarcoated responses. He’s no longer treating people as his inferiors however he pleases without lash back.
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And Stephen, who only knows his worth through the reception and acknowledgement of his talent and the amazing feats he had achieved with his hands in the neurological field, now feels the weight of worthlessness crushing down upon him. There are no more CCN interviews, no more speaking engagements. In his own mind, he is useless. And without any worth, there is no reason anyone would want anything to do with him. He cannot accept, within his narrow mindset, that anybody could ever love him in this reduced state. For that reason, he insists that Christine Palmer — that unlike TV reporters or other sycophants, has stayed by his side all this time  — must only linger beside him for her own self gain and reputation. It must simply be an act of pity, because that’s how Stephen sees Christine’s acts of selflessness and her work— nothing but her looking down on other people to boost her own sense of self, as he has.
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And when Stephen goes to Karmar-Taj, he’s completely out of his element and in a setting that is absolutely foreign to him, but navigates all the same, the only way that he knows how to. His thoughtless, proud tendency to view all else as beneath him really comes back to haunt him when it threatens to close the door to magic — and miraculous change and healing for him — forever. 
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By the time Stephen realizes he has misjudged the Ancient One and Kamar-Taj, and that magic is indeed very real and potentially his one last shot at reobtaining his former life, it is too late. He beseeches the Ancient One to teach him the ways of magic, but she has already seen enough of his arrogance to determine him an ill fit for a pupil..
In the end, it is because of Mordo convincing the Ancient One that even a man such as Strange still has worth and he may be of use in the future, reasserting their beliefs that all life has value, no matter how misguided it may be, it need only be redirected and put on the correct path... does the Ancient One agree and allow Strange to return, for a chance at redemption and potentially salvation. 
And so, Stephen begins studying magic. And unsurprisingly, being wrong about magic isn’t enough to hamper his antics. He’s the same old Strange.
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In this scene, Wong tells Stephen when he’s not ready to learn something yet, but Stephen completely challenges and opposes him, going so far as to break the rules of the library Wong protects just so he can continue with his self advancement and conquest towards superiority (and hopefully, healing). He challenges his lessons, preferring to teach himself and refusing to acknowledge that even his teachers could possibly have any superiority to his abilities. 
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 And it’s so hard for Stephen to make sense of, the backlash he receives for these behaviors. He can’t understand how he’s apparently ‘made for the mystic arts’ but is also being told to mind his pace and take everything bit by bit, step by step and not just rush headlong in impatiently as he always has. In his own mind, he’s not doing anything wrong by breaking rules or pushing limits —  it’s all about the results, after all. And this, this is for the most important result of them all... his hands. It doesn’t matter how dirty they have to get, he wants to fix them.
In the medical world, when Stephen showed off, people clapped & praised him because what harm could there be in pushing the limits and crossing the boundaries to save someone’s life? It was okay if he wanted to do something unconventional and risky (like remove a bullet from someone’s brain without a visual) because the ends justified the means, and he always delivered. It didn’t matter what he had to do or how ruthless he was, treating all around him as mere tools at his disposal to achieve what he wanted, without considering what might be at stake. Boundaries were never of the essence to Stephen.
But when he pushes the boundaries of magic and tries out the Ancient One’s Private Collection just to pursue greatness and feed his own ambition, he gets retaliation from both Wong and Mordo and is reprimanded about all the consequences he didn’t think of and other lives he wasn’t considering as he never has been before. And Stephen can barely collect himself and for the first time in the film, is speechless and out of witty remarks to snap. He is just so put off because he’s never been put in that position before, being held accountable for the liabilities of his pursuits for greatness. Simply put, he had never been made to consider the eggs he was breaking to get his omelet, and now, he is.
And he still doesn’t get it. “They  really should put the warnings before the spell,” he says, because clearly it’s not his hastiness or ambition at fault, but the book.
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And he doesn’t get it, and he most likely would have never gotten it or opened up to the Ancient One, Wong, Mordo, or even Christine. No, he had to see it for himself. And see it, he does; in fact, it ends up staring him straight in the face.
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They didn't spend so much screen time drawing parallels between these two over and over for no reason, this was what it was all building up to. Here, Doctor Strange meets his ego’s match. Kaecilius wants to save the world by granting everyone eternal life, preventing all its inhabitants from feeling suffering ever again. A bit like "doing work that will save thousands for years to come," no? 
The influence and efforts of others finally pay off as Stephen begins to apply their thinking, and questions what the cost will be if Kaecilius does that for the whole world, and if that accomplishment would really be as amazing as doing what he can in the immediate moment to spare the/ benefit the lives of individual people... kind of like “saving one drunk idiot with a gun,” right?. And Kaecilius dismisses Strange's interjections, repeats the same words he said to the Ancient one in the beginning... they’re just insignificant specks in an indifferent universe, just sacrifices that must be had to achieve what must be done. He even tries to reason with Strange, and appeal to the very reason he’s in that mess in the first place... his hands, and his deep desire to have them healed and restored.
And for the first time Stephen is looking the devil in the eye, and sees himself.
 “Just look at your face!”  And in that moment, Stephen rejects the man he has been, and can see clearly his flaws for what they are. His ego trip may have blinded him, but in that moment, he got on his own level and saw himself for the first time the way that others saw him, and it wasn’t someone he wanted to be and he recognized the wrongs of his ways. How ambition and the conquest for betterment can consume someone completely, until they’re so blinded in their pursuit for self worth, that they disregard the worth of all the other lives and people around them — it’s all ends that justify the means. It's not actually about doing what's right. It's about accomplishing the greatest feat possible for oneself — this is Kaecellius' ego unleashed, not a sincere quest for world salvation.
And everything bad he didn’t want to become that he saw in Kaecellius, gives way for new direction in all the inspiring goodness he sees in the Ancient One, her final farewell, and her sacrifice of her life to save his and Mordo’s own.
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And in the end, Stephen finally understands what the Ancient One, Wong, and Mordo, and Christine were all on about. It’s not about what change you can create for other people to benefit yourself, Stephen; it's about the change YOU can make to benefit other people, who are so many in number and so much larger than yourself. It’s not about the strength in your hands, and what they can do; but the resolve of your heart, and the strength of your will.
And he learns, because the Ancient One teaches him...
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He uses his own lifeforce to fence off Dormamu from earth, because even if he suffers, everyone else will be safe. He tests the worth that the Ancient One claimed she always saw in him; that could achieve things greater than he ever dreamed, greater than his medical ambitions. The goal-oriented, ruthless man we saw in the beginning becomes someone who learns true purpose and ambition. His life that was hollow and empty, becomes truly fulfilling.
And the most intriguing piece of irony of them all?
After exhausting countless resources, plenty of doctors, libraries, and research archives seeking a way to heal his own hands, he found nothing but failure. But using only his own willpower, he who felt helpless and powerless against his disabled hands, managed to save the entire planet and all those living within it.
Because it wasn't his hands that gave him value, nor was it his work. There was something greater, but he was blind to it in himself, and everybody else, seeing all based on what they could accomplish — their educational background, their medical accomplishments  — a worth greater than him, in the world all around him that he always disregarded and failed to see. Something beautiful, precious.
And parallel to earlier events, when Stephen once again pushes the boundaries of magic, but this time, not in pursuit of greatness of for the betterment of his own hands... he is not received with a vocal reprimandation. On the other hand...
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And here we are, at the end.
Stephen says it again. “You know, you really should read everything, because the warnings come at the beginning of the books.” He pokes fun at Kaecilius, at himself, at their likeness with a humility unlike yet before.
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And Wong laughs. When Stephen went through so many different things trying to make Wong laugh — like he always had his other co-workers— he didn’t. 
But when he put himself and his heart into it, he did.
And no longer is Stephen on the same path as Kaecilius, surrounded by subservient followers, who only did as he told them because of what he was after and the results he promised to be able to deliver on. Now, he surrounds himself with those who genuinely care for him for who he is. No longer is Stephen so blinded by his need to be the greatest person in the room, that he can't see the worth of those around him — of love, of friendship, of companionship.
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cherrywoes · 3 years
Text
ii. come with me, destroy the masses.
