#but it doesn’t come from the same place as Pollux which is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

autisticlancemcclain · 6 months

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“Neither of you are getting it.”

Twin sighs come from his laptop speakers. Lance lifts his head up from where he’s smushed it into his pillow to glare at his two best friends who apparently hate him, for some reason.

“I mean, there’s not much to get,” Pidge says. “You’re a big dumb gay loser and this predicament effects you emotionally.” She looks at Hunk as if to ask, right?, and Hunk, who is a traitor of the worst kind, shrugs in agreement.

“I don’t even get what you’re worried about, man. You have consistently been the one to get him the best gifts for years. None of us even try to beat you.”

“That’s the point!” Lance shrieks. “You’re not listening! I had ideas every other year, Hunk! This year I have nothing!” He taps his head aggressively. “There is not one thing in here! Nada!”

Pidge snickers. “Well, that’s not new.”

“Can it, Pidgeon.”

Hunk holds his hands up placatingly before the two of them can really start to go at it. “Alright, alright. Pidge, have mercy on him. He’s suffering. Lance —” he falters. “Dude, you walked into that one. Sorry.”

Lance will concede to that point. He kind of set his own trap. But still, he’s having a crisis, Pidge as his best friend should be going easy on him, so he sticks his tongue out at her.

“I just — ugh.” He takes a moment to fluff his pillows back up before falling backwards on them and throwing a hand over his face. This is a ridiculous thing to be so bothered by, and he knows it, but he is. Bothered by it, that is. He hasn’t been this lost since the first year they were in space.

“Lance,” Hunk says gently, startling him. “It’s August, dude. Keith’s birthday is two months away. You really, truly, do not need to be stressing about it.”

Lance’s eyes trace the long-faded glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. His gazes unfocuses on the red-orange star that represents Pollux, which has always been his favourite.

“This will be the first time I’ve seen him in months,” Lance says quietly. “I want him —” he swallows. The dryness of his throat makes his voice scratchy. “I want to be perfect.”

It. He had meant to say, I want it to be perfect. Because that’s what he wants — he wants Keith to get here safely and actually be able to stay this time and nothing to go wrong and him to celebrate his birthday surrounded by his loved ones, his friends and family. And — Lance. Wants to be there. Also.

He swallows again. It’s harder this time.

“He’s going to love anything you give him,” Pidge says, uncharacteristically soft. “You know he’s just going to be glad to see you upright and in one piece.”

Lance winces and the strained quality of her voice, the sudden darkness in Hunk’s expression. He knows he’s the cause of it.

It was hard on the team, his death.

He knows it was. That’s why he never talks about it. (They were never supposed to even know about it. When Lance’s soul was yanked back into his body and Allura gasped in relief and hugged him to her chest and sobbed out, I thought I was too late, Lance clamped his mouth shut and kept it that way. When he had rare moments on their long trip home where the adrenaline began to fade and he felt his heart begin to slow, he picked fights. He ran sims. He made stupid decisions. He kept his body distracted and his mind wound so tightly around Red’s that there was no chance for it to slip, to remember what had happened to him, to fade back into that dark and silent place. He kept his mouth shut and kept his quintessence dragged up to the highest level he could bring it.

And when they defeated Sendak, and they had to sacrifice their lions or sacrifice their friend, Lance’s hands shook and he made the obvious choice. And he doesn’t know what happened, when the adrenaline finally faded and the one thing keeping him tethered to their plane disappeared, but he knows when his soul was yanked back into his body, permanently this time, his friends wouldn’t answer his questions or let him out of their sight and all of them had the same haunted look to their eyes. He has never had the strength to ask. But he has been careful with himself, since. He covers his Altean marks — a testament of how much Allura gave of herself to keep him alive — and keeps his feet planted on Earth and out of danger and knows that he owes it to them to keep himself safe.)

“Well, anything I could give him would be better than what you got him last year,” Lance says loudly, beating back the oppressive silence that has fallen over them. It works — Pidge scowls at him, remembering the plant she had got him that had turned out to be highly toxic to any Galra. Hunk snickers at the memory of the bright blue hives that had covered Keith’s skin for weeks.

“How was I to know?” Pidge cries. Hunk and Lance’s increasing laughter only seems to make her angrier “He — ugh! It doesn’t matter, anyway, because you handmade him a leather sheath for his knife so he wasn’t looking at what I was giving him anyway! Shut up! Ugh!”

“It’s true,” Hunk agrees, chuckling. “We should make you gift stuff last. It’s not fair and makes everyone else look bad. He couldn’t take his eyes off that sheath, last year. He still wears it every day.”

Pidge mutters something in her hand that sounds suspiciously like “he couldn’t take his eyes off of someone,” so Lance ignores her in favour of whining again.

“Yeah, well, there’s no point this year because I’ve got nothing. I started making that sheath in June. I started making his jacket from two years ago in March. But this year I didn’t have any ideas and now I don’t have the time, even if I do come up with something. ” He sighs, defeated. “It sucks. I’ve hardly seen him outside of a computer screen and I’m only going to see him less, and I can’t even give him something to remember me by.”

“You’re talking like you’re never going to see him again,” Pidge points out. “There would be way less pressure if you just — saw him more, dude.”

Lance scoffs. “Yeah, right. Lemme just pack up and run off to space with him. Boom, all problems solved.”

He blinks.

He sits up so fast he very nearly brains himself on his bed frame.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. He looks over at his friends, who are smiling widely. His heart pounds.

Holy shit.

“I gotta go,” he shouts, scrambling to grab his laptop.

“Goodbye, Lance,” Hunk says, rolling his eyes fondly.

Pidge makes a crude gesture at him because she’s the worst. “Bye, gay pining loser!”

He slams the laptop lid shut and holds it tightly to his chest. Everything, finally, starts to click into place — Lance smiles; small at first, but quickly his mouth spreads so wide his cheeks ache, and his eyes practically squish shut.

He knows what to do.

———

On the morning of October 23rd, he is stressing.

“You’re embarrassing,” calls Allura, from where she‘s been lazing on the couch and eating pineapples for the last three days.

“I regret asking for your help,” Lance grunts, struggling to lift a sack of flour. He side eyes her. “Especially because you’re supposed to be helping, Miss Superstrength.”

Allura snorts, shoving another chunk of pineapple in her mouth. “I am helping. If I wasn’t here you would have talked yourself out of this several times over. You’re welcome!”

“Ugh,” Lance says, because she’s right and he knows it. “I’m not letting you lick the spoon.”

“What? Hey!”

He does let her lick the spoon. Because he has no discipline. But to her eternal credit she does actually help, too, and in more ways than just picking him up and physically shaking him out of his many freak outs, and he has a lot of them.

He’s been planning this for weeks. There are so many aspects, so many moving parts, that it’s just — stressful. Trying to put together a party that balances all the people who want to come together and celebrate Keith’s 25th with every single time constraint and restoration effort and even Keith’s own discomfort with too much fanfare is…a lot. Plus all the actual stuff that goes into hosting people at a party — Lance absolutely would not be able to do any of this without Allura’s help. She is, after all, his best friend, even though she drives him crazy and always has, in more ways than one.

At eleven thirty, when all the (tasteful, despite what his siblings had insisted was too boring) decorations have been set up and most of the food has been prepared, Allura clasps her palms to his cheeks and says, “Lance, breathe.”

Lance looks at her with wide eyes and says, “I’m cancelling everything.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I can’t do this. What was I thinking? This is — cringe. Ridiculous.” His chest shakes on an inhale. “What was I thinking, ‘Llura?”

She hums thoughtfully. Her thumbs trace his cheekbones, wiping away the makeup that covers his Altean marks, making Lance twitch but not move.

“You were thinking,” she says quietly, “about how long it has been since everyone has been on the same planet.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“And how much we have all missed each other.

His shaking hands come up to grip her wrists, breath shuddering as he exhales.

“Yes.”

“And. Maybe. How much you miss Keith.” She pulls her hands away from his face and wraps them around his hands. “How much you miss the stars, even.”

“I’m scared,” he admits.

She squeezes his hands. “When has that stopped you?”

———

It’s three thirty and there’s still no sign of Keith.

Shiro and the rest of the Atlas crew, including Hunk and Veronica, arrived arrived sometime around one. The Holts came in right on their heels. Kolivan, Krolia, and a few other Blades Keith has kept up with over the years showed up a few hours ago. Lance’s family has been here the whole time, and Coran and Romelle came with Allura. Everyone that Lance had invited to come is here.

Except the one person Lance actually wants to come.

“Lance,” Shiro greets, somehow sensing his anxiety like the guru goody goody he is and popping up next to him.

Lance smiles anyway. He’s missed him too much to do anything else — he hasn’t seen anyone on the Atlas since their last restock, ten weeks ago.

“Hey, Shiro.”

“You freaking out?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’d be shocked if you weren’t, you walking Xanax advertisement.”

That startles a laugh out of Lance, and he shoves him, grateful for the distraction. Shiro grins wide and throws an arm around him, guiding him away from the front door — where he’s been biting his nails and staring at the sky in anxious hope for the last twenty minutes — and back to the rest of the party, ducking under flailing limbs and the random football that someone has brought out for some reason (Marco, probably).

“He’s gonna come, you know. He’s been excited about it since you invited him. I have received no less than nine hundred and twenty-two texts about it. It’s all very sweet and embarrassing. He’s coming, Lance.”

Lance huffs. “Unless he’s dead or maimed somewhere. I did some quick stat evals and there’s at 37% chance he was attacked on the flight to Earth and is bleeding out as we speak.”

Shiro stops them. He blinks at Lance several times. He sighs.

“You actually need to see a psychiatrist. Genuinely.”

“Nah.”

Shiro flicks him on the forehead, but the fond smile stays affixed to his face. Soon Lance finds himself relaxing, tucked under Shiro’s arm. He’s probably right — he usually is. Keith is chronically late, just as a person. Lance even told him the party started at ten just to make it more likely that he’d show up before everyone left. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be places — he just struggles with the concept of time passing, and also gets distracted a lot. (There are a lot of people who need Keith’s help, after all, and he’s a bleeding heart if Lance has ever known one. All humans are wired to respond to calls for help, but Keith seems almost attuned to them. If Lance thinks about his crooked smile and kind eyes for too long he gets physically nauseous.)

As Lance’s watch ticks its way to four o’clock, a light streaks across the sky, and before Lance knows what he’s doing he ducks under Shiro’s arm and starts running. He flings open the back gate and slides down the sandy hills, barely managing not to trip on rocks and pits in the sand where children have dug little pools. He doesn’t bother to slow as the aircraft makes its fiery descent, confident the pilot will not hit him, and by the time he makes it across the beach his bare feet burn and he’s stepped on a sharp shell and lost his jacket somewhere near the house. But it doesn’t matter, because the craft lands and seconds later the door flings open and Keith comes sprinting out, still clad in armour, hair long and thick and braided back, and he runs at Lance at full speed and they collide at the top of a sand dune and Lance leaps into his arms and Keith loses his balance and they go tumbling down, laughing, Keith’s hand on his waist and Lance’s fingers clutching tightly at his shoulders.

“You made it!” Lance shouts, smile wider than he ever thought capable.

Keith laughs again, full-bodied and relieved, crooked incisors on full display and long neck pulled back as his head rests on the ground.

“I know! I’m late, I’m sorry, I lost track of time and —”

“You always lose track of time,” Lance says warmly. He traces a strand of hair that has loosened from Keith’s braid, brushing it off his forehead and tucking it behind his ear. He stays where he is, half-pinning Keith into the sand, knees on either side of him, re-memorizing the curve of his grin and the indigo of his eyes and the scars on his face and the softness of his gaze. Suddenly his chest aches, painful in the best possible way, and his stomach pits and swirls and butterflies flutter wildly in his abdomen. Heat zaps up his veins and sparks through his arteries. The slowly setting mid-autumn sun casts golden light on Keith’s face and Lance is reminded, again, how breathtaking things are outside of Earth.

“Happy birthday,” he breathes, choking on the words.

Keith’s eyes crinkle. His hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb pressing gently on the gold Altean marks. They curve perfectly around the shape of his fingerprint.