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tw (general): graphic descriptions of blood, gore, sexual content, violence, homicide, physical torture, psychological torture, rape, dubcon, drugs, overdosing, suicide, cannibalism (brief desc/mention), knife play, wax play, dacryphilia, sadism, masochism, bdsm, corsetry, human trafficking, drug trafficking, oral fixation, thigh kink, stocking fetish, food play (and more to be named.) tw (this chapter): stabbing with knitting needles, mention of oral sex, mentions of displaying heads upon mantles, blood, gore, etc.
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“MAMA, YOU LOOK like you were drowned in a river and left to dry out in the sun,” were the first words that Akamine Jun’ichi said to you when you exited the prison facility with a grace only you could have afforded. He was dressed to impress in a two piece suit, the back panels hanging a few inches lower than normal and fluttering in the slight breeze. His hair, dyed to such a blue fluorescence that it was almost too bright, had been grown long, longer than you had seen him last, and now framed his face in feathery layers with the rest tied to the top of his head in a messy knot that was almost stylish. The hair pin he’d shoved through it was just a little bit too ostentatious, but he wouldn’t be Jun’ichi if he wasn’t the least bit over extravagant. You observed him with an amused half-smile upon your lips, eyes darting down to the gold rimming the seams of his expensive dress shoes and the gold plated spikes embedded in the back heel. “Ah, or should I have said your beauty has not faded a day since you went in?”
“Oh, you know I hate dishonesty,” you tutted, reaching up and patting his cheek condescendingly. He leaned into it slightly and you smiled knowingly, withdrawing your hand before a crimson blush could make its way up his cheeks and fluster him. Where Nao was like your child, Jun’ichi was your doting husband, always quick to defend you and flourish at your side—you could always count on him to have your best interests at heart. While easily flustered by any smidgen of affection you gave him, he was quick to recover, clearing his throat and giving your mundane sweatpants and shirt a cursory once over. You sighed and lamented,”They burned my clothes when they were done using them as evidence. That was an expensive pair of Louboutins I lost; I’d rather like another pair of them.”
“As you wish.” Jun’ichi bowed slightly at the waist, almost mockingly, but you adored him for his candor. He plucked a new cell phone from his coat pocket and handed it to you with a flourish. When you raised a fairly bushy and unplucked eyebrow, he said, carefully,“Your last phone was… a bit outdated, [Name]-sama.”
You scowled at the dark screen of the Samsung. Technology had advanced while you were rotting away in a cell block, that was for certain. A quick press of a short button on the side sent you to a home screen; from there it was easy enough to figure it out, though you didn’t like change. You much preferred your flip phones and old burners compared to the pricey piece of technology in your hand; it was fragile and felt like it could break easily. You examined the lavender casing on the back and the three cameras in the top left corner, eyes narrowing in displeasure.
“Fine.” Tucking it away into the waistband of your pants, as there were no pockets to be had, you fixed him with an irritated stare. “But we need to make several stops before I’ll feel like myself again. You haven’t emptied the coffers while I was away, have you?”
Jun’ichi laughed lightly. “No, I merely filled them. You may take a look at your account on your phone if you like.”
When you glowered at him at the mention of the phone, he looked away.
“Perhaps not,” he mumbled, as an afterthought. In an effort to draw your attention away from the shiny new toy he had bought you, he said,”So, to the salon? Your hair looks very unhealthy.”
“No, the seamstress.” You reached up and plucked the collar of your cotton and polyester t-shirt with a grimace. It was cheaply made and something you wouldn’t have been caught dead in if you had a choice; you much preferred silks and pure cotton and the comfort of a nicely pressed pantsuit or jumpsuit. “Mixed fabrics make me itch.”
“Of course.” He gestured for a car idling at the curb of the police station. You watched the sleek black Lincoln pull out and begin to drive towards you, your eyes flicking over the shiny new finish and the dealership plates still screwed into the front plate. The driver was unrecognizable to you, with his hair buzzed short and a plain black suit to match his unassuming appearance. He wore sunglasses as well and you attempted to peer past them, but found it worthless to do so. You trusted Jun’ichi to vet the staff properly, and if he didn’t, you would have his head—whether it was between your legs or on your mantle was his decision to make. He was lovely at apologies, but you weren’t in the mood to deal with another betrayal—Nao’s already stung quite considerably and your temper would flare if you had another. You hoped his teeth were sitting on your desk, waiting for you to admire them: the gold caps had been quite nice and you were debating having the diamonds embedded in a dog collar so you could leash it around his throat and walk him around in public and within your manor just to humiliate him a little more. He hadn’t cried when you had pulled out his teeth, but maybe he would at the thought of public humiliation. He always was sensitive to his image.
Your parents would be so disappointed that you forewent the traditional Yakuza punishments. It was a pity they were too dead to see the empire you had built from their ashes.
“Did Nao return to the manor?” You inquired as Jun’ichi opened the door for you politely. He hummed in an indication for you to elaborate, hand pausing on the door and the other held aloft to help you into the cabin. “Did he put his teeth on my desk like I asked him to?”
“Ah.” Your advisor grimaced, as if imagining the pain his subordinate had gone through himself. He was always the sympathetic one, even if you forbid him from doing anything to help the people you punished. “Yes, he did. By the cup of red pens, I believe.”
With a curt nod of satisfaction, you stepped into the cabin and allowed the door to shut behind you. It was a luxurious car, of that you were certain, the leather soft and buttery and surprisingly real. Faux leather was disappointingly common in most cars you had purchased, even from luxury dealers like Mercedes and Lamborghini. You ran a finger down the seam of stitching on a corner, watching the flesh of your thumb catch on them as you went. You ignored the bustling city in favor of examining the car, uninterested in the changes that had occurred in the time you had been incarcerated. You were eager to return to your throne and get back to work; after all, no one ran the underworld quite as well as you did. You trusted Jun’Ichi to keep things stable, but he was soft and malleable, a trait you should have beaten out of him years ago; but you had needed that softness during that time in your life, and while it wasn’t a regret, it was a mistake you acknowledged with your heart.
You pulled your new phone out of your waistband with a tired sigh. You felt you could do with a few hours of sleep in a proper bed with satin sheets and a weighted duvet, but there was work to be done that couldn’t wait a second longer. Ten years was too long to be out of the game. You had meddled in affairs, of course, but you had never been able to get to the full extent of your former power while you were trapped in that prison. Now that you were free, there would be several people who would pay dearly for what they had done to you—but first, you had to lay low. Your release had been a secret thanks to hush money paid to several media outlets and cops, of which you had no doubt paid a small fortune for. You didn’t want rats scattering back into their hidey holes and popping back out to be menaces when you least expected it.
Before you could explore the features of your sparkling new touch screen phone, a call came through. The contact icon was blank and only displayed a gradient of color, but you recognized the number typed into the contact name well enough.
“Swipe right to answer it,” Jun’ichi offered helpfully.
You frowned and did as he said, holding the phone up to your ear and hoping you didn’t accidentally press something wrong. You were rewarded with an excited yell on the other line.
“Lǎo bǎn niáng!” You pressed your lips together at the term but did nothing to correct it. “You’re out of prison! I was wondering when you would finally get out; I’ve missed you over the years.”
You could practically hear the pout in Huang Jinhai’s voice when he spoke. The man was over fifty years old, yet he still acted as if he was a sulky teenager, which wasn’t much of a change since the last time you had spoken to him. The prison didn’t allow you to collect calls from China, citing you were a ‘risk’, so you never spoke to him as often as you got to with your own syndicate, which wasn’t often at all. “Shū fù, you know as well as I do that they would never allow me to call you. It is nice to hear your voice, though.”
Jun’ichi caught your eye in the rearview mirror. You scowled at him and jerked your head to indicate he should look forward and away from you.
“Ah, I can hear the lie in your voice even over the phone.” You repressed a sigh at the sniffle you heard over the line, turning your head and knocking it against the window. “But that’s an issue for another day. I had a gift sent to your manor house when your lieutenant told me you would be released—I think you’ll love it when you see it.”
A flash of color caught your eye. You turned to look out the window, holding the phone slightly askew from your face. “You know I don’t like surprises.”