“I missed you, Bluebell.”

Someone huffs. “Yeah, and he nearly killed us trying to get here. Some kind of leader you are, Captain.”

Keith flushes, gently pushing Lance up so he can get up and glare at Ezor properly. “We were fine!”

“We crossed nine hundred million lightyears in two days!”

“I took a shortcut!”

“Through weblum mating grounds!”

Lance punches his friend in the shoulder. Keith pouts at him, wounded.

“You flew through weblum mating grounds?!”

“It was fine!” Keith defends. “It wasn’t even an issue!”

Acxa scoffs incredulously. “We were chased by fourteen weblums at once, Kogane.”

“But did you die?”

All three of Keith’s crew roll their eyes. Keith crosses his arms smugly. Lance loves him so fiercely that it hurts.

“Keith!”

With what Lance can only call divine instinct, he has enough forethought to throw himself out of the way before a five foot nothing blur throws herself at Keith’s person and sends them both crashing to the ground, significantly more painfully that Keith and Lance’s whole thing. Keith groans loudly, but Pidge doesn’t even give him half a second to complain, dragging him back upright and hugging him properly. Keith, softie that he is, hugs her back immediately, smiling into her hair.

“Hey, Pidge.”

“Happy birthday, loser! Birthday beats!”

She, immediately, starts to let him have it, impervious to Keith’s yelps. He attempts to squirm away, but Zethrid, lover of violence and also loud supporter of Pidge in general, firmly clamps onto his shoulder to allow Pidge to assault him in peace.

“That was twenty-six!” he says in outrage when she finishes.

She smiles pleasantly. “You were late.”

Hunk, thankfully, chooses that moment to jog over, carrying an ice pack because he’s an angel and also a genius.

“Figured Pidge would come in fists swinging,” he jokes, leaning down to hug Keith tightly. “Happy birthday, man. It’s been too long.”

“It’s been two weeks,” Keith protests, but he looks like he agrees.

It doesn’t take long for the rest of the party to flock over, despite the fact that it would be much easier for everyone to just wait for Keith to walk over to them. Lance isn’t surprised — it’s not like he could wait, after all. When Keith is around, people gather. Such is the way of the world.

He smiles at the crowd of Keith’s loved ones, and especially at the bewilderment on his face. It’s been years, but Lance knows that he still gets surprised when he’s reminded how big his family has gotten. It’s nice to see that reminder written all over his face. He edges out of the smattering of people and starts to head back to the house, figuring he might as well start setting up the table to get dinner started now that Keith’s here. Most of it is already cooked and keeping warm in the oven, but he figured it would be best to wait until everyone was ready to —

“Hey, Lance, wait up.”

He startles when a hand wraps its way around his wrist, relaxing when he recognises the calloused fingers and leather-covered palm. Keith jogs over the rest of the way now that he has Lance stopped, falling into step next to him.

“What’re you doing?” Lance asks, looking at him urgently. “Go say hi to everyone!”

Keith shrugs. “I’ll get there.” He flashes another smile at Lance and it’s crooked and familiar and Lance is weak in the knees. “I started an argument about human versus Altean time measuring systems. Everyone is now picking sides. They won’t notice I’m gone for the next ten minutes at least. I’m all yours, Sharpshooter.”

Lance resists the urge to bury himself in the sand and die of mortification. There’s actually no physical reason for Keith to look the way that he does. It’s — too much. The smouldering eyes and sturdy shoulders are one thing, but with the whole — grin and hair and wide hands and fucking — everything else; it’s too much. It’s a lot. Keith should maybe — wear a mask, or something. Or a hood. Or be more of a klutz, just so he’s humbled slightly.

“Oh,” Lance croaks, trying desperately not to focus on the way Keith’s hand is still holding onto Lance. “That’s — cool.”

“Cool.”

Blue, Red, if your spirits are still kicking around somewhere, send help, he prays at the heavens.

Apparently they are, because the heavens do indeed provide.

The air in front of the sparks and warps, flashing blue so bright Lance had to squeeze his eyes shut. He hears a loud bark, and opens his eyes again just in time to catch the ball of fur and floof that throws himself into his arms.

“Kosmo!” he cries, pulling away from Keith in his haste to hug the space-wolf tightly. Kosmo yips in delight, covering Lance’s face in dog slobber as he wiggles around in excitement. “Oh, buddy, I was wondering where you were! Mwah! Mwah mwah mwah!”

“He saw the crowd on the descent and got nervous,” Keith explains, scratching Kosmo’s fur fondly. “He was hiding in the back, huh, buddy?”

“Like father like son,” Lance teases. He adjusts the big dog into his arms so he’s half on his shoulders, panting right next to his ear and giving him gross slobbery kisses every three seconds.

“I do not hide from crowds,” Keith huffs. “And he can walk, Lance. Don’t baby him. He’s always spoiled after he hangs out with you.”

“You do so. And of course I spoil the little baby!” Lance coos, scratching under his chin. Kosmo howls in excitement, tail thumping hard against Lance’s hip. “Who’s the bestest boy? Who is my favourite in the whole big universe? It’s you! Yes, Kosmo-baby, it’s you! Good boy!”

“He’s not your favourite,” Keith grumps.

“Yes he is! Oh, yes he is!”

He coos over Kosmo for the whole walk back to the house, only setting him down when they make their way to the kitchen. Keith grabs the dog gently under the ear when he finally stands on his own, bending down to look him straight in the eyes.

“Kosmo,” he says quietly, angling himself slightly away from Lance, “remember what we Talked About.” He stares at the wolf for several moments. “You know. About the — thing.”

Amazingly, the dog seems to bark in understand. Keith nods in satisfaction, patting him on the head. “Good. Go do.” With a poof Kosmo disappears again, leaving just the two of them in the kitchen.

Lance pouts. “Aw. I wanted to spend more time with him. I haven’t seen him in months.”

Keith looks affronted. “You haven’t seen me in months!”

Lance turns away to hide his smile, busying himself with the food. “Eh.” He waves an oven-mitt-clad hand dismissively. “I text you all the time.

“You’re a bully,” Keith pouts. “You’re being mean to me on my birthday.”

“At the party I put together for you, dweeb. Don’t you pout at me.”

In response, Keith inserts himself into Lance with the guise of helping him plate and pouts harder.

“Bully,” he emphasizes.

Lance flicks him on the nose. Keith catches his hand and holds it hostage between two of his, rubbing his thumb along the bump of Lance’s wrist. Lance considers screaming.

“Help or get out of my kitchen,” he manages instead.

Smirking, Keith does, loading garlic knots onto a plate and stealing several, thinking he’s slick. He’s not — Lance notices, but it’s Keith’s birthday and Lance also ate like six already, so he lets it slide.

They have everything ready to go in under five minutes, loading up as much as they can carry and heading outside to set it all out. Everyone else is back by the time they get there, and Hunk and Shiro scramble to come help set up. Very quickly the party is in full swing, people eating and laughing and wishing Keith a thousand happy birthdays. Keith has always claimed to hate attention and crowds, but he’s — glowing, really. His smile doesn’t leave his face. Maybe it’s that he’s older and maybe it’s that he knows everyone. But more likely it’s the easy confidence that’s grown in him over the years, sprouting from the knowledge that he is good and he is kind and he is loved, and trusting everyone who assures him this is true. Lance remembers when he hunched his shoulders and scowled at anyone who looked at him too long. Now he smiles when someone calls his name.

There’s no rhyme or reason to the party. Lance had attempted to plan it, but given up quickly — he knows his people. They’ll flutter around something until inspiration hits and they’ll flutter around something else. The only constant has been food and loading Kosmo up with affection.

As the sun begins its journey below the horizon, someone — Adam — forces Keith into a random lawnchair and says, “Open your gifts, gremlin.”

Immediately, everyone else clambers to grab their gifts and gather around, ignoring Keith’s protests of “I’m twenty-five goddamn years old, I don’t need gifts, you people waste your time and money —” and arguing over who goes first.

Adam goes first. Obviously.

Despite Keith’s grumbling, he’s very obviously touched. He gets a range of things, from a fancy knife from his mother (again) to a framed photo from Shiro, with he and Adam grinning widely at a camera as a young Keith snores in Shiro’s lap. Keith starts bawling some time around gift number three and never really stops. Lance tries to hand him tissues, but after he uses up an entire box decides to let him be a big emotional dork in piece.

“Is this a crystal from the first Balmera we ever visited,” Keith sobs.

Hunk smiles, amused. “It is.”

He makes his way over to Keith’s lawn chair and hugs him tightly for several minutes, muttering something and pressing dozens of kisses into his hair. Keith holds him tightly. Lance himself cries on several occasions, but he’s not alone.

“I just love everyone so much,” Keith blubbers.

“Here we go,” teases Allura, but she’s the one to shoo everyone out of his space to give him a break. “Take a few minutes, darling. Gather yourself. Let me know when you’re up for company again.”

Keith nods at her gratefully. Kosmo makes his way onto Keith’s lap and plants himself there, curling up and laying his head on Keith’s knees. Lance sits on the lawn chair next to Keith, offering him a glass of water that he accepts gratefully.

“I do this every year,” Keith laments, attempting to dry his eyes.

Lance pats him delicately on the hand. “Don’t worry. It’s charming.”

Keith sniffles. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Yes.”

Lance is the only one who hasn’t given Keith his present. Well, and Allura, technically, since she’s part of it. Part of him wants to do it now, get it over with. He even finds the words for it, but then Pidge hollers something about cake, and Keith, who has the biggest sweet tooth in the entire universe, brightens, looking at Lance hopefully, and Lance swallows it down.

“Go sit at the table,” Lance orders. “I’m doing candles and you’re blowing them out.”

“That’s babyish,” Keith protests stubbornly.

“No candles, no cake.”

“Ugh.”

Keith gets up and goes to sit at the table, Kosmo pattering after him.

Smiling to himself, cheeks redder than he would like, Lance ducks back into the kitchen, digging around the cupboards for the candles he bought the other day and carefully pulling the cake out of the fridge.

It’s chocolate-chocolate-chocolate-chocolate. Quadruple chocolate. It’s chocolate cake with chocolate custard and chocolate frosting covered in chocolate decorations. What it is is sugar on a platter, and Keith will devour it. Lance spent more hours than he’s willing to admit on making it. If anyone questions him even a little he is going to die on the spot.

He carefully sticks twenty six candles — one for wishing — on the top of the cake, lighting twenty-five of them. Everyone is already sat down by the time he walks back outside, and the second Coran sees them he starts singing loudly, and everyone else is quick to join in. As much as Keith tries to roll his eyes about the truly startling amount of flame on his cake, nothing he can do can hide the obvious excitement that lights up his face upon sight of the chocolate monstrosity. He takes a deep breath and blows out the candles when the song ends, extinguishing all but one. Immediatey, a ripple of teasing snickers and ooooooou’s fill the air.

“One candle left! You’re gonna get a boyfriend this year!” Pidge shouts, looking directly at Lance.

Both Keith and Lance flush up to their foreheads.

“Cut the cake!” Allura shouts, because she is a true ally and Lance loves her.

Grateful for the distraction, Lance does, nudging Keith out of the way when he tries.

“If you cut the cake then you can’t get the first slice, dorkbrain. Sit down. Let me.”

He does let Lance cut the cake, which makes Lance feel touched for some reason. God, Shiro is right. He needs a psychiatrist. He hates it when Shiro is right.

He’s very smug to receive dozens of compliments on his cake, highest of all from Keith, who scarfs down his first piece in literal seconds (thirty seven, to be exact). He has several more. There will be no leftovers.

But Lance knew that.

It doesn’t take long for people to start milling about again; finishing their dessert and picking at the various fruit trays and chatting and watching the last rays of sun disappear. Lance twitches nervously, stealing glances at Keith, until Allura walks up to him, pinches him on the shoulder, and says, “Get your quiznak together.”

And Lance grumbles, “Yeesh, woman. Alright,” and forces himself to walk over to Keith, who is spinning some hugely exaggerated story to Nadia and Sylvio.