“But you’ll like this one, I think.” He laughed. “Knowing how you are, you’re eager to get back to work, so I’ll let you go.”
You hung up before he could take you on another tangent. While you loved your uncle, he could be a bit much, even for you at times. The fact that he had somehow gotten a ‘surprise’ into your manor was interesting, however; his last surprise had been a very crude rendition of a Jackson Pollock painting, however it had been all over your bedroom and in blood and various entrails you weren’t keen on identifying at the time. He was never one to do things in halves, your uncle, so whatever surprise he had gotten you was doubtless something to be wary of.
By the time you had thought through all of the possible things he could have done to your home, you had arrived at the seamstress’ home. It was a small thing nestled between family owned bars and shops catered to foreigners, and in a shady enough area as well. There were thugs crawling around every corner, some from syndicates you knew and some that you did not—several hosted fairly visible tattoos of panthers on their arms, exposed by short sleeved shirts and wife beaters that looked to have seen better days. While they weren’t clean, per se, they appeared well taken care of and the stains on their shirts were old blood or sake stains. Their shoes denoted a fairly well off syndicate as well, cleaner and fancier than their clothes; their jewelry as well, the same panther motif hanging from gold or silver chains or even studs in their ears.
“I see you’ve let interlopers into our midst,” you noted quietly. Your fingers began tapping a rhythm on the window button, counting each panther you saw on the street. You could see Jun’ichi stiffen in the front seat, leather creaking under the sudden shift in weight. The driver paid no mind to it and waited for you to either step out of the car or deal with Jun’ichi while he still sat in the front seat, in the perfect position for you to rip the drawstring from your pants and slide it around his throat and choke him with it. Sliding your fingers off of the button and to your phone, you idly checked the time and glanced at the driver, still silent. “Your failure will not go unpunished. For now, I think, I don’t want to keep the seamstress waiting.”
You leaned forward and snatched the sunglasses off of the driver’s face. You saw his eyelashes flutter in surprise as you were setting them upon your own nose, hooking them behind your ears. When you were satisfied with how you appeared, you stepped out of the car. You didn’t wait for Jun’ichi to follow you; you didn’t trust yourself not to force him to his knees and beat him with his own belt buckle for his indiscretion. There were too many panthers roaming the streets for your taste; they likely reported to someone within the area and your low profile would be blown far too soon.
The inside of the seamstress’ home was quaint and humble. Littered with silks and numerous fabrics, it was a mess of chaotic order, and there were several needles within grabbing distance with enough length to puncture through someone’s eye and into their skull. You picked one up as Jun’ichi squeezed through the door behind you, pressing the sharp tip to your finger and watching a bead of blood well up from the slightest pressure. Other than Jun’ichi’s breathing and your contemplative hum, the house was quiet besides the settling of the wooden support beams and rustling of fabric from somewhere deeper within.
“So the Monster of Tokyo returns,” a wizened, cracked voice sussured. Nestled in the darkest of corners and between large bolts of fabric, Fushimi Chinatsu looked up from her complex knitting pattern with a smile and the corners of her eyes crinkling. Her needles snapped together with a metallic clack, the yarn discarded into a small basket hidden near her feet. She stood slowly, the sound of her bones protesting the only other audible noise in the room, her spine bowed and her neck hunched. She wore a humble outfit of a skirt and a modern graphic t-shirt that was slightly too-large to accommodate the scoliosis in her spine, looking entirely out of place among the yards of silk and lace. Other than her dark, beady eyes and silver hair, Chinatsu was every bit the grizzled ex-Oyabun that you recalled her being. As she drew closer into the light of the windows facing the road, a tattoo of a spiraling dragon and white koi came into view, once hidden by the shadows. “I wondered when you would finally one-up those dicks playing law and order.”
“Fushimi-sama,” you greeted her cordially, the smallest of smiles on your face. “It’s good to see you.”
She laughed, an inhuman cackle that had the hairs on your arms and neck standing on end. “And it’s good to see I can still tell when you’re lying. Don’t worry, [Name]-chan, your secret is safe with me—I have a few more years in me before I hit the grave.”
“I’m surprised you’re still alive.” Slowly, you put the large needle back where it had been laying. Chinatsu watched your movements like a hawk, dark gaze following your hand as it moved away from the needles to pluck at samples of fabric lying beside it. “I would have thought you’d be dead by the time I got out.”
“By natural causes or by my brother-in-law?” She remarked snidely. When you gave her a loose shrug and a quick raise of your eyebrows, she snorted. “Either is likely at this point. But I don’t think you’re here to discuss my death, Akamine-sama, unless I’ve done something to slight you in the past?”
“No, you’re right.” You examined a sample embroidered with cranes and white lotuses; for a kimono, most likely, with the quality of the fabric. “I’m here for new suits. In the same style as usual, of course, and with payment in full.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Chinatsu was deceptively calm as she lifted a spool of crimson red thread and an equally as livid vermillion silk to compare, holding them up for your inspection. You didn’t miss the slight tremble of her hands as she did so. “I believe a red suit would be in style, no?”
“That would be perfect.” You picked the needle back up and twirled it across your knuckles and between your fingers. “But first, I need to take care of some business. You’ll understand, won’t you?”
You reached back and yanked Jun’ichi forward by his tie. Not expecting the sudden show of force, he fell to his knees, the wood groaning under his weight and the sudden movement. You barely detected the splintering of a singular board beneath his knee. His eyes went wide as you grasped his hands and placed them together in a mockery of prayer.
“Akamine-sama…” Chinatsu tutted. “Prison seems not to have blunted your blade.”
The needle punctured through Jun’ichi’s palms with one quick, precise thrust. There was a momentary pop as it broke through a joint and ligament in his palm. He didn’t scream—your men never screamed—but he did let out a strangled breath at the needle jutting out of his hands, pinning his palms together in front of his face. You had avoided anything purposefully crippling, but blood streamed down his wrists and disappeared into his suit sleeves regardless.
After a moment of consideration, you patted his cheek mockingly and turned your back on him. Then, you turned and pointed to the steadily growing puddle of blood between his knees and underneath his hands, giving Chinatsu an inquiring look.
“Can I get that shade of red?”
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i. i wish i could say i'm sorry. | masterlist. | iii. speak my name, tremble with fear.
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manjuhitorie · 3 years
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tat - Shinoda’s Hitori-Atelier blog posts - REAMP Digest volume 4
Shinoda’s blog post via Hitori-Atelier! Please consider joining Hitori-Atelier and supporting Hitorie’s ventures today. How-to here: https://boatmanju.wixsite.com/hitorietranslations/hitorie-atelier 
It’s already been 3 months since REAMP was released, time really flies.
In that short bit of time we’ve already planned a tour ahead of us, and were given the opportunity to do the opening for the anime ‘86′. Let’s fucking go~~~~~ Is everyone faring well? I've recently rekindled my passion for sampling, I haven't felt like this in years. I'm taking free samples I find strewn across the internet and turning them into techno. I kinda remember mentioning my appreciation for techno in vol. 1 of this blog series, and yeah. I'm finally trying it out for myself. I've managed to make a pretty sick song if I do say so myself. You'll find it on Hitori-Atelier soon enough. (*This is most likely the song titled 'mad candy', found in 'Shinoda's Contents') It's fun 'cause compared to vocal stuff, I use a whole different part of my brain to make techno. I say "This part of this sample has a good beat to it, I bet if I rearranged it like this it would make music~" and do it. Relatively speaking, this kinda music making matches my personality type really well. I feel like I've found a fucking good hobby for myself here. With that said, even though it’s a hobby, work is still work so the collateral damage of music-making is still vividly affecting my body. Like music is still music, and with the way I tunnel vision I'll end up at my desk for an obscene amount of hours. By the time I'm done with it physically and mentally I'm a wreck. Like the fuck do I mean by hobby, is this some kinda shitty joke Shinoda? Anyway let's talk about 'tat'. The question as to what the title means comes first. Initially I wanted to name this song "刺青(meaning tattoo)". Because the song ‘Perfume’ by ‘Eito’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MjAJSoaoSo) was a huge hit at that time so yeah.. But that idea failed ygarshy's inspection so I had no choice but to look around for a word similar to tattoo.