“Children,” Lance says when Keith finally takes a breath, “Tío Lance has to talk to Keith about boring adult things. Go harass your Tío Marco, it will be fun.”

“Quieres tiempo a solas con tu nooooooovioooooo,” the twins singsong in unison, and then run away cackling. Lance flushes bright red and considers pelting strawberries at them like the little shits deserve.

“What was that?” Keith asks, bewildered.

“Probable cause,” Lance mutters darkly.

Keith snorts. “Please don’t murder your niblings.”

“That’ll be my gift to you. Not committing homicide on your birthday.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, not really.”

Keith raises his eyebrows. “You mean…” He gestures vaguely at everything. “This isn’t already my gift?”

Lance shrugs.

“Lance, come on! This is more than enough. It must have taken you weeks to prepare.” He shakes his head, looking at Lance with soft, kind eyes. “You always do so much for me.”

Lance shudders, weak under Keith’s gaze.

“I like to.” He pauses. “I miss you. Always. It — fills the time, to do things for you.”

Keith reaches up and brushes some sand from Lance’s hair. He lingers, after, tracing his fingers along the shell of his ear, resting his hand against Lance’s neck. Lance closes his eyes, leaning into it, letting himself have this affection he’s craved like nothing else for months.

“I miss you, too. Constantly. Sometimes you’re all I think about, up there.” He sighs, and Lance can hear the tired, enticing smile on his face. “Wish you were watching my back again, Sharpshooter. No one else does it quite like you.”

Lance forces his eyes open again, although he can’t bring himself to meet Keith’s eyes. He traces the crooked line of his nose, instead, the tilt of his thick brows.

“You going back tonight?”

“Nah, I’ll stay a couple days. I’ve got nothing pressing for another week.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him, chants the Allura that lives in his head.

Give me a goddamn second, he snaps back at it.

“Uh, Allura and I have been. Working. On a project.”

Keith tilts his head. “Oh?”

“Yeah, she’s here a lot. Obviously.” He gestures to his Altean marks, which he has just remembered are uncovered. He’s fine — all systems are running and he is a-okay. But his situation was a little different than Shiro’s. A little more Frankenstein. Lance depends on quintessence heavier than anyone else — he’s probably fine to make his own and live his life, but…he’s always struggled with depression. And Allura worries. So she wormholes to Earth regularly to hang out and make sure he’s not too low.

They have a lot of time to scheme, the Blue Paladins of Voltron.

“Obviously,” Keith agrees. Unlike everyone else, he doesn’t avoid looking at his marks; doesn’t wince when he’s reminded of them. The only change in his eyes is a look of determination, a renewed intensity in which he watches Lance. It’s a little bit intoxicating.

“I love Earth,” Lance says quietly. “It will always be my home. I will always want to come back here. I want to die here.” He finally meets Keith’s eyes. “But.”

Keith’s eyes are wide. The hand still resting on the curve of Lance’s neck twitches, slightly.

“But?” he asks, breathless.

“I’ve been helping her organize plans for a castleship. A little smaller than the old one, but — you know. Similar. It’s something to do. I’ll feel better knowing you guys are together, up there, fighting as a team together. There’s the Atlas, but it’s not the same. It’s not Voltron.”

“Oh.” Some of the excitement dims from Keith’s expression, although he takes great care to keep the smile firmly on his face. “That’s great, Lance. I miss the castle too. It’ll be a little more stable, and missions will —”

“And I’m coming with you,” Lance blurts.

Keith freezes.

“To space. Permanently. Um, mostly. I still want to come back to Earth and see my mom and everybody but you know. I miss everybody. I’m lonely. And being a farmer is actually super duper boring. No offense to farmers, but I want to shoot shit again. I even miss training, which is crazy, because I hate training —”

“Lance,” Keith says, and Lance says “Yeah?” and then he’s being pulled forward and Keith’s other hand comes to rest on his hip and he is being kissed.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut and words fading from his brain. His hands slide into Keith’s hair without his conscious thought, and he tilts his head and lets Keith devour him as the butterflies storm in his stomach and kisses Keith back like he will get all the breath he needs from Keith’s lungs. His head spins and his knees go weak and Keith smells like pine and sandalwood and his lips are chapped and his hands are calloused and it’s the most wonderfully strange mix of foreign and familiar, bexause Lance knows all these things, but he has never known them in this way.

“Finally!” someone shouts, and soon there are wolf whistles and catcalls and Keith’s smile is pressed against his and Lance can feel the press of his crooked incisors against his bottom lip and he could live off the sensation.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, half-drowned out by the noise of their teasing friends.

“Exactly as I wished it to be,” Keith whispers back, and then kisses him again and again and again.

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velcs · 2 years

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tw: mentions of drowning, tw: vague mentions of kidnapping

when a dark past - who made him a god of the Underworld? Who made him love and exist in darkness, never truly feeling the warmth of other gods ( despite wielding earth and water, the two Grand Elements ), never having their real respect? It certainly wasn’t him - no one in their right mind would choose a lonely, dark fate - but, someone had to do it. As a judge in the underworld, he was Just. fair. Some compared him to Hades, the others called him Slavic Hel ; whatever the names were given to him, he was content in his little dark corner of the world - even when destruction came onto other gods. Unlike the thunderous bitch who scorched the Earth whenever he was feeling a little blue, Veles was seen by the mortals as a chaotic, but otherwise rather benevolent God - he helped with the crops, helped with watering and the grains. His heart had been soft once, but Perun had always cast the first offence, and with every cycle that the Thunder God doesn’t learn his lesson, a part of Veles is chipped off - and his benevolence starts to turn into madness. Perun tainted the thing he loved the most - his Mokosh - until the Sickness of Mortals claimed her ( it was a disease. It was supposed to be his disease, the one he casts when Oaths are broken… but it wasn’t supposed to harm Mokosh. No, this disease came with mortals - came with their lack of belief in numerous Gods. having just one god to pray to was certainly a cheaper alternative. ) foreshadows a darker future - his descension first came unwillingly - when his wife perished he found very little joy in merely existing - but, it was the cruel irony of monotheistic religion which saved him - the correspondence of his with the… what was the name, again? Devil. That’s the image that suits him better - certainly better than a dead, beaten, battered God. he hates the repetitive cycles of his own demise - hell, he even hates the demise of his wife’s daughter with Perun ( though, given their… similarities, he’s always seen Morana as his daughter. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened that twins of a Goddess had two fathers - just look at the whole family drama with the Greeks. Castor and Pollux? It was peak entertainment for him, but could also prove a point. Yes, it was Jarilo he’d stolen from the crib, it was him he keeps stealing from Perun, trying to… reed out the Thunder’s bad blood from the kid. But, he always fails. And Jarilo always drowns Morana. Just like his daddy keeps killing Veles, keeps – no, kept – stealing Mokosh from him. ). But, lately… he’s kept to pissing him off by keeping Dodola company - and Dodola is delicious - she keeps his mind off things that poison his heart. there is no fairness in the destinies of gods - and now what? Now, he is in a boring place, with boring people and minimal power. But, his goal remained the same - beat that little, pompous, egotistical bitch to a pulp. And then make sawdust of that pulp and blow him away to kingdom come. Nothing aside from that One Goal interests him - not even the threat of the same sort of permanent death taking him as well - so long as there’s Devil, there’s also Veles. Now, he sits in a dimly lit, neon corner and offers mortals inviting grins. He doesn’t need to read their fates - they’re all the same, after all ; there’s nothing but death at the end of all their paths.

#{ voices of the old sing to the dead }#a ray of sunshineTM

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4-horsemen-of-the-riordanverse · 3 years

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Why The Percy Jackson Adaptation Should Be Animated

We can have Heroes of Olympus/Trials of Apollo/Magnus Chase series

Percy shows up in four of Rick’s five (at this time) mythology series, those four series have eighteen books spanning six years

Even if Disney could crank out say three in two years, that’s still twelve years, the actors playing Percy, and Annabeth, and Grover, and Thalia, and Clarisse, and many more will be in their twenties when all the books are covered and that’s on a sped up timeline that is unlikely to work in reality

The reality is, we probably won’t get a Heroes of Olympus television series and we definitely won’t get a Trials of Apollo or Magnus Chase series, which is sad as many favorite characters won’t be seen

Grover, Thalia Chiron, and the Gods won’t age

Yes, technically Grover does age, so that title is a bit of a misnomer, but he ages slower than the others, either the whole he’s actually twenty-eight, but satyrs age slower will need to be axed, or he will have to be played by an adult so that he doesn’t age, which will look strange since he’s suppose to look fourteen/fifteen for the entire series

Grover is only a small problem though, how are they going to deal with Artemis or Hestia, both of whom are portrayed as very young ages, the twelve year old playing Artemis will be fourteen, minimum (though, if we want good cgi, she’ll be more likely around sixteen) by the time the show reaches The Last Olympian

Plus, Thalia is suppose to stop aging at fifteen, again, I suppose an adult could play her, it isn’t unheard of for adults to play fifteen/sixteen year olds, but unless they get an actor with a serious baby face, she’ll stand out amongst the children and teens playing the other characters

It’ll be bearable to watch in ten years

Cgi is improving everyday, which is great....until you watch something that’s more that a few years old, when we have newer and better cgi, the monsters and action of Percy Jackson is going to look....well we’ll remember that it looked good once

That is, if they pay attention to details, skimming over detail, especially when making living things with cgi, you risk falling into the uncanny valley (I’m most of us have seen at least a clip of Lion King 2019), if something is off, we will notice, even if we can’t place why

We can have it sooner

Animation for animated series are easier to make than animation for live action series, they don’t have to worry about matching the lighting and shadows because they get to choose the lighting and shadows, no need to worry how the actors are interacting with the animated monster (ex. the Percy actor bumps into Mrs. O’Leary, then goes to pet her, but moves his hand too far forward and now that has to be accounted for)

The battles will probably cause the most delays, anyone watch Game of Thrones? remember how long the final season took to get out? that was because of the major battles spanning multiple episodes, which is exactly what The Last Olympian will be

They wouldn’t have to use child actors

This isn’t a bash on child actors, there are some good ones out there, what I’m concerned about is the children’s well being

Ever read or watch an interview from an ex child actor, especially Disney child actors, it’s brutal and takes a toll on their mental health, there’s even instances where the child doesn’t want to act, their parents are forcing them to

If on the extremely rare chance someone from the Percy Jackson crew is reading this please: let the kids play when they aren’t filming, don’t make them feel guilty for eating, shield them from the inevitable criticism that always comes with an adaption, take care of them, very few people do these things and kids get messed up from that

It’ll be easier to relate to the characters

Acting just doesn’t doesn’t have the same feel as animation, especially when the actors are new to acting

Acting is obvious, we ignore that it is because that’s how you watch live action, but rarely will it ever not feel like people repeating back lines they memorized, that the expressions are calculated and filmed 20 times over to get it right

Animation doesn’t have that, characters feel real, not like they’re acting because they aren’t, making it a lot easier to relate to them

None of the fight scenes will have to be cut

These are children playing these characters, obviously fights scenes are going to be cut and the ones kept are going to be simplified, these kids will probably have limited fighting experience and even if they don’t, they can’t hire children to play stunt doubles for safety reasons, so they won’t do anything too risky

Just imagine the fight scene between Ares and Percy in The Lightning Thief, they’ll probably hire a bigger guy to play Ares, comparing that to tiny Percy, the battle is probably going to look more like a dance number with every movement scripted as to keep Percy’s actor safe

It supports social distancing

Social distancing is still important and animation is easier to do social distanced

We could see every part of camp, not just the parts they built sets of

Camp is big and fantastical and probably will be barely shown, that’s a lot of set to build, so they probably won’t see it all

The big house, interior of the Poseidon, Athena, and Hermes cabins, and the mess hall will most likely be made, but the lava wall? the forge? doubtful

It’s easier to replace actors

Like I mentioned before, there are 18 books if they were willing to make them all, even if /magnus Chase and Kane Chronicles were made along side instead of in between, a lot of actors, especially child actors, don’t want to be stuck playing a character for that long

while no one shows up in ever book, some characters get dropped and brought back, which when being adapted causes actors to be replaced, the actor playing Will in The Last Olympian will probably not be the actor playing Will in Blood of Olympus (that is, if they even make Heroes of Olympus)

They won’t have to sacrifice the small details

Wouldn’t it be cool to have a Nico and Bianca cameo in the Lotus scene? won’t happen, what about characters slowly getting more scars after each battle to symbolize the trauma half-bloods carry with them? Luke will probably be the only character with a scar, see a background character that resembles minor characters like Drew or Kayla or Castor and Pollux? that’s not going to happen

Small details that make the story will be tossed to the side, mostly because it isn’t feasible in live action, I think the Lotus scene is the best example, seeing Nico and Bianca there in the background would be so cool, but they don’t age in the Lotus hotel, and it’ll take probably 14 to 18 months to make a season, let’s say 14 months for now, that’s over two years between their cameo and they’re actual appearance, a very obvious difference when discussing 10 and 12 year olds

All in all, this is just in my opinion and preference

Will I still watch if it’s live action, of course, it’s Percy Jackson

It won’t be as good as something animated and I’m sad I’ll never see some of my favorite characters on the big screen, but at least we’ll be getting a decent adaptation

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dharma-divine · 2 years

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DIOSKOUROI - Meet The Characters

Here is a little insight into the personalities and abilities of the character's of my new series, coming soon.