That was when I found photos of tattoos on Instagram with the hashtag #tat. This is it, I said. As a slang tat can mean many other things as well but I forget what they were. I'm sure you can find out if you look it up but, take note that none of it has much to do with the song itself. I considered '#tat' for the title as well, but it was too lame so I pulled back. This song was written when the album was almost finished and most songs ready: I reviewed the album as whole and felt that something was missing. I had wanted something with now tat’s tempo and mood to it to tie the album together. It turned out really well, if I may say so myself. Isn't it a great song though? I feel like all my efforts were worthwhile... It's fun to let the creative juices flow and write with whatever comes to mind. I tried to make the amount of guitar notes concise and solid. The tone was supposed to be graceful too but... ygarshy swooped in with a kick and his bass so heavy it sounds like he's blasting music from a little motorcycle. The melody too has the same makings as the hits these days. It’s about someone of the opposite sex with a bold tattoo who’s stuck in days of ennui, and me who’s gazing from afar wondering what these feelings inside me are. It’s about that sorta thing (?) - I think I managed to express it (????) The beat isn’t made to be far off from modern tuning either. I’m sure I could’ve harmonized it even better but, at the time I found good reason to make it more rock band-y, so I have no regrets. I only wish I made the song name something easier to find via search. It’s so hard to find the people talking about it... Starting with a verse and closing a song with that same verse is great, ain’t it. I’ve always liked songs with a bit of a whacky structure to them, Like November in HOWLS, it goes from verse 2 back to verse 1 then into the instrumental break. If you think it’s just any old number then prepare to be sorely mistaken - Or, that kind of fetishy stuff is important for music if you ask me. I received a fair lot of praise from people in the song-writing industry about tat, I’m happy. Though I’m not sure about the lyrics. Someone from our workplace told me that “Mushy gushy heart-wrenching lyrics would fit well”, so I sought out to do exactly that. The only problem is that my expression of mushy gushy made that person from work go “????” so making people’s heart clench is hard shit. This doesn’t leave here okay.. My dismay over the discontinuation of Chikyuu Monogatari is vented in here a bit as well. Though I don’t think Chikyuu Monogatari is boring. Not really. I saw a few people say that ‘tat’ is like the evolution of cakebox. And it makes sense to me now that y’all say it. cakebox was my solo project I did back in my mid-20’s. I made 3 mini pieces with 7 tracks and 1 EP with 4 tracks before stopping. I’m sure only like 10 people in the whole world ever listened to it. If you look it up you can still get it to listen too. Like an offering of random ass songs to my dead school life, I had a phase between my late teens and my early 20’s wherein I was obsessed with making songs using just my voice and guitar. The question of direction was beyond my consideration, I just sorta let the creative juices flow back then too and promptly set pen to paper. That was my creative process cycle. It was kinda like a diary. There’s barely any proper complete songs. The reason being that I completely lacked the skill necessary to make them proper. My guitar was alright but my singing wasn’t up to par, no one ever praised my voice at all. So I resolved that I just wasn’t cut out for it and strove to be a lead guitarist. Instead of my own songs I chose to go do band stuff, thus devoted myself to guitar.   Yet still my desire to make something proper stuck with me, and so soon after that I started a band in which I did guitar and vocals. we mashed stuff together and made song proper. Alas. Between creative differences and my own lack of ability, we were barely able to make something that I was proud of. After shit happened I ended up at home immersed in making my own songs. “Surely I could put all my experiences in bands and my own growth to good use, to turn my backlog of WIPs into something proper as well?” I thought to myself, and thus was the beginning of cakebox. I think that was the first time I ever got involved in making my own music through my own power. But my way of intense creation was too innocent for listeners or something, or like I wasn’t conscious enough of my headfirst personality... So I didn’t even have the sense to match the tuning up with modernity, and ultimately my work wasn’t clicking with society’s needs. That reality was crushing me more and more with every piece I made. I didn’t have absolute confidence in myself or conviction to push through either. After 3 albums the feeling of “Why am I even doing this” grew, and I found more purpose in Hitorie instead. From then on I devoted myself to Hitorie. These past few years in Hitorie have been nothing but learning experiences for me. After years of the four of us together stressing over what makes good music, I think my own work has leveled up as well. One thing I learned that has especially stuck with me, even now, is leader’s unwavering stance on “Believing that I’m just no matter what”.   For someone with my relative dispositions it’s a nigh impossible stance, and at often times I felt it was egoistic of him but... It’s what led him to create such powerful music, and it’s something we depended on greatly. The other day I gave Unhappy Refrain a full listen for the first time in a while. It’s perfect in every way, what the hell. Vocaloid as a genre was still establishing itself back then, and without a doubt this album served as a monument for the cause. The same way ‘my bloody valentine’’s ‘loveless’ was the cherry on top for the shoegazer genre. It’s made an immovable unsurpassable mark on music history. I really was in a band with a crazy person. To think that when I was in a band with him I more saw myself as the crazy amazing one. What the fuck was up my ass. I understand why felt the need for a band after making this album - why he brought us together - even more now. The obscene amount of notes in that album with a tone reeking of rock band stuff... It’s really flooded with his innocent yearning for rock music. I think the troubles he faced following Unhappy Refrain were the repercussions of him making such a huge monumental piece. But his stout core belief in himself - that he’s just - has stood equally as tall as that monument all the way. Now, after so many twists of fate.. I never thought I’d be writing AND singing my own songs for Hitorie like this. Except, one difference between the me of now VS. the me of old is that I don’t feel even a smidgen of unconfidence. I’m not worrying that I “don’t stand out” or “don’t suit societies needs” anymore. I feel like ‘tat’ might be the best song in the album (sorry ygarshy and Yumao). To the point that when people praise it I merely agree with them, “No lies detected” I say.
It’s all thanks to my time spent with Hitorie, the musical knowledge we sharpened, and the fact that my bandmates’ amazing performances have my back. If I don’t have something as big as this supporting me then I’ll just be a fucking chicken with no confidence in my music, after all. With that said, Music made by you yourself is an irreplaceable treasure, “If you made something good, then be proud”: this lesson of mindset was taught to me by Leader. It’s a really life-changing way to be so... If I mimic Leader at least this lil’ bit no one would make a bad face at me, right? What do y’all think? With that that said, the actual most pure thing that’s naturally come out of my head in years, with my actttual emotions stuffed in, is... The actttttual best song is “Utsutsu” if you ask me so. Look forward to the next entry of this blog series, y’hear me. Shinoda
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KLAROLINE FALL BINGO PREVIEW.
@eliliyah @klarolinefallbingo
Prompt: Dias De Muertos
Honestly the relevancy of the prompt comes far to late in the story but it’s there, kinda. But hey it’s there.
MASQUERADES
(CinemaAU)
Sometimes all she needed was to take a breather. A single moment. One pause.
Breathe in.
To collect her thoughts and emotions. To steady her bearings.
To state in a repetitive loop all the reasons why punching one Niklaus Mikaelson in the balls would be a marginally bad idea.
And breathe out.
Forgive her, but The man was infuriating. Okay?
And unashamedly so. Not a whit of genuine compunction behind that facade of ‘Inescapable Charisma and Unadulterated Allure.’
Definitely not her words.
Nope. No sir.
These were the words of a certain Greta Martin, editor-in-chief for the first October issue of People Magazine.
With one Mega-frustrating arrogant blonde blue-eyed dimpled asshat demon going by the name Klaus slapped to the front of said issue.
And Nope if anyone asks,
No, she did not literally just shred -In a shredding machine no less, because efficiency, thank you very much- the first copy of the magazine she bought, after reading the beginning eight lines on his exclusive, recounting what a ‘delightfully satisfying and marvellous experience the entire three months of shooting turned out to be.’
Ok one Black-hole sized pause right there please.
Thank you.
A single beat.
And....
The Absolute Fuck?!
She’s sorry. Marvellous experience?
Excuse her, but say what?
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Beg pardon but What?
Excuse her.
But Marvellous experience, as in, aggressive quotation marks scratching the air “Marvellous experience” is NOT how she remembers it.
The slap in the face obvious discrepancy to both their stories is definitely not blind to her.
He called 84 re-takes that lasted four whole hours for one eight minute long single-shot single-angle scene, Marvellous.
He called having ice-cold Whiteclaw thrown square on his face by a Absolutely-done-with-wild-gust-of-agitated-Blonde-Fury on the eighth day of set, Marvellous.
He called having two separate make-up artists downright quit after being unable to touch up her makeup every thirteen seconds because she ran her hand down her face in unbridled aggravation every time her eyes landed on him, Marvellous.
He called the same experience where, she had to literally rush out of a set, under the ruse of a bathroom break, Twice in the course of three months, so that she can peacefully go through the motions of a rage-fueled emotional meltdown, complete with angry frustrated tears and a relentlessly colourful diatribe, cursing every man in her life who bore even a sliver of resemblance to the stormy-blue-eyed spawn of satan that was her co-actor, Marvellous.
God. How the hell did he possibly think he could get away with this,
How did he think he was going to smooth over the transparent inconsistencies between her interviews and his, without raising at least a few confused questions from bloodthirsty intuitive fans and the Press in general.
Given how her talk-show interviews and magazine exclusives gave the steady image, that
1. Klaus Mikaelson is a dick and a half, with an overgrown ego so ginormous that even the entirety of Tinseltown is ‘plainly restricting of his nonpareil talent in histrionic execution.’
2. Klaus Mikaelson is an arrogant narcissistic asshole that Hast pronounc'd upon his brethren yond this day f'rth that gent shalt with ev'ry smidgen of purpose in his life striveth to be the Unrivalled Bane of Caroline Forbes’ Existence.
3. The process of Creating the undeniable tour de force Masterpiece that was ‘100 years of solitude.’ The newest Christopher Nolan Direction and Production in theatres right now, that already has definite Academy Awards Nomination in the talks, was anything but Marvellous. She admits, It was so so gratifying and made her heart full with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, that left her giddy with such lighthearted contentment for days, after the phenomenal response it garnered post-premiering, Yes. But that does not capsulate how frustratingly tiresome and emotionally debilitating the entire creation process was. Hell it was downright painful at times.
4. Would she voluntarily take another movie with Klaus Mikaelson as a Co-star alongside her? You can get back to her when the sun starts to rise from the west and the answer would still be a definitive NO.
Now of course she wasn’t this brazen with her claims she knows how to be cute and classy and concise.
But she definitely did not mitigate the truth of her statement, she’s had enough training with her PR department to know what to say and how to say it but she’s sure that nobody had been able to overlook her less than companionable remarks about Klaus.
For example
The Stephen Colbert Show:
Stephen: “So Caroline tell us about the process, the Making of it, how everything fell into place like tiny puzzle pieces to reveal at last this grand, Grand Picture.”
“The process? Well the process was certainly not...pretty...but after every time we finished a scene, however small or inconsequential it may have seemed to the plot, there was this immense sense of ‘there-Done it. And done it well.’ ”
Jimmy Kimmel Live:
“Klaus Mikaelson, well my Co-star is um....eccentric at best.....”
Jimmy: “and at worst?”
“Well..... I guess” -hellish, heinously intolerable, a cruel mean bastard- “....Unyielding...?”
The Ellen Show:
“Well Klaus was a..... demanding partner and it took Herculean efforts to meet his exacting standards, but I can understand how that paid off so well on screen. The end result when I saw it for the first time, it damn well paid off.”
Ellen: “so he is absolved of his admittedly ‘uphill’ personality then?”
She laughs awkwardly,
“Ye-ah....No.”
followed by more laughter dissolving the painstaking grimace she’s trying to tamper down.
Oh and the worst.
The Late Late show with James Cordon:
During the ‘Fill Your Guts or Spill Your Guts’ segment
James: “So....I’m going to give you, let’s see, Ah there, the Bird Saliva.”
Caroline: “James!.... Damn it, you are so not making it into my good books, and....God. That’s just disconcerting I mean, How do they even, I don’t know... collect it?”
James: “Well there’s a whole process of harvesting it from the salivary glands and—“
Caroline: “Never mind! Nope. No need for the details, please, James, a lady’s delicate sensibilities are at stake. And unless the question is ‘what is your social security number?’ I’m not drinking this poison.”
James: “Now Caroline you wound me, I can assure you everything on this table is edible albeit being marginally unpalatable—“
Caroline: “Marginally?!”
James: “You should try the Cow’s tongue. It’s delectable.” Followed by a sagely nod.
Caroline: “Now I’m just intensely bothered. You’ve definitely lost all claim for a spot in my good books.”
James: “Ah well, speaking of staying in your good graces, here’s a question that will have you downing that Saliva in seconds.”
Caroline: “Hit me.”
James: “Well then, ‘Name Any one CO-star with whom you have worked with in the past that you would never volunteer to work with again.’”
Pause.
And the audience descended.
“Like I said, speaking about staying in your good books.”
Amidst the raucous screams, whistles and laughter, it didn’t even bother Caroline, the clarity and speed with which the name
‘Klaus Mikaelson’ flashed in the front of her mind, like a large Neon LED sign from a typical Vegas Nightlife scene.
It took her a total of three seconds to know that she was going to answer with his name because, well just look at that drink in front of her,
Sure if you bend over real low and squint in the right light it may look like a harmless Daiquiri, but a Daiquiri it was not.
No. This was Bird Freaking Saliva,
Come on, you can’t possibly ask her to put that in her goddamn mouth.
Like NO.
Just no.
So sue her for protecting her taste buds that are yet to experience many more exotic flavours and textures of food from all around the world.
But then again she can’t possibly outright just say “Oh that’s easy, Klaus Mikaelson.”
That’s exactly the kinda PR trouble she wants to stay above and definitely didn’t need to be wrung out dry by her Spitfire Mistress-of-Hell Publicist Katherine Pierce for.
(Who also alternates as her BFF, occasionally, mind you.)
So she puts on a good show, dropped her head in her hands, gave a healthy long groan, looked up and gave James her best wounded Puppy Dog eyes, to which he was clearly not immune to, judging by how he looked a touch chagrined, but the game was just as much as beyond his hands as it were hers,
She looked to the audience “You guys are so mean, it’s not even funny.”
And grumbled a bit more till everyone was laughing and pitching forward and back on their seat amused by the poor Blonde’s Dilemma.
So she looked up to the heavens as if to ask for some unknown deity for deliverance and guidance, and poised herself to drink,
Only to put the glass back down in the last second in a begrudgingly weak show of caving in, and blurted out reluctantly,
(She’s a glorious actor, she’s aware.)
“You know what, Nope. He’s just gotta deal with it, okay?.”
Deep breath
Or was it the audience taking a deep breath and holding it in,
“ItsKlausMikaelson,PleaseDontKillMe.”
Pause again.
And the auditorium transcended.
Well,
she handled that, pretty well, if she does say so herself you know.
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Apparently Kat Disagrees.
Apparently She Blew It.
She blew it so hard she could’ve knocked down the third little pig’s brick house.
Ironic since she always envisioned Klaus as the Big Bad Wolf who huffs and puffs and just generally blows.
Apparently her little admission was a PR disaster.
And Kat was furious.
The two minute edited clip that encompassed the question, the reluctant grumbling and finally the confession was apparently now a viral video on all social networking platforms.
They were trending on twitter under the hashtag
#KlarolineUnrequitedLoveIsABitch.
But her admission to being generally averted on taking up Klaus as a colleague again was apparently only one half of the video,
The other half....
Well the other other half was Klaus with his personal confession.
God, it wasn’t even a confession,
it was a—a Mockery, yes that’s it, a Mockery,
Of Her, no less
Basically Here’s the run down of the second insidious half of the video,
Klaus sitting in front of Graham Norton, in all their British glory, going live on The Graham Norton Show,
when asked about Caroline Forbes, his “partner” on scene has the audacity to let out this evil little amused huff and say:
“Caroline?” Another amused huff. “Well Caroline, Christ, where do I start? She’s an absolutely glorious presence on set. Her energy....it’s infectious, She hits you like a blonde hurricane of sunshine and snark and you’re just left staring up at the sun thinking, ‘you need to catch up mate, if you want to be half as bright and burning as her.’”