If you haven't already, go read my sneak peak of what's to come.

Taglist: (let me know if you want to be added): @garbagevanfleet @gardenvanfleet @alwayzthere @jakekiszska @sammygvfslut @gretavanhoney @maverick-rose @fosterkidwiththebrokenjaw @aureummel @joshysgf @obetrolncocktails @capturethechaos @tlexx @charlesashton @garagebandvanfleet @janegvf @ghostly-luck @myownparadise96 @jakeslovehandles @sparrowofthedawn @idk-maddie @theweightofstardust @danny-wagners-peacesign-necklace

The Twins:

Influences —

*Castor and Pollux —

Known together in Greek and Roman mythology as ‘Dioskouroi’ and representing the Gemini constellation, Castor and Pollux are the sons of Leda, queen of Sparta. The twins are the product of heteropaternal superfecundation, a rare phenomena where two ova from the same cycle are fertilized by two different men, on two separate occasions, resulting in a pair of twins that are genetically half siblings. Though the legend varies, many say that Leda was impregnated with Castor by her mortal husband and king of Sparta, Tyndareus, just before being seduced by Zeus, god of the sky, under the guise of a swan. Zeus impregnated Lena with a second divine child, Pollux, who inherited his father’s immortality, while his half-brother remained mortal. According to one version of the myth, Castor met an unruly fate following a battle between their cousins, Ida and Lynceus, over their impending marriage to two priestess sisters that Castor and Pollux also sought to betrothe. Castor was able to kill Lynceus in the battle, but he was slain by Idas after trying to intervene with the rise of his brother’s funeral monument. Zeus killed Idas with a thunderbolt in retribution for Castor, and granted Pollux the ability to share his immortality with his brother so that they could continue traveling the cosmos together, with their time split in half between Olympus and the Underworld fields of Elysium.

Joint Abilities —

Premonition — the ability to receive a vision about the future of an object or person with or without touching them

Psychic Echo —connected to the power of premonition, a psychic echo is when two psychics are physically and/or mentally connected

Pyromancy — ability to spy on a target through fire, usually to gather information.

Partial Immortality — the ability to avoid aging, but not death entirely

Josh —

Previously God of Persuasion, Mortal Demigod

Personality

Josh is thoughtful, witty, and sagacious; and he wins nearly every argument he gets himself into. He is as charming as can be, but in a sweet, hospitable kind of way. He’s respectful, never pushing any physical or emotional boundaries unless completely necessary, but fiercely stubborn. He is willing to do whatever it takes for the people he loves.

Influences —

Mercury — god of commerce, eloquence, communication, divination

Peitho — goddess of persuasion and seduction

Keen abilities

Astral Projection — the ability to project the consciousness into an astral form outside of the body

Audible Inundation — the power to overwhelm someone's mind with voices.

Dream Leaping — the ability to project into people's dreams and manipulate them

Luring — the power to tempt and persuade someone to obey your will and do your bidding

Voice Echo — the ability to project one's voice to a place without being present

Levitation — the ability to rise into the air and float in apparent defiance of gravity

Jake —

Mortal Demigod

Personality

Jake is much more impetuous and unhinged than his twin; he tends to act before he thinks, which may account for why he was slain during his noble offense. The brothers share their ability to charm, but Jake’s method is much more tantalizing and seductive. He’s reserved in the sense that he doesn’t like to talk or socialize as much as Josh, but he isn’t afraid to show interest, or disinterest, in anyone who has the fortune to cross paths with him.

Influences .

Eros — god of love and passion

Priapus — god of fertility and sex

Hephaestus — god of fire

Keen Abilities —

Clairaudience — The ability to hear what people outside natural hearing range are saying

Pyrokinesis — The ability to generate and control fire

Mind Stunning — The act of bemusing and rendering someone unconscious

You, The Reader —

Mortal Demigoddess

Personality

Even though you’re not very familiar with the world outside of a sheltered home, you’re incredibly intelligent, creative, and most of all, intuitive. You’ve always known you had the potential for something extraordinary, but never spoke of such—not that you ever had the opportunity to, considering the only other living beings you spent your time with before Acaber were Aunt Edith and Lazlo. You’re yearning for something more than the mundane life you’ve experienced thus far, so much so that you may possibly lose yourself a bit in the midst of your newfound freedom.

Influences

Aphrodite — goddess of love and protection

Hecate — goddess of magic

Athena — goddess of wisdom and war

Keen Abilities

Premonition —the ability to receive a vision about the future of an object or person with or without touching them or those.

Enhanced Intuition — developed from premonition, this is the ability to anticipate or sense danger before it occurs

Scrying — the ability to search with a crystal to find a lost object or person

Telekinesis —the ability to move objects and individuals by using your mind, channeled through the eyes or hands

#this may be updated as I continue to write #so check back again later :-)#dioskouroi #my work #twins #thank u for your patience on this project<3

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theaspers · 4 years

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you feel like home | satan x reader

a/n: i’m too lazy to finish this but i got lazy towards the end so here, you can have it. college au so everyone’s human here but u will find i rarely ever write satan’s name and that’s only bc it’s so weird to write it and think about how in this au a set of parents thought naming their child satan is ok lol. this will be the only time u see me use a post divider bc it’s that messy.

here is how it usually is:

satan wakes up with a start. his breathing is heavy, every gasp sounding terribly like it might be his last, and his eyes are wild. this isn’t fear because he is not afraid. he is never afraid. rather, it is anger. anger at himself, at his brothers, at anyone and everyone who has ever wronged him before. fiery red and burnt orange, anger in all possible forms and shapes and sizes, rolling off of him in waves.

there is not many places in which he finds respite from the barrage of emotions he constantly feels. but when you wake up, bleary-eyed and groggy, and say nothing, waiting with the utmost patience for him to return. when you wrap an arm around his shoulders, careful and cautious. when you tug him down and hum a little tune under your breath that lulls him back to sleep. it’s as close to one as he’ll ever get, he thinks.

for a fleeting second, he thinks about telling you of his feelings. vomit it all out so he doesn’t have to sit any longer with the uncomfortable feelings that’s been bubbling at the pit of his stomach for far too long. but your fingers are too gentle as they press against his still-pounding heart, and your eyes are too tender as they meet his own. there’s an unusually bright beam of moonlight spilling across your features from the gap between the curtains and it makes you look as dazzling as ever. it wouldn’t be right to ruin such a beautiful moment, he thinks, to ruin such a beautiful person with all of whatever he is. so he doesn’t.

repeat and recycle.

you are kind. with him, you’ve managed to practice this weird balance of confident indifference and empathy that just works for him. it’s never been like that before. not when he’d lost his parents but had felt relieved instead of the expected grief. not when his sister had died and had taken along with her a good portion of everyone’s soul. not when he’d finally just upped and left because the tension in the house was getting too much for him to bear.

he has no parents, he told you once, a long time ago. a green haze of disgust had curled around him and eyes steaming, rolling and boiling. the grip he had on the stack of papers he’d been flicking through caused ripples across the filled pages. you know this fact, clever enough to have gathered as much from how much he soured whenever parents were mentioned, but he had never outright admitted it.

“you’re ruining my notes,” you’d said to him instead of the pity he is all too familiar with. there had been a deep furrow between your eyebrows, displeasure in your frown, “i worked extremely hard on that.”

it had been relief, looking back now, that had filled him up to the brim. his heart had felt full, but not in the bad way - always in the good way with you - and he’d felt unburdened for once. he looked at you then, eyebrows raised. where he thought there would be anger, there was only amusement. he’d only known you for a handful of months but somehow he’d expected as much from you. and it’s comfortable.

“the world’s full of awful, terrible people who shouldn’t be parents,” you’d pointed at him with an opened highlighter pen, waving the neon tip in his direction, “doesn’t mean you’re awful or terrible too.”

huh.

“and it certainly doesn’t mean i want to spend my whole afternoon talking about them,” your frown turned into a scowl as you reached over the tabletop filled with textbooks and worn notebooks and loose papers, “give those here if you’re not gonna treat them right.”

light laughter spilled out of his lips as he pulled the notes away. you were kind. too kind. looking back, that must have been the start of it all.

you’re curled up in a hoodie, crumpled up on the sofa in a way he’s sure is not good at all for your posture but he’s long given up trying to chastise you over it. face smooshed against the arm of the chair, a textbook draped open over your chest in a way that makes him wince, you looked positively ridiculous. ignoring the pang of fondness, he nudges you with his knee.

“come on,” he says, closing the textbook and putting it aside, “let’s get you to bed.”

you groan but are otherwise easily coaxed into bed, curling into his side as he lead you to your room. the fondness magnifies immensely. that you’d spent the better half of yesterday revisiting old topics and making notes which is why you’re so tired right now is somehow endearing to him. he brushes his lips against your forehead as he watches you settle into bed. if he spends a bit more time lingering at the door, no one would know.

he doesn’t want to say it’s because of you but you did play a big part in it. he talks more to his brothers now and it’s, well, good. it’s the distance and the fresh air too, maybe.

he doesn’t have parents but he does have 6 brothers, he’d admitted one quiet night. the two of you had been lying on your backs, the clear night sky spread out over your figures, gorgeous swirls of different shades of blacks and dark blues with specks of bright diamond jewels. 6 brothers and a sister who had passed and had taken a piece of all of them with her.

“oh.” you’d said but you already knew about his brothers because he’d told you. not so much in stories, of course, but through bits and pieces he’d mentioned here and there. beel likes that snack, he would tell you and so you’d tell him to send some to him. asmo’s been talking to him about a brand new make up collection that’ll be released soon and so you’d tell him that you’ll keep an eye out. but the thing about his sister - that’s new.

the hurt is still there even though it’s been a long time now. raw pain as if his chest is dangerously exposed and someone’s gone ahead and ripped his still-beating heart out of him. he has yet to find that heart, it seems. it still hurts but ever since he’d left, he’s been able to breathe a bit better. see past the green and grey cloud that hovered over him and his brothers when he’d been at home.

“that one’s orion,” you’d murmured, and he knows it’s just you trying to digest his words, trying to figure out a good response, “people use that one to find other stars too, did you know that?”

he did, in fact. but still, he’d watched, quiet as you pointed out a few others. your eyes are wonder-filled, the twinkle brighter than anything else in the sky, and it had left him breathless. the tightness around his throat had loosened. southeastward and there is sirius, you’d said, in awe and in love. from rigel to betelgeuse, there is gemini - the stars castor and pollux.

“it must be stuffy to be immortalised like that, huh?” you’d turned him then, meeting his eyes, smile gentle, “always expected to be same. unchanging. must be suffocating.”

a stray chuckle leaves him, weak.

“just let it happen,” you told him afterwards and he’d wanted to laugh even more because it shouldn’t be that easy to absolve him of everything he’s been feeling but it had been. “all i’m saying is that you don’t need to feel guilty anymore.”

“talk to them,” you suggested, no hesitation, letting him lean against you, “they lost a sister too, you know?”

there’s a lecture that he has to attend in about an hour but you’re still snoring away on your side of his bed and it’s so tempting to join you in sweet slumber. you don’t have classes until later on so you’re good but he’ll be late if he dallies for any longer.

but he can’t seem to pull himself away from you. so he takes this in, the absolute mess in the morning. listens to your steady breathing. savours the moment and keeps it close. a beautiful solace that he’ll allow himself for when he needs the reprieve.

“ha,” there’s a smug curl to your lips, eyelids fluttering open as if knowing that he’d been starting, “nerd. go to class.”

he rolls his eyes. he could always count on you to ruin a tender moment.

“you should get one for lucifer,” the words barely leave your mouth before you’re laughing, from a tiny little snicker to full blown laughter, “for- for cerberus.”

the hand that’s holding out your phone for him to see the page full of ugly little suit for dogs shakes wildly. he scowls at the mention of his eldest brother and you laugh even more, setting down your utensils in favour of rubbing the tears that have sprung up in the corner of your eyes from laughing too hard.

“are you going back for the break?” you ask once you’ve calmed down, reaching over to pull his plate of pie closer to yourself. you pick up your fork once more, digging into the soft pastry.

he curls his nose at the prospect of going back home, “unfortunately.”

“unfortunately,” you parrot playfully, rolling your eyes. “yeah, okay.”

“it’s been a long time coming anyways,” you grin around the mouthful of pie, “they miss you, i think. and don’t tell me you don’t miss them too.”

he sighs, shakes his head as he tugs his plate back over to his side. he knew he shouldn’t have given asmo your phone number. he would never attest to the happiness that blooms in chest. no one would be able to prove it, anyways.

here’s how it is now:

he reels you into a hug as he’s about to leave for back home. he feels as light as a feather, and he has to admit, he’s a bit...excited. when the two of you break apart, he says thank you and gives you an earnest smile. he has to suppress his laughter when feels the way you shudder in his arms.

something’s changing. and change is, well, good. in most cases. and this is one of those cases. it’s good. he’s not afraid, he tells you, he’s never afraid. there is no fear. no anger. just adoration and fondness. for you.

and so he decides in that moment - when he gets back, he’ll let you know.

#and then he never comes back lolol im jk...or am i?#obey me #obey me swd #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #obey me satan

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cyndecreativity · 3 years

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Day 6 - Go home, you’re drunk

Mask – Firemen’s Carry – “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

Tristan hates parties and will accept any reason to get out of them. Even if it means taking his drunk friend to his room over his shoulders.

~1600 words

---

He hated balls. He hated fancy gatherings of any kind, diplomatic or otherwise. He hated masquerades the most. At no point could he hide his identity with a mask, much less any more than that. He stood at least a head tall over almost every other person, his body wide enough for two, his horns even wider. Simply strapping a fancy leather or paper mask on his face could not hide any of that.

Mostly he hated the people. They made him nervous, memories of bullying haunting him from his childhood. And so many approached him asking inappropriate questions about his size, or girth, or other things that Alden had translated later as lewd and lascivious. He had little to no interest in those things and he tired of the banter about it. He had so much knowledge and so many opinions about other things and all they seemed to care about lie with the bedroom.

And the food? Too small for his enormous hands. He had to scoop up almost half a tray before he felt even remotely satisfied. And he found it incredibly bland. He never realized how many different spices and how much his father added to his food until he ventured into the world and discovered so many bland and boring foods. Sandwiches with some kind of sweet cream and fruits, or a white egg-based spread and vegetables mixed together, or meats with no seasonings, starches with no gravy, or gravy with no spices. He eventually learned what he enjoyed and stayed mostly by the beverages for the rest of the evening.

Alden had finally had a special mug made for him to carry that at least looked proportional to his size and meant he did not have to keep refilling it almost every sip. It allowed him the virtue of wandering the space, avoiding members of the delegations or nobles or nosy mothers that wanted to set him up with their daughters. Just lift the mug to his lips and glance around the room, then nod as if answering a summon from someone far away got him out of most situations. With his height, most people simply assumed that missed his conversation partner and allowed him time to mingle.

The thing he hated the most, however, came later in the evening. Most of these parties, after any and all children left the room, brought out the alcohol. It only increased the number of unsolicited lewd commentary and patrons approaching him but swaying as they loudly proclaimed obvious facts about his size, the refreshments, or someone else at the party. Alden encouraged him to simply nod and let them bore themselves into finding a more fun partner to drunkenly shout with.

But he had to attend the gatherings. All the friends he made over his journey implored him that he had to show himself to be sociable, or at least accessible, to prove that he cared about the people and not simply the lands hit hardest by the plague that Ophiuchus had spread through Solomon. The Elementals would weaken if the people did not care for their environment, and they would not care for their environment is the embodiments of the Elements did not care for them. He hated the thought process, that there were those that cared so little about others, be they animal, plants, or otherwise, would require some kind of incentive to do their duty to the land they inhabited.

Another shouting drunk approached him to ask about his mask. He had to have his tailor-made for his large head and face and horns, but he requested a simple one. They shouted something slurred in a language he had yet to study, pointed to him, then to their own mask. He nodded and smiled and they laughed.

“Still just as miserable as ever, eh, big guy?”

He slumped slightly at the entrance of a familiar voice. “Idania, I can’t understand them! They all speak Water or Air and none of them seem to care that I don’t.”

She giggled and placed a hand on his lower arm. “Well, the good news is, you might be able to get out of here early. The Prince- Alden has decided to drink this evening and forgot that he is a lightweight. He’s a bit hammered and needs to be taken back to his rooms.”

Tristan’s brow lifted with heavy interest. Then his eyes narrowed. “Why ask me though?”

Spirits bless her, he watched her brow disappear into a furrow under her mask. “Do you want to keep clinging to the walls for people to come shout that you bear a striking resemblance to the Earth Djinn-“ Of course she knew other languages, “Or would you rather take his Imperial Majesty back to his rooms and escape for the evening to the quiet solitude of your herbology books?”

A burden lifted from his shoulder and he stood a little straighter. “I would be glad to escort his Imperial Majesty back to his bedroom.”

Her tailed curled slightly. “I thought as much. Come on, then, I’ll take you to him.”

As they moved through the ballroom, he wondered when she had become the kind of person that people parted for. He remembered, unbidden, his first meeting with her, a strung out and tortured slave deposited into the wagon that would take them out of Pollux. He remembered how demure she acted around Alden and Sophie, the pain that practically ebbed from her at the familiarity her former friend held for the Virgo Princess. He remembered how she faded into the shadows, performing simple, menial tasks such as laundry or shopping or cooking without any of them asking or noticing, waking up to a stew over a campfire with clothes drying nearby as she mended another of his shirts, ripped from another growth spurt. And now, at this party, she held her chin high and nodded to people as she moved through the room, all eyes on her, the muzzle on her tail jingling delicately to alert her presence.

He wanted the confidence she had. The confidence given to her by the Water Djinn, by abandonment and struggle that forced her to emerge from her shell. But how?

“It’s really quite simple, my lord-. Oh no, it is ‘my lord’, isn’t it? I can never remember anymore.” Alden swayed, little punch mug in hand, beside an equally drunk Virgo.

“Come, kelara, it’s time to settle in for the night.” Idania lifted her skirt slightly to step up onto the dais where Alden stood.

The Scorpio Emperor’s face scrunched into the center, unhappy. “Didn’t we already have this conversation? I’m fine, my love.”

Idania smiled sweetly and gestured for his beverage. He sneered at her hand but relinquished the alcohol. She kissed him on the cheek and he melted a bit. The Virgo cooed at their interaction and Alden grinned. He spoke something in Water that Tristan barely understood and waggled his eyebrows. The Virgo’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline and he cackled. Alden turned to fling himself into Idania’s arms, which she accepted with the grace of an easily startled alpaca, and looked to Tristan.

He closed the distance and held his special punch mug to Idania. His hands now free, the large Taurus took Alden’s wrist. He leaned down, careful about his horns and the soft covers over the ends, and pressed his shoulder into Alden’s middle. The smaller man grunted, then elicited a joyous and quiet “Weee~!” as Tristan straightened up, the drunken Scorpio draped over the back of his neck. He felt Alden’s tail against his head, the Emperor’s bells jingling on his muzzle, and looked to Idania.

The Virgo jumped back, surprised at the sight, and Idania bowed to him. “Apologies for our abrupt departure, my lord. We’ll see you tomorrow?”

The man nodded absently and watched Tristan and Idania move carefully around the edge of the ballroom to the exit. Idania led him absently through the Virgo palace, no longer the same glamorous estate from his first visit. Sophie had gone out of her way to sell off the ostentatious décor to place that money back into the populace as soon as she took the crown.

Idania placed her cup on a small hall table outside the door of the Scorpio’s shared suite and fished her key from her muzzle. When asked about her multipurpose muzzles, she said no one bothered to check there for fear of a Scorpio’s venom and stinger.

She thanked him profusely after he dumped her husband on the bed. She brought a clean chamberpot to the bedside and peeled her mask off.

“Goodness I hate those gatherings.” She slumped onto the bed and slipped her shoes off.

Tristan’s brow furrowed. “You seem to fit right in.”

Her dark brow lifted, a sardonic chuckle from her. “It can be fairly exhausting pretending to be someone you’re not.”

Tristan removed his mask. “Both of you?”

Thick boots thudded on the floor by a pile of others and she stood to start removing Alden’s. “All of us. You were pretty excited to get out of there, right?”

He pressed his lips together. She had a point.

“Go rest and recharge, big guy. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow. When His Imperial Majesty is a little more sober. I wouldn’t want to spill any secrets he doesn’t want to share.”

#promptober #promptober 2021 #zodiac #zodiac chronicles #writeblr #writblr #my wip #wip

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 3 years

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Wedding Colors (Part 3)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

13:00—lunch. For the first time since the ominous day in July that she’d descended into the gloom of 13, Effie’s belly was full. As weeks had turned into months, she hadn’t felt hunger. She’d picked at meals and pushed unpalatable food around her tray. But now something was different. Flint scraped over steel inside her like the wind across her cheeks that morning. Her spoon repeatedly clinked the bottom of the bowl of squash soup. It took every ounce of restraint to not bring the whole bowl to her mouth and tilt it upward to collect the last drops.

Keenly observant, Cressida noted, “That’s new.”

“What?”

“You finishing a meal here.” She dropped her voice. “Are you pregnant, Trinket?”

Effie’s face flushed scarlet, blushing through burnt cheeks. “Bite your tongue!” she snapped.

Cressida glanced at Pollux, and Effie recognized her own faux pas. “Please excuse me. I wasn’t thinking about...”

Interacting with an Avox who was a regular citizen rather than a servant of the Capitol was still a new experience for her.

Pollux signed, “No problem,” and his brother offered the translation.

Effie returned her attention to the inquisitive filmmaker. “I’m JUST hungry. Must a woman be pregnant in order to finish a bowl of soup?” She whispered “pregnant” as if saying it too loudly might invite the situation. Or just as worrisome, Haymitch could walk in at that moment, hear the word, flip out, and not touch her again. Now that she’d opened the Pandora’s box of sex with him, she didn’t want to put a lid back on it.

“Okay. I get it.” Cressida was intrigued by Effie’s blush, but otherwise mollified. “You like the soup. End of story.”

It was golden orange in color and lightly flavored with spices that tasted like autumn. Ginger was recognizable, but the others were a mystery to Effie. Her experience with cooking was mostly limited to a course she’d taken a decade and a half prior at Charis School of Grace, Beauty, and Charm.

Her mother had insisted on “Finishing School” for Effie after she graduated from the Academy. The summer classes had been a compromise, since her father was resolute in his intention to send her to University. He’d even dipped into his personal inheritance to pay extra tuition when her test scores didn’t qualify her outright for admission.

“Charis will focus Euphemia on the most sophisticated etiquette and deportment, preparing her for marriage into greater wealth,” her mother argued.

“University will prepare Effie for a practical career suited to her strongest skills,” her father contended.