And Caroline thinks maybe this is the feeling of your brain imploding within the confines of the skull.
TBC
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bigskydreaming · 3 years
Note
IGN’s recent Bat-focused article (Batman: What Does Red Hood Need to Do to Get A Good Story?) praises fanfic writers and also is an amazing critique of how stagnant Jason has become under recent DC management and I’m so surprised at how good it is and how well thought out the solutions were
Hmmm. I just looked it up and I mean, I’m not trying to start anything but I both agree and disagree? Like, it makes some points for sure, I mean, its not like its saying things that I haven’t said a thousand times about Dick, like.....these characters need to be allowed access to a full range of emotions, both good and bad, in order to be fully fleshed out, so I mean yes on that premise alone I absolutely agree this is as true for Jason as it is for Dick or anyone else.
Tbh my only real criticism of the piece is it thinks Jason exists in a particular predicament the other characters aren’t in as well. And that I just don’t agree with, like they kinda lost me a bit with their first paragraph:
His complexities and moral ambiguity make him a compelling and distinct character among his more strait-laced Robin-brothers. Sadly, the character has seen little growth since his rage-filled reintroduction into comics. The ‘former Robin becomes a villain’ idea was enough for DC to coast on for a while but since rejoining the heroes, Red Hood has done little else.
First off, this may just be me being pedantic but I’m ALWAYS going to go fetch a grain of salt before continuing reading anything that pits Jason against his brothers in a war of his moral ambiguity against their strait-lacedness. Because to me, that’s just a fundamentally shallow view of the Batfam that caters to the idea that they each must have their own distinct niche in order to be fully viable individual characters, when a) no, and b) they don’t fit neatly into the niches people keep trying to slot them into and it never ends well for anybody. 
Like Jason is morally ambiguous in a lot of ways too, yes, but umm, even if we assume that the writer is only speaking of Dick, Tim and Damian, we’re talking a guy who beat the Joker to death with his bare hands and has ten assassins and mercenaries on his speed dial and who co-led the Outsiders, a guy who was deeply immersed in weighing the pros and cons of getting revenge for his father by getting Captain Boomerang killed and is forever being DMed by Ra’s because he’s convinced he can get Tim to say He Has Some Points Actually, and the kid who was an assassin with a body count by age ten and who has struggled constantly ever since his debut to define his OWN personal view of morality that is not wholly predicated on what he was taught by any single individual.
And this is a big part of where I part ways with the article, because I think it falls into the same trap that a lot of people do by believing fanfic is inherently better by doing the same thing from just a different angle. Fanfic CAN be better than the canon, I absolutely believe that, I believe it is at times, but to do so, it has to like, BE BETTER. It has to do things differently, and not just paint a slightly different veneer over the same things. Like, pedantic though it might be, I outlined the above issue because its a mode of thinking the canon absolutely falls into again and again, and just like the writer of that article themselves, like....I think fandom as a whole is no different? 
Like, yes there are great stories about Jason out there, some writers have done great and interesting things with him, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a huge trend in fandom of doing the exact same thing I see here.....which is honestly a huge part of the exact same problem the article is decrying canon for......LIMITING Jason (and all the Batfam) by reducing them and their stories to finite niches as a way of spotlighting them as different from their siblings.....except they’re not that different! And that’s okay! They don’t have to be! Families can have lots in common, families DO have lots in common due to like.....shared variables during their formative years. 
I mean Jason was heavily influenced by environmental factors in how and where he grew up before he ever met Batman, but like the article goes into itself, he was no less influenced by Bruce himself as his father figure.....which is something he absolutely has in common with his siblings, thus its not hard at all to see how his siblings could have similar complexities and moral struggles that stem from trying to reconcile Bruce’s influence with the many other things and people that have influenced their childhoods.
And similarly, while the article is dead-on about Jason’s stagnancy....this is something that applies in equal measure to the rest of his family, because they’re all facing the same issues in terms of how DC views and utilizes them, and fandom as much as it likes to condemn DC for doing just that....frequently does the same thing. Like, Jason’s stuck in canon, absolutely......but Dick keeps being popped out into his own microcosm to experience a couple years of stories that essentially turn him into completely different characters isolated from every communal part of his character’s history, and then ERASE everything that’s happened at the end of each of these stories and reset him to square one.....and that’s just a different kind of stagnancy that again, still never allows for actual character progression or development. Tim has LITERALLY been regressed back to Robin, like a hard reset that’s its own kind of stagnancy and Damian has had years of character development upended just to kick him back to where he started, effectively strip away all the connections he’s developed at least in any meaningful way, etc.....and the same holds true for Babs and Cass and Steph and even Bruce himself IMO, in a lot of ways.
Its absolutely a problem, but its a problem that extends far beyond just Jason even if he is a great example of it. And its also a problem that extends into fic itself, and that’s why I don’t agree with a lot of the conclusions that article draws beyond just the fundamental “these characters need to be allowed access to a full range of emotions.”
Yes. That. That right there, THAT I think is crucial, but I think that writer needed to widen the scope a little to take in the full impact of what that actually MEANS for the characters....so as to not accidentally repeat the same problem they’re being critical of by essentially arguing for a full range of emotions for Jason....while still defining or viewing Jason through a finite lens of “the more morally ambiguous Bat character, at least as compared to his brothers.”
Because its that last part that’s so detrimental, because it seems like such a little thing at first, until you realize that essentially its just putting a ceiling, a cap on how far those full ranges of emotions can be expressed. Like the problem with Dick Grayson in canon and fanon is NOT that he can’t be written with a full range of emotions.....its that his character absolutely can encompass a wide range of opinions and viewpoints and emotional stances from “I don’t believe in killing as a first option” to “I absolutely can, will, and have beaten a damn clown to death for joking about murdering my brother”.....and he can still walk away as Dick Grayson after expressing both those things, because his character is big enough to include them both. HE’S not limited as a character, its canon writers and fandom writers that both heap artificial limitations of their OWN on him, say that his character is so defined in such a specific way that there’s no way for the latter expression of his character to actually be IN character.....and the fatal flaw here is fully fleshed out characters are never just one thing. They don’t fit in niches anymore than people do, and notice the problems we all run into when we try and pigeon hole people as being just one thing, like humans can’t be contradictory or act against their own self-interest or be hypocritical or evolve or even regress past prior viewpoints....basically, any time you try and sum up a human being in one line, no matter how accurate that description is, there’s still SOME things that are going to be left out of that picture. 
Now, these things don’t always have to matter that much, like if I look at a serial killer and say that’s a serial killer, like, I might be leaving out of the picture that once he helped an old lady across the street and didn’t kill her and he doesn’t even know why, and I for one, simply do not care that I leave that out of the picture. Its irrelevant to the big picture for me. I can acknowledge that it adds a smidgen of nuance to that particular picture and then go yeah but also I don’t care, nuance denied.
But in terms of fictional characters, these things that get left in the discard pile when we try and sum up characters as just one thing, like, they can be hugely significant, because characters unlike real people, are simply WHAT WE MAKE OF THEM. That stuff that’s been left out of the big picture look at that character because its stuff most people to DEFINE what that character looks like have deemed irrelevant....its still there, and still perfectly relevant for anyone who wants to pick that stuff up and make something of it, use it to change the overall picture or even just point to ways and places that picture can absolutely encompass and include these other elements and STILL fundamentally be that same picture, that same character.
And this isn’t to say that characters can never be written out of character, its to say that usually IMO what ACTUALLY makes the difference between something being out of character and something just being an unexpected but still valid character choice is just.....how these things are executed. The latter is when writers make the effort to JUSTIFY their character choice, to sell audiences on why and how this is absolutely something this character would do, to take them on a journey of what led the character to making this choice and let them see how those steps actually line up, that’s an actual journey that character might take. The former is when writers just don’t bother and are just like, well here’s a thing that character did, and you know it was in character because well that’s the character and that’s what I wrote them doing lol, what more do you want. No. Yawn. Next.