“Grace, beauty, and charm ARE her strongest skills. Face it, dear. Like you, our daughter lacks the talent to be a Gamemaker.”

“She has the talent to be more than a rich man’s wife.”

“If I were the wife of a RICH man, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

Their barbs stung each other. After years of practice, the Trinkets knew just where to aim them. They agreed that Effie needed a path which would secure an optimal future for the family. Neither of them asked her what she wanted.

If they’d asked back then, she would have had one specific answer. And if she was honest with herself now, her deepest desire was exactly the same. If she’d voiced it then, her parents would have sent her to the Asylum first before anything else. So she said nothing about it.

By 18, she’d become a master at the art of knowing when to hold her tongue. She’d internalized the pressure to please her parents and reflect positively on her family’s name and station in society. The burden of doing so was a heavy weight on her shoulders.

Effie’s shoulders ached too from the physical work of gathering and carrying around large sacks of perfect leaves. She daydreamed about a bath full of bubbles followed by a nap on a real bed. Allowing the fantasy was a mistake because then her body screamed for it.

She wondered if even babies were allowed to nap here, or did they get merely a half hour of “reflection” before dinner like everyone else? Did they have daily schedules imprinted on their chubby little arms? Eat. Poop. Sleep. What else did the tiny things do? She’d never paid much attention to them in the Capitol. Had she ever seen a baby in 13? She couldn’t recall.

***

14:00—volunteering. The children would be out of school soon. Plutarch told her to expect them along with anyone who was between work shifts. Coin was allowing more flexibility than usual in order to encourage volunteerism. Effie considered the irony in the word spelled out on her arm in purple ink. Following schedules was mandatory. Once “volunteering” is tattooed on your body, doesn’t it cease to be voluntary?

That place made her head hurt if she thought about it too much. She pulled her rose-tinted sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on, hoping the change in light would temper some of the ache, and help her feel less vulnerable.

“Ready or not, here I go,” she said out loud.

She approached the kitchen staff for permission to use large plastic serving bowls to hold the leaves at the tables. The kitchen manager, a middle aged woman named Cuire, put up resistance, muttering something about needing authorization from the president.

Greasy Sae showed no qualms about interjecting. “Now, those leaves ain’t all that different from a salad. We’ll have the bowls washed again long before dinner service.”

The older woman, with her hair up in a kerchief more plain than Effie’s, carried a stack of serving bowls through the doorway without waiting for the manager’s consent. She returned to the kitchen for more until every serving bowl in 13 was in the dining hall. Cuire pursed her lips but said nothing.

Sae pulled a handful of leaves out of one of the canvas bags and dropped them into a bowl. “The list of procedures here’s a mile long. Sometimes the only way to keep these folks from sayin’ ‘no’ is to just not ask ‘em. And then work fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Effie joined her efforts to quickly transfer the leaves to the bowls. “Thank you, Sae.”

“Thank YOU, girl. Gatherin’ up all these to make pretty things for the weddin’, you must be exhausted.”

“I had help. From Haymitch.”

“Did you?”

“I had to ambush him.”

“Nah. As often as that boy looks at you, I’d guess he went willingly.”

Ambushed and willing. Yes, he was.

Beetee wheeled up to her with several spools of wire, wire cutters, rolls of electrical tape, and several pairs of scissors.

“The copper color is PERFECT!” Effie gushed.

“This wire is at least a hundred years old,” he replied with little emotion, “The only reason it shows no corrosion is because 13 is fastidious about its storage conditions, including adequate air circulation. The gauge is small. The electrical current from present technologies, would overload and overheat it. The wire is rather useless actually.”

“Well, we’ve found a use for it!”

“In the absence of copper tape, this seems the best match, which is ironic since brown is typically used for high voltages. And high voltages would burn right through this particular wire.”

“We’re just making garlands today, not blowing out an arena!”

“You’re speaking non-metaphorically, of course. We might hope the propo will play a role in shattering the Capitol’s grip on the restless minds of its citizens... That said, it isn’t my intention to imply that YOUR mind is gripped and restless.”

A gripped and restless mind sounded fairly accurate to Effie. “I doubt the Capitol views me as its citizen at this point.” I guess that makes me homeless, even though my family home, my apartment, my belongings, my entire history are all there.

Beetee noticed her smile fade. “You might be right about that. ...I’m sorry.”

After seeing what her victors had been through and what they were still going through, she felt uncomfortable being apologized to by a victor who she held in high regard. I don’t deserve an apology, though manners dictated the proper response to an apology was a gracious, “Thank you.”

“Will you be staying to help?” she added.

“I’m needed in Special Defense. Bring the leftover supplies when you come down later.”

“Beetee, thank you for this.”

The clock was ticking. Effie went to work immediately, arranging leaves in alternating colors and shapes and adhering the stems to a long length of wire.

“What a beautiful pattern!” A friendly voice spoke over Effie’s shoulder. She turned to see Delly Cartwright whose blonde hair fell free of its usual braid.

“An artisan! Delly, I’m grateful you’re here to help with production and quality control.”

From their occasional chats at mealtimes, Effie had learned that Delly’s parents had been shoemakers, and 13 put her to work in textile production as soon as she’d turned 18.

“Me? An artisan?”

“You WILL be, dear. I’ve seen your stitching. I’ve also observed your congenial way with people.” Effie cut a long length of wire for Delly and set her up with supplies to work at another table. “Let’s spread around the talent.”

When school let out, Delly’s younger brother was the first to arrive, not wanting to go “home” to empty quarters. Posy Hawthorne followed close at his heels, skipping to keep up with his much longer legs.

“Stop followin’ me!” he told her.

“I’m not followin’ you. We’re just goin’ the same place, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re a baby, and I don’t want you sittin’ at MY table.”

“Cordwain!” Delly interjected, “That’s not polite!”

“I’m FIVE years old, and I’ll sit wherever I please, CordWAIN.” With three older brothers, Posy could hold her own in disagreements with just about anyone, especially boys. Effie admired that along with her manners.

“Aw, Dellyyyy,” her brother whined, “You’re supposed to call me Cord!”

“You apologize to Posy, and I won’t have to be so stern.”

“Do I HAVE to?! She’s just Vick’s little sister.”

“And you’re MY little brother, so, yes, you do. You know Ma and Pa would say so if—“

“Ma and Pa are dead!” Cord sat at the table with Delly and folded his arms across his chest.

Delly sighed, and her tone softened, “Cordy, honey, that’s all the more reason to apologize.”

His lip quivered, and he muttered in a hoarse voice. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry they died,” Posy empathized, “My daddy died b’fore I was born.”

She sat across from Effie and looked at her for a long fifteen seconds. Effie wasn’t used to children being so young. The girl’s dark hair fell long past her shoulders in two braids. Her gray eyes were deeply set. She had the look of a person who’d seen the shadow of death and kept going.

“I like your pink glasses.” Posy twirled one of her braids around her finger. “I used to have pink ribbons. Two of ‘em.”

“When I was your age, I wore pink ribbons in my hair. Pink was my favorite color.”

“Mine too! Gale says we can’t go back fer the ribbons. He says they’re gone. Do you think they’re gone?”

“Well... I...” For goodness sake. What does one say to a child whose district was fire bombed to rubble?

Cord muttered some more, “Of course they’re gone!”

Posy ignored him, waiting for Effie’s response.

“Your brother, Gale, is wise, dear.” Effie saw her expectant little face fall. “I am going to your district tomorrow. With Katniss. Would you like for me to look for the ribbons so you know for certain?”

Posy nodded.

“Then I’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime would you like to help make a garland? There aren’t any pink leaves, but there are other pretty colors.”

Posy reached into the bowl and pulled out a red one. “Can I do this one?”

“Of course. Let me show you.”

Effie demonstrated with a different leaf then watched Posy’s small fingers peel and cut the tape and use it to add her chosen leaf to the copper wire.

“How’s that?” the girl asked.

The tape was crooked. The leaf was crooked, and it didn’t fall in line with the pattern. Effie considered telling her so. Aemilia Trinket certainly would have. And for that reason if no other, Effie said to the five-year/old, “That’s wonderful, dear.”

Posy beamed. “You’re nice. You’re not scary at all! I’m gonna go tell Rory that he’s wrong.” She hopped out of the chair and skipped away, turning around long enough to say, “I’ll be back!”

Effie watched her go, not knowing quite what to think. Rory?... She couldn’t remember who that was. One of the Hawthorne boys?

“This year would have been Rory’s first reaping,” Delly explained.

Effie didn’t need to hear anything more in order to understand. The truth split her heart. Half of it dropped like lead into her stomach. The other half rose up into her throat, threatening to choke her.

The children are afraid of me.

Even without a reaping ball in front of me, they are still afraid.

In that moment, she didn’t have time or space to process the realization. She just sat there, forcing a smile, trying to keep the vacant feeling in her chest from showing on her face. As volunteers streamed into the dining hall, she swallowed the lump in her throat, pressed her palm to her stomach, and directed the project as planned.

More children arrived giggling and singing, 🎶”Come live with me and be my love...”🎶 It was the beginning of District 4’s wedding song, which they’d started learning in school. 🎶”...I'll take you out upon the sea...”🎶 drew them into conversation about how the ocean might look, feel, sound, smell, and taste. None of them had ever been to the seashore. They’d only seen it in books.

🎶”...To share the starry night with you...” 🎶 intrigued them too. Some of the children from 12 tried to describe the stars to the kids from 13 who had never been above ground at night. “A star is like the tip of the flame of a candle that never flickers.”... “They just pop out in the sky as it’s changing from blue to black.”... “My grandma says stars are ghosts that come to visit us at night. Good ghosts, not scary ones.”... “Ghosts ain’t real.”... “Are so!”... “Are not!”

Dozens of adults were there to cut wire and strips of tape for the younger children and to ensure the garlands turned out beautifully.

With so many helping hands, Effie had to let go of her precise plans. The work of other artisans became apparent as some patterns emerged which were even more pleasing than what Plutarch and Effie envisioned.

Boggs showed up, carrying his son on his hip. The boy seemed younger than Posy, though Effie was far from an expert about children under 12. Boggs sat at a table with the boy in his lap. The little one reached for the leaves just as Boggs’ communicuff started flashing wildly. “Damon, buddy, President Coin is calling. I’ve just lost my break time. I’m going to need to take you back to daycare, but maybe Miss Trinket will let you take one of the leaves with you?” Boggs gave Effie a pleading look. The last thing he needed just then was an upset kid.

Damon’s big brown eyes welled up with tears. He wiped them away with the backs of his hands which were filled with leaves that he didn’t want to let go. Since the epidemic, Boggs and his son had been on their own. Looking into those teary eyes, Effie couldn’t help but feel for them. The feeling seeped into that empty space in her chest, and eased a bit of the void.

“Your son can stay awhile, if you’d like. Then I can take him back to daycare.”

“Are you sure? He’s a handful, and you have a lot going on here.”

Seeing herself in the moment as “scary ghost” rather than a star, Effie definitely was NOT sure that she was the right person to be looking after a young child. “Of course, I’m sure,” she spoke through her smiling mask.

“What do you say, buddy? Do you want to stay with Miss Trinket and make a garland, or do you want me to take you back to daycare now?”

“It’s Effie. The only one who calls me Miss Trinket around here is Mr. Heavensbee.” She laughed.

Damon climbed down from Boggs’ lap and up into Effie’s. “Oh! Well, hello,” she said, pushing her chair back far enough to make room for him. He was heavier than he’d looked in the strong arms of his father. He squirmed around reaching for everything at once: more leaves of every shape and color, scissors...

Boggs’ eyes widened.

Effie handed Damon a roll of tape in trade for the scissors. “You can hold the tape, and I’LL do the cutting.”

‘Thank you,’ Boggs mouthed the words then told his son, “This is an important job, soldier. Effie is your commanding officer. Are you going to take this work seriously and mind what she tells you to do?”

“Yeth, thir, Daddy, thir!” His lisp melted Effie’s heart.

“At ease, little man. I’ll pick you up from daycare at 18:00.” Boggs kissed his son’s forehead, and Damon was already hard at work attempting to peel tape off the roll.