But the trick is if you’re going to try and make a character a SPECTRUM of emotions and choices rather than just a same datapoint recurring over and over again endlessly, a literal sticking point that never advances, never progresses, never changes......you have to actually give that character free range to utilize that spectrum of emotions and choices.....not just confine them to accessing all those possibilities but ONLY within a narrowly defined niche that is its own kind of limitation.
A character can START from a logline, absolutely. Can BEGIN in a narrative niche as a way to INTRODUCE them as seemingly different from their surroundings or their peers when they do not yet have the backstory, the evidence of past stories and character choices readers can use to interpret their actions or guess their choices.....but narrative niches, IMO, are meant to have a shelf life, an expiration date. They’re a seed for characters to grow FROM, to grow PAST, not return to over and over again.....because that’s when a niche just becomes another house that stagnancy built.
Anyway, thanks for the thoughts and the article mention.....it was an interesting exploration of thoughts for me even if I didn’t ultimately agree with a lot of what was already said....still a worthwhile read though I think and I mean hey, its cool if you still agree with it more even if I don’t, lol. This is just my take.
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risingsouls · 3 years
Text
Recruited: Chapter 14
[Alright! We’ve officially made it to the boys heading off to Earth! I took some creative liberties with the scene in which they find out about Raditz’s death and the dragonballs, as well as making better sense of how they can just...fuck off for a year without permission basically? IDK it’s bothered me for a long time and I found a fun way to work around and fix that, among making better sense of a few other minor weird inconsistencies in canon!
That said, the chapters from here on out MAY look a little different. Canon shit will be glossed over more, as I’m not here to just completely re-write out canon scenes. Obviously some are going to be done, but not all. Additionally, we will probably be in Nabooru’s perspective more often than not, but I haven’t fully decided. It’s either mostly Nabs with a few Vegeta only chapters here and there OR I’ll do like I did with the Conversations project and write both of their perspectives at once. BUT this is just me speculating and giving fair warning :3.
As usual, you can read the rest of the fic and other things over here! Thanks to all of you who consistently like and read this and enable my dumb ass :’3]
Vegeta
The next few months sped by, fueled by near nonstop work assigned to the pair of Saiyans. They finished one purge and moved to the next before they could catch their breath, and for it, Vegeta was glad. Through all his effort to maintain normalcy and pretend nothing had changed proved difficult in any stretch of downtime. The upset of Nabooru's promotion threw a hefty wrench into an already flimsy plan, robbing him of the only competent training partner who could begin to pose a challenge and that he could trust not to squeal when it came to his true motives. 
Trust. The very thought of the word made him want to scream. Dismantle his pod piece by piece with him inside it. Until she stepped to Frieza's side that day and reprimanded him for sending Raditz off to Earth like he was some child, he didn't realize that he had developed a modicum of trust in her. Further than that moment they shared behind closed doors, the playful, silent agreement that he did trust her. Despite his denial of it and little thought given the moment after. The situation had him questioning even Nappa's loyalty. When would the general and the man who all but raised him turn on him? Would he ever hear from Raditz again, or had the coward used his supposed brother as an excuse to make an escape?
A lesson learned the hard way, as all of them seemed to be for him: trust no one, no matter what. Only power and strength mattered in the end. Both things he needed more of to realize his plans.
The pod's AI system clocked their arrival at their destination at ten minutes, jolting him from his perturbed thoughts for just a moment. He ignored whatever comment Nappa made about finally getting to stretch his legs and informing Nabooru of their arrival on Arglin. Another ridiculous stipulation put in place by Frieza after their meeting: check in when you land and check out when you leave along with at least one daily report if the job lasted more than a single day. All of which he left to Nappa because he couldn't guarantee how his temper would fare just hearing the Gerudo's voice. Because he couldn’t stand to be out of the loop, he still listened in on their conversation, silently seething and left in a worse mood when they ended the call. The times Zarbon had to step in for her due to her healing from her injuries sustained in training were almost a blessing, the amount of irritation in hearing the pompous general’s voice at normal levels that didn’t have him ready to delete an entire solar system. At least he could take solace in her getting her ass soundly handed to her once in a while; as expected, Zarbon and Dodoria didn’t seem to be holding back on her.
Time and space had given some room to reason when it came to her, however. With perhaps a smidgen of prodding from Nappa, he did realize his claims of her ratting him out to achieve her new position were unfounded, if for no other reason than he still lived. Frieza would have killed them on the spot, even Nabooru for not telling him sooner. But it did little to soften the blow and he viewed it as a betrayal for he could only surmise she was doing some dealing behind his back to get there, Frieza's ridiculous reason be damned. Or perhaps he more accurately would only allow himself to surmise as much. It was easier to be angry with her and view her as a sleazy, spineless worm who wanted to climb the ranks at any cost rather than the more personal betrayal that dredged up a murky swamp of emotions he didn't want to feel let alone combat.
The pair of pods touched down on the planet's surface amidst what appeared to be jungle terrain. Vegeta climbed out and pressed the button on his scouter to begin a full scan of the planet's inhabitants. As the reports suggested, the highest power levels would barely pose a threat to Nappa, let alone him, even when it came to its army. Another quick mission and onto the next.
An incoming message interrupted his train of thought, and Raditz's name flashed across the red glass. He pressed the button, watching as Nappa grumbled and did the same. "What is it, Raditz?"
"Months away and this is the greeting I get?" Vegeta growled and Raditz clicked his tongue. Bold with so much distance between them. "Whatever. I've landed on Earth. I have yet to detect a single power level worth noting. One of them tried to shoot me with some archaic weaponry, though."
"So your weakling brother is dead?"
"I gue--hang on. There's one. Still not much, but I'll check it out."
Vegeta rolled his eyes. "Keep the line open for us. We have work to do and I'm not in the mood for your pointless interruptions."
He supposed that at least put to rest his suspicions of Raditz deserting.
"Least the runt made it," Nappa commented with a yawn and stretch. "So, half the planet each like we've been doing?"
"Fine." Vegeta's boots lifted from the ground. "No stopping off for a damn drink this time. If I have to pick up any slack for you, I'll finish the job myself, destroy your pod, and leave you here. Got it?"
"How did you even--?"
"Smell, Nappa."
"Shit…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright, all work, no play. I'll meet you back here."
Vegeta nodded. Blue-white aura surrounded him and he took off, heading toward the first large cluster of power levels.
--------------
Cities razed and reduced to rubble. He met the resistance of the armies and, instead of dealing with them with a large-scale blast, he decided to bring the fight to them. He crushed bones and punched holes through anyone stupid enough to engage him head on. Obliterated whole squadrons at point blank range. Laughed in the faces of those who begged him for mercy or claimed him a monster. An outlet for his pent up rage, the aggression spilling out of him on the weaklings unlucky enough to live on a planet set for purging and, worse yet, assigned to him. In the moment, he forgot all about Frieza and Nabooru, his quest for vengeance. He was a warrior, a hunter on the prowl. The prince of all Saiyans who answered to no master but himself.
The last soldier's head crushed beneath his boot, he flicked blood from his gloves and wiped it from his face. All the while he had been tuning in and out to the feed from Raditz and his mission on Earth, occasionally chuckling at his stupid jokes or misplaced bravado. He had located his brother after all, a failure in his mission with the planet still fully populated and at peace. Vegeta surmised Raditz ran into trouble with him and another fighter. He took a moment to listen to Raditz beg for Kakarot to release his tail and snorted at the idiot's misfortune and lack of foresight to train his tail so it no longer posed such a weakness. 
He tapped the button on his scouter. It beeped throughout the scan but ultimately only picked up a handful of signatures across the planet on Nappa's portion. His work complete, he tore through the sky and back to their pods.
By the time Nappa returned, Vegeta had stoked a small fire with the trees their pods felled upon landing. He snapped a couple of limbs off a few corpses and jammed a spit through them, leaving them to roast over the fire when hunger gnawed at his belly. When Nappa reached out for one of the spits, Vegeta slapped his hand away and ordered him to get his own.
The sounds of combat over the scouter halted. He could hear the sound of Raditz struggling against some sort of restraint. A voice he didn't recognize ordering a "Piccolo" to attack. His cohort pointing out that the owner of the previous voice couldn't possibly dodge some attack while holding him and soon trying to talk his way out of what appeared to be certain doom. His cohorts agonized screams followed by a bout of silence.