As Effie helped the boy put leaves on the wire, Posy returned, accompanied by one of her brothers who hurried to claim an open seat next to Cord. Posy skipped up to Effie and patted her head. “I got Vick to come, but Rory’s stubborn. YOU know how boys can be.”

Effie looked up from the table to see Haymitch leaning against a pillar near the edge of the dining hall. He was watching her closely. The expression on his face was a loaded mix of curiosity and seriousness.

“Yes, I do know how boys can be,” Effie agreed, “Especially when they are afraid.”

Haymitch had never seen Effie around little kids, and he was fascinated. The Hawthorne girl chattered on and on, tucking leaf stems into the top knot of Effie’s kerchief. Boggs’ kid was in Effie’s lap, crushing leaves with his hands and unwrapping tape for her to cut with scissors. A girl Haymitch didn’t recognize sat to the side, touching Effie’s bracelet. “Is this silver and gold?” the kid asked.

“This s costume jewelry,” Effie answered.

“What’s ‘costume’?” the girl wanted to know.

“A costume is... something you might wear when you are... pretending.”

The Hawthorne girl said to the other one, “You can wear one of my pink ribbons sometime, and we can pretend to be twins... if Effie finds my ribbons in 12 tomorrow.”

Effie locked eyes with Haymitch. “I promised I’d look, Posy, but please don’t get your hopes up, dear.”

He was trying to make sense of the situation. Effie’s going to 12 tomorrow? Why? And why is nobody telling me anything! Pissed off, he started to walk away.

“Excuse me, girls. Damon, let’s go talk to Haymitch for a few minutes.” Effie stood up, holding the boy on her hip as Boggs had done. “Haymitch! Wait...” She caught up to him before the staircase. If he’d really wanted to avoid her, he would have already been long gone.

“What are you thinking!?” he asked, unsure of what he was wondering about most... Why was Effie going to 12 where the burned corpses of his people were still rotting? Why didn’t she tell him about her plans? And what the hell was his heart doing as he watched her with those little kids?

“Annie needs help selecting one of Cinna’s dresses for the wedding, and Katniss asked if I could go with them for support. So, of course, I said yes. ...Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing, sweetheart. But it’s bad there. You’re going to see things that’ll change you.”

“I’m already changing.” She boosted the kid up on her hip. “There’s nothing I can do to stop that. ...And I don’t think I want to stop it.”

Damon dropped the leaves and rubbed his eyes. “Are you tired... buddy?” Effie hesitantly used one of Boggs’ nicknames for the boy. He shook his head ‘no’, but rubbed his eyes again. “How about we take these leaves to daycare so you can show your daddy?”

Damon nodded and opened his hands to the floor where the leaves had fallen. Haymitch bent to pick them up and handed them back to the kid. He stood close to them. Effie smelled like the woods, faintly like ginger, and mostly like her. The fragrances helped him feel less agitated. They were familiar, as if less was changing all at once.

“Thank you,” she said about the leaves, “Will you please tell Delly where I’m going and ask her to stay until I return?”

“Sure”

She rested her palm on Haymitch’s shirt where his sweater gaped open. She brushed her fingertips along the buttons. “Will YOU stay until I return? I could really use your help hanging these garlands in Special Defense.”

Her touch felt too good for him to say no.

The peace in his expression was answer enough for her.

As he watched her walk away, a smile crept over his face. He was far too amused to remind Effie that the Hawthorne girl had embellished her head wrap with at least a dozen leaves. In all the years, it was the best *wig* he’d seen her wear. If she was going to roam around 13 looking like a tree, then who was he to stop her?

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clovis-enthusiast · 4 years

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Lotsa Clovis headcanons that you can pry from my cold dead hands

Keep in mind that these are just MY HEADCANONS! None of this is canon unless specifically stated! Feel free to agree or disagree. I juts rlly love my boy and his cabin and will gush about them for hours if given the chance.

Since there is a lot, I’ll put them under the cut so as not to clutter ur feed with my rambling! So uh click ‘keep reading’ to see me babble about my all time favorite character! Hope u enjoy if u read em and always feel free to send me a message about ur own headcanons! (I’m always thinking of more, so this post might be updated every once in awhile!)

He is very French. He was born in France and lived there for a short while before he and his mother (the reason I say mother instead of parent is because it was hinted at in canon that he has a mother. my go to name for her is Camille) moved to the US due to monster related problems. (He has a French last name. Something like Valois is my go to.)

French is his first language but because he moved to the US when he was quite young, he is very fluent in English. He often switches between the two languages when he’s EXTRA sleepy without noticing leading to a lot of confusion (and you can bet that he DEFINITELY swears in French because not many people at camp can understand him when he does. Those who do have a newfound respect and fear for him.)

He was initially a longtime member of the Hermes cabin even though pretty much everyone could guess who his godly parent was.

Was DEFINITELY a part of Luke’s army at one point due to the fact that he looked up to Luke as the older demigod had always treated him like a little brother, AND his godly brother Morpheus was also on Kronos’s side of the war. However, Clovis did not stay with them for long once things began to get bad and returned to Camp Half Blood with time. (Morpheus and Clovis now have a strained relationship.)

Best friends with Lou Ellen Blackstone of the Hecate cabin. They were both temporarily on Luke’s side of the war and were held with suspicion and distrust when they returned to camp, so they tended to stick by each other while the other campers warmed back up to them. Because of this, they are now very close and are always goofing around (much to the annoyance of the other head counselors aside from the Stolls, of course.)

Definitely had a thing for Nico di Angelo in the past. As the two boys are both the sons of underworld gods, Clovis had already felt a certain tug towards him. When he heard Nico’s story from the camp’s rumor mill (thank Lacy and Mitchell for that one) he became utterly infatuated. Over time, his curiosity turned more into a little crush which then became a BIG crush, but as neither Clovis nor Nico are really all that great with normal human interaction, the son of Hypnos’s flirting techniques sort of went unnoticed. That’s why Nico seems to be the only one being pulled into Clovis’s dreams at any given time despite Clovis being a ‘very strong dreamer.’ The truth is that Clovis has full control over who enters HIS dreamscapes. He tries desperately to impress Nico and help him out wherever he can, but when Nico eventually chooses Will to be his boyfriend, Clovis, though a bit sad that his first crush in a long time didn’t share the feelings, is VERY supportive. He loves to tease Nico about how hopelessly head-over-heels the broody teenager is over his sunshiney boyfriend. And if the two were ever to break up for whatever reason in the future? Well, Clovis is definitely still up for a shot.

Clovis and Nico are still VERY close. Clovis is one of the only people that Nico feels comfortable enough to be himself around and often confides in him whenever his negative thinking gets the best of him. Clovis also plays a big part in Nico regaining the memories of his past when he’s ready which he will forever be thankful for. The two obviously spend a lot of time together in dreams and greet one another in a warm fashion whenever they come across each other by chance at camp. This confuses literally everyone because literally no one has ever seen them interact before?? How are they friends??

Has HISTORY with Drew. No one is really sure what kind of history (it seems as if there was a little bit of memory erasure throughout the camp on the situation... hm...) but most people speculate that the two shared a romantic relation at one point in time. Turns out, they were NOT compatible, and the whole thing went up in flames. Drew still holds a huge grudge against Clovis who acts as though he could honestly care less. He still treats her politely though there have definitely been some not-so-subtle nasty looks cast across the campfire towards her direction before.

Also very close with Lacy and Mitchell from the Aphrodite cabin. Lacy feels terrible about Drew’s trash-talking and rumor-spreading and eventually works up the courage to say hi. They became fast friends, and Lacy definitely has a bit of a puppy-dog crush on him, but she is much too young for Clovis. He sees her as a little sister and allows her to put makeup on him, do his hair, and even tries on dresses and such just to make her smile. Mitchell, on the other hand, became friends with Clovis out of spite in all honesty and ended up liking the sleepy blond a lot more than he thought he would. He might have a teeeeeny tiiiiiny crush on him. Don’t tell Lacy.

Close with Pollux of the Dionysus cabin. Pollux sees a lot of Castor when he looks at Clovis which is a huge comfort to him. The two counselors have a lot of deep talks late at night, and Clovis always makes sure that Pollux is sleeping well without being haunted by nightmares. Dionysus would never admit it, but he is very thankful that someone cares that much about his only son.

Good friends with Rachel Elizabeth Dare surprisingly! He helps her out often, and the two like to sit and chat about mythology, artwork, and prophecies in the big house and at the campfire.

Has allies and friends in high places. Due to his powerful dreaming, he’s been to quite a few strange places and met quite a few strange people... or you could call them the gods, I guess. He knows a lot of the gods and goddesses from all kinds of mythologies (though obviously more of the Greek ones than anything) and they seem to like him well enough for some reason. (Probably because he’s one of the only demigods who doesn’t want to strangle them and doesn’t mind listening to them complain about petty godly things.) He often has little chats with them where he keeps them updated with the going ons of Camp Half Blood and they keep him updated about... godly drama. He kinda lives for it tbh. It’s part of the reason why he’s so informed about the gods.(Annabeth is maybe just the tiniest bit jealous.)

He’s a year round camper because it would be much too dangerous for him to go back to living with his mother. He stays in contact with her via dreams, letters, and Iris messages though!

MUCH more powerful than he lets on. He just doesn’t like conflict.

One of his most frightening abilities is the ability to summon terrible creatures from people’s nightmares and use them to fight. He doesn’t like to do this as it can be very traumatizing for the people he uses it against, AND it’s not always a guarantee that the nightmare creatures will obey him.

His other more battle-ready powers are the ability to put an entire battle field into a deep slumber and memory alteration/erasure. He can use his memory alteration/erasure on monsters of weaker defenses AND demigods (though he feels much more comfortable using it on monsters.) He uses these powers to alter how monsters/enemies perceive demigods. Because of this, there are quite a few friendly hellhounds and scythian dracanae wandering about the camp. All of his powers are VERY draining and take a lot of concentration in order to work as intended. He will often sleep for days after a battle because of this.

He is also capable of fighting whilst asleep. In fact, his senses are heightened, and he tends to perform better this way. He also heals much faster while he is asleep.

It is speculated that he will either grow wings from his head or his back, but it will not happen until he grows older. It’s a rare trait that few Hypnos kids (and Thanatos kids) develop, but due to Clovis’s power level, everyone is pretty much waiting for it to happen.

He can change his appearance at will in his dreams, but his aura is still the same, so he can still be identified pretty easily by people who know him personally. (As a side note, his eyes pretty much change color on their own to reflect the mood of the dreamscape he’s currently in. Gold, emerald, and violet are the most common colors. His true eye color is blue.)

Doesn’t really care about gender all that much. He has absolutely no problem with people referring to him using any pronouns (she/he/they) and is quite comfortable with himself in general. Many demigods who are questioning their gender comes to talk to him about it, and he’s always open to hearing them out and giving them advice.

VERY bisexual. Likes girls, guys, literally anyone who can keep him awake and interested for more than five seconds.

The unofficial official camp therapist.The role used to belong to Will Solace, but the truth is that the son of Apollo is much more comfortable dealing with physical ailments and problems he can fix medically than he is with dealing with feelings and mental ailments. Clovis is a very good listener despite the popular belief that he’s too busy nodding off to actually hold a conversation with properly and has a very calming aura that helps people feel safe enough to be vulnerable with him.

The go to babysitter of camp. Due to his Hypnos kid vibes, he is able to keep even the most rambunctious demigod and satyr children under control. His nap times are legendary.

VERY big on respecting people’s privacy and boundaries. He tries his best not to enter any dreams uninvited, and he never talks about what goes on in people’s dreams ever. He also NEVER looks into people’s memories without their permission. He makes sure his siblings follow these guidelines strictly.

He literally lets anyone come into the Hypnos cabin at any time to get a good rest. The cabin has an open door policy.

New campers are often allowed to stay with the Hypnos cabin if they’d rather not face the chaos of the Hermes cabin.

Contrary to popular belief, his cabin is actually NOT the messiest cabin. The Hermes cabin wins that one though they’re followed closely by the Ares and Hephaestus cabins.