Vegeta's expression fell, tightened. He tore into the arm he plucked from the fire, ignoring the excessive heat in his mouth. They didn't lose. Even Raditz found ways to beat the odds. Earth was meant to be filled with weaklinga and for Raditz to find his end to such lowlifes...the stick snapped in his grip, his meal dropping to the ground with a thud. It was embarrassing. To Raditz. To him.
He snatched up another roasted limb. Pained and rasping, Raditz's voice sounded in his ear again. Answered by another that he vaguely remembered from the preceding fight and announcing the final attack. Raditz's killer, then. The Saiyan claimed they would all perish when his comrades came to avenge him (had he not been in such a sour mood, Vegeta would have laughed), to which the other replied that this Goku would have the last laugh. His friends would wish him back soon using something called the dragonballs.
And then it clicked. These dragonballs granted a wish as impossible as bringing the dead back to life. Could they grant any wish? Could this be the answer he was looking for to his Frieza problem? His pulse quickened and his mind raced with possibilities.
“Shit...can’t believe Raditz is dead,” Nappa mumbled at last.
Vegeta scoffed. “The only reason it’s shocking is because that planet was supposed to be full of weaklings. Otherwise, with how weak he was himself, it was only a matter of time.” He ripped another chunk of meat with his teeth and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. “I’m far more interested in those dragonballs they mentioned.”
“Huh? Oh yeah, that’s right.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “Said you could make a wish with them.”
“Precisely. We’ll force Kakarot and his friends to hand them over and make a wish of our own.”
Nappa perked up. “Hey, and we can bring Raditz back.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the prince snapped, frown deepening at his cohort’s shock. “Raditz was weak and I won’t waste a wish on a weakling like that.”
Vegeta fought the urge to roll his eyes with how Nappa blinked, his good mood and a dim light of potential hope holding his annoyance at bay. If they could pull this off, Frieza and anyone else who stood in his way would become nonissues. “How does immortality sound to you, Nappa?”
“Eh, immortality?” Realization slowly dawned over the former general’s features, smirk resurfacing at last. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound too bad at all. We’d be unstoppable.”
“Now you’re getting it.” Vegeta stood. “Immortality doesn’t suit the weak, anyway. Raditz would only get in our way in the long run.”
Nappa followed his lead. “Guess you got this all figured out, huh?” He paused and folded his arms over his chest. His confident grin faded once more. “You think we’d get clearance for that trip? We’re further out now than when Raditz took off.”
In his mounting excitement, the thought slipped his mind. The snap decision to go without reporting to his betters or awaiting permission, while more tempting on the precipice of immortality, could prove detrimental in the long run. He had no doubt that, if Frieza caught wind of the dragonballs, he would seek them out for himself. But by the same token, if Frieza hadn't heard the transmission already, keeping quiet about a flight to Earth without word cast suspicion on the entire trip regardless. He needed a way to get permission to go to Earth while keeping his true intentions secret until it was too late for Frieza or his cronies to do a thing about it.
A growl rumbled in his chest, and he flipped through the options until he found the proper contact number. He had one option for it, and whether she would work with him considering their last encounter was a shot in the dark at best. He could see her refusing out of pure spite or to cover her own ass and keep him as leashed as the emperor wanted him. Naturally, he refused to tell her the entire plan. He just needed enough to convince her it was worthwhile. Specific but vague to ward off suspicion and keep anyone potentially listening in off their trail.
With Nappa keeping better rapport with their new commander, Vegeta reconsidered forcing Nappa to speak with her since, from what he could tell in their conversations, she held no ill will toward the large Saiyan. He himself seemed to have let go of the ordeal entirely, a fact that irritated Vegeta for reasons he couldn't quite place. He watched Nappa tap into the line and he felt his tongue form the order but quelled it as the familiar voice spoke in his ear:
"You're already done? That must be a record for you two."
Rage flooded him the same way it always did when he listened in on Nappa relaying his report to her or holding small, inane conversations. It seized his lungs and clamped his mouth shut. He waved a hand for Nappa to continue while he paced the length of their makeshift camp, his tail lashing behind him.
"Sure are. Just trying to keep the higher ups happy." He could feel Nappa's gaze on him but ignored it. "Planet's been purged without issue and is ready for whatever venture Frieza has planned for it."
Nabooru sighed in relief. "You make this job easy for me. I'll get to rub it in Zarbon's and Dodoria's faces. They said this one would take you at least three days."
"Bastards," Nappa huffed. "Give ‘em a good punch from me next time you train with them."
"I'll try my best."
Vegeta glared over at Nappa, urging him to get to the damn point. "Right, uh….so how's the training going? We haven't had to report to Zarbon the last few times. Thank fuck for that."
"It's going great. I'm getting stronger by the day. I can feel it."
Good. She was alone and their conversation was likely not being monitored. Nabooru and Nappa concocted a code between them to ensure the slightest amount of security for their conversations. The Saiyan requested how her training was going and, depending how she answered, would decide if they could speak freely or not. A casual and conversational check that wouldn't raise red flags. The positive response bode well.
"Heh, at what cost, though? You have to deal with Zarbon and Dodoria everyday." Nappa rubbed the back of his neck, once more eying the prince for guidance on what he was meant to say. "But uh...don't know if you heard yet but--"
"Raditz is dead."
Nappa blinked and silence fell on the other end of the scouter. He wondered what stunned her into silence more, hearing his voice for the first time in months due to a refusal to speak with her he made clear or the news he imparted with the barest amount of hesitation or emotion.
Finally, "Is that so?" Her voice softened and lacked its usual energy. "How? I thought--"
"Yes, we all thought. Someone down there obviously got the better of him." He returned to his seat on the log, arms folded over his chest and one leg crossed over the other. "He was caught off guard because the warriors there can lower their power levels to next to nothing. He underestimated his opponents because of it."
"I can't believe it," she breathed. He imagined her tangling her fingers in her crimson tresses, a habit of hers he observed on multiple occasions.
Vegeta tsked. "It's his own damn fault. But it could mean the planet has more potential soldiers on it than we knew. It could be worth checking out after all." He paused and inwardly rolled his eyes at the ridiculous lie he was about to spew to sweeten the deal: "Besides, Nappa and I want to avenge Raditz. No one kills a Saiyan without consequence."
The woman hummed, and the prince tapped his foot in the air impatiently. His tail thumped the log next to him in rhythm. "Fair enough. I'll see what I can do with fitting it into your work queue. Rearrange things to put you two in that neck of the universe." Vegeta smirked. "It may be a while before you can make that stop as I'll have to keep you both busy on the trip out that way."
"All the better. Frieza wouldn't understand our mission." Not the fake one, anyway. 
"He wouldn't." Another silence, save for a squeak followed by the sound of running water, droplets hitting tile. His eye twitched when his mind betrayed him with an accompanying image. "In fact, if you can keep it down to a day, two at most, I could probably get you out that way and put it in the schedule as your off days. Then, if you happen to come back with any useful data about Earth, it could just be a bonus of your time off."
Clever, though he refused to praise her for it. "They barely bested Raditz it sounded like, so taking them out shouldn't be an issue for us."
"Then I'll see what I can do. I'll send your updated queue to you once I figure it out."
"Fine." 
A press of the button and he cut the line, Nappa saying his farewell and following suit. Vegeta stood once more and strode to his pod and opened it. After every setback and years of enraging torment, his fate seemed to be turning around. With immortality on the horizon, Frieza's demise and his freedom were just around the corner. He would take back what was his and more, all that was promised him. He would take vengeance on those who wronged him and his race and said he couldn't do it. He would rise and take his place in Saiyan legend as a Super Saiyan at last.
He nodded to Nappa before sinking down into his pod, hatch closing behind him. He keyed in the coordinates of their next destination and, once his comrade confirmed he was ready, jetted off into the cosmos once more. Though his destiny excited him, he knew he would still need to exercise patience. He couldn't afford to screw up this close. At least his time under Frieza had offered him that, his entire life spent awaiting the perfect moment to strike. What was a little bit longer?
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