He and his siblings are some of the closest in the camp. They meet up and hang out in each other’s dreamscapes and have family nights. Clovis is the oldest AND is a head counselor, so he is very protective and responsible when it comes to his siblings.

Gives AMAZING massages. Leo and the entirety of the Hephaestus and Ares cabins are regular customers. Fight me.

Actually a very good strategist when it comes to battles and such given that he’s awake enough to actually communicate his ideas. If you get them on your Capture the Team game, you’re already doing good. Annabeth and the Athena cabin love the competition, and they’re nearly unstoppable when they work together with him.

Clovis suffers from TERRIBLE narcolepsy, even for a son of Hypnos. It’s gotten him into a lot of bad and dangerous situations such as falling asleep mid battle, mid conversation, and even in the bath once when he was little. He has developed a fear of heights and water due to his condition.

Holds a lot of frustrations towards himself. Frustrated that he ever turned against the camp that offered him a home, frustrated that he couldn’t help Jason restore his memories, frustrated that couldn’t help more in the war against Gaea, just... frustrated. He tries to sleep off these negative moods because he doesn’t like to bring people down.

Absolutely not opposed to cuddling with people who are okay with it (he always asks first!) It’s a surefire way to get a good night’s rest since you’re so close to him, plus he’s very soft and warm!

Has a good singing voice, but just isn’t confident enough with it. He pushes through his insecurities to sing lullabies to those who really need them though. His lullabies are unmatched.

Adores cats with all of his heart due to their lazy and relaxed nature, but he knows that he could never be able to care for one well enough.

ALWAYS wears pajamas. Like all the time. Chiron has given up on enforcing the dress code. He also made sure to have custom made camp bracelets instead of necklaces to be sure that none of the Hypnos kids are choked/strangled by them if they happen to fall asleep in a bad place or position.

Lives in the past. Old movies, old music, old slang, you name it. I mean, he practically sleeps for the majority of his life, so it’s not all that surprising that he’s a bit behind the times. He thinks the modern age moves much too fast for him to keep up with.

The demigods of camp take turns making sure Clovis and his siblings are taking care of themselves. Walking them to the showers and dining pavilion, making sure they get a little sunlight each day, and the bare minimum of training.

He is the best boy.That is the only FACT that I do not accept criticism on. Thank you.

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demigodsanswer · 4 years

Note

Do you have any headcanons about Chris to go along with those last ones of Clarisse? How did he recover after TLO?

In the three weeks that Clarisse is not at camp following the war, rumors and conspiracy theories about his knowledge and involvement with Silena begin to circulate.

People hypothesized that he was also a spy, and that they were working together. That Clarisse knew the whole time, and was either also on their side, or chose not to sell them out. Or that she was being manipulated by both of them in order for them to stay on camp’s good side. That Clarisse had left camp after the war either to escape retribution for war crime or to escape humiliation at being played.

None of these were true, and Chris had told camp everything he knew about Luke’s army.

Recovering from TLO was actually, in many ways, easier than recovering from TBotL, even though he hadn’t fought in the battle of the Labyrinth. He was healed soon after the battle ended, only to learn that Clarisse had spent a year trying to heal him out of sheer kindness, and two of his best friends had been killed as a direct result of a successful iteration of the mission he had been sent on.

He blames himself much more for Castor and Lee’s deaths. While losing Beckendorf and Silena was not easy for him, he did not hold himself culpable in their deaths, really, in the same way that Clarisse blamed herself for Silena’s death and Silena had blamed herself for Beck’s death.

He does grapple with these questions of heroism that Clarisse deals with, but, for him (as he was never someone who really desired traditional hero things anyway), a lot of that grappling is more centered on how to move on past these events (not so much how do I reform my identity after all of this, which is much more what the question is for Clarisse.)

Ultimately, the three of them (him, Clarisse, and Pollux) realize that all they can do is step away from that life as much as they can. They can’t move on from these traumas and still try and achieve heroism. Clarisse tried pretty much constantly between the Sea of Monsters and the Battle of Manhattan, and it only got her more and more hurt. Their only choices were to keep fighting until they achieved some kind of glory in death (not what they want) or to separate themselves from that life as much as they can, resulting in a change from wanting their life to be full of glory to wanting their life to be long.

As someone who had never really cared for glory and had never been a particularly strong demigod, it’s not hard for Chris to make this change in himself, but it is very hard for him to see Clarisse go through it. At first he thinks it just empathy - his partner is struggling emotionally, and he doesn’t know how to help - but he soon realizes that it seems to be deeper than that.

It isn’t until years later when he sees The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi that he actually understands why that was hard.

Chris pretty much created an instant attachment to Finn as a character - he was a character who was fighting for a side that didn’t care much for the humanity of their soldiers or the people who they fought. Finn rejects that dehumanizing and proves to be instantly affected by his friend dying in front of him (separate headcanon, but Chris does end up getting the storm trooper helmet with the bloody hand print tattooed on his shoulder). Even though he leaves the First Order, though, he does not have any initial interest in joining the Resistance.

The Titan Army and their recruitment of demigods certainly had a little more complexity behind it than the Star Wars n*zi allegory, but the Titan army did prove not to care about the demigods they killed on either side. The fact that they left Chris to die in the labyrinth without care is proof of that. The fact that they actively killed demigods on the god’s side was proof of that. Still, the gods didn’t care for them much either. When Chris was healed, he still had a pretty ambivalent stance towards the war as a whole.

I’ve written this before, but essentially, he told Clarisse that he isn’t fighting for the Titans or the Gods, but he’s fighting for her.

Over the year before the war, though, that starts to change. Her passion, care, and bravery really begin to inspire loyalty in him. Not to the gods, but to the other demigods. He starts to lose that sense of selfishness, and instead develops (or redevelops) an intense empathy and love for camp and the demigods (on both sides).

This is why he spends so much time trying to talk her out of her choice to not join the war. Because it was her in the first place who had dragged his selfish ass kicking and screaming out of faux-neutrality and into actually caring about other demigods.

She had even called him on this a few months before the war: “You can’t really be neutral in this, you know. you said you left the Titan army because you didn’t think they actually cared about the demigods they recruited, they just capitalized on their sadness. But there are demigods in that army still and in this one who are going to be killed soon. Are you really going to pretend like you defected out of a sense of obligation to all of them, but then turn around it not care about any demigods except the one who saved your ass?”

Clarisse was the one who inspired disloyalty in the Titans, but also loyalty to, if not the gods, then at least to camp. (”That’s how we’re going to win. Not by killing what we hate, but saving what we love” /// “There is some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.)

So seeing her switch from that to someone burnt out and tired of it all was really hard. So much of what he had loved about her was her passion and bravery, and the ways in which those qualities had changed him. Seeing her lose those qualities (that coupled with him no longer being at camp) did put stress on their relationship.

Although he’d always say that the half-year where they were broken up was one of the worst times of his life, he does, in hindsight, think it was a good thing. In those months without he, he was able to work on himself and grow as an individual, and realize that he had been imagining her as more than a person. She wasn’t Clarisse, my girlfriend, a person with these good and bad traits. She had become a symbol for something so much bigger than herself that she could never maintain.

If they had tried to stay together when there was even more distance between them, their relationship likely would have exploded and never recovered. Instead, though, they are able to grow apart for a while, and come back together much stronger.

(all that being said, though, his favorite Star Wars characters are still Finn and Rose [and Poe], and, gun to his head, he will tell you his favorite movie is The Force Awakens. But do not ask him about his thoughts on The Rise of Skywalker or the trilogy as a whole unless you are prepared for a very long, very nerdy conversation.)

#chris rodriguez #clarisse la rue #chrisse #pollux #Anonymous

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impossible-rat-babies · 4 years

Text

quarter past (two am)

word count ~4891 | angst pre-hb | chargestep | mostly under the cut!

read on a03

The streets in Los Diablos are rarely deserted at two am, the headlights dazzling as they pass by, bubblegum pink and electric green neon lights in store windows scattering hues across puddles on the concrete. Gasoline and spilled oil refract in electric rainbows, fine leather dress shoes scuffling and stuttering, disturbing the kaleidoscope.

“Y-You are....my bestest friend...! You are my bestest, best friend!”

Pollux rolls his eyes behind the mask, adjusting Ortega’s arm draped over his shoulders, keeping a hold on his wrist. He keeps blabbering on his ear, trying to rock them side to side across the sidewalk, kicking up water with god knows what in it. Pollux struggles to keep them from falling into a heap, cursing under his breath. Ortega would find it down right hilarious if they took a tumble into one of the heaps of trash, or perhaps smacked right into a telephone pole, the drunk bastard. He’d be finding their current struggles hilarious too if he didn’t have his pea sized drunk brain occupied singing to the heavens of his adoration.

“Hey....hey there, Lux?” He cajoles with a poke at his cheek and Pollux jerks away, giving him a grimace even though the mask. “Y-You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Yes, you’ve been singing about it for the past hour, ass.” Pollux shoots back, sighing out of his nose.

They’re still a couple blocks away and all he wants to do is dump Ortega on his couch, make sure he won’t throw up all over himself and drag his own ass back to his bed. He blinks quickly to dispel the creeping heaviness across his eyelids, adjusting Ortega once more as he goes into another verse of the same made up jabbering nonsense.

Pollux glances up at Ortega as he keeps going, his brown eyes staring above and all around, glassy and vacant from the eight or so beers he’s had. Maybe a few other drinks bought for him in between; he’s not paid to watch how much Ortega imbibes.

But there’s honesty in his eyes, in how despite the awkward looks and snickering laughs from the few people still out as they clumsily pass by, he means every word of his stupid ballad. Drunk Ortega isn’t suave, isn’t the actor, wearing his heart on his sleeve instead of a mask on his face, looking picture perfect, taking it all in stride. It’s honestly slipping out of his mouth unbidden, the facade peeled back, the lies stripped away. The pretense and the formalities all gone and he’s just some drunk guy draped over a friend taking him home.

Pollux likes the pretense, when they don’t say the things they want to say--when he won’t drape himself all over him. Makes it easier to pretend he doesn’t feel like he does--makes it easier to lie to himself.

“I-It’s...it’s true, ya know? You are my, uh, my best friend.” Ortega waves his hand around theatrically, tripping over his own misplaced feet with a giggle. A giggle. God so help him. “An-And I don’t think you hear it enough. From anyone. You’re special, Lux.”

Oh he’s heard plenty of how he’s special--her words purred in his ear, fingernails digging into his shoulders, urging him on--more and more and more. Pollux swallows hard, smothering that voice in the back of his head.

“Oh I hear plenty from you about how special I am, lover boy.” Pollux huffs because as much as he is an honest drunk, he’s also stupid as shit and mushy as fuck. He doesn’t have the space in his head to think about how differently it sounds when Ortega says he’s special, how his ears are burning and the strange roll of his stomach.

“It’s-It’s because it’s true, Pebbles.” Ortega objects, rather loudly and pointedly. “You really are my best friend an-and I care about you. A lot.”

“You’ll be caring a lot more about the toilet than me in a bit.”

Ortega blows a large raspberry and waves his hand, Pollux dragging him away from yet another hapless pole he’s aiming to smack into.

Going to Hoots on Friday nights is both equal parts exciting and the worst thing he gets talked into doing; the music leaves him with a pounding headache and the flurry of so many minds leaves him damp with cold sweat and shaky hands. Still its Ortega’s favorite place to go on a Friday night, plus Anathema had volunteered to come along and Pollux was feeling indulgent. Fat lot that did when he drew the short straw.

Should’ve told Anathema to do, damn them when they winked and smirked, ducking out the door in a flash, leaving Pollux to wrangle Ortega.

Pollux sighs and he swallows down the lump, Ortega still mumbling away at his song as his building comes into view. Thank god--it’ll be easy to dump him at home and leave behind the weird feeling that refuses to go away. Going out with Ortega is always dangerous. It’s far too easy for Pollux to convince himself to give up some of his boundaries and self imposed restrictions—the things that keep him from saying things he shouldn’t. Doing things he shouldn’t. Like walking Ortega home.

He gives an inch and Ortega takes it for a mile, drawing him out bit by bit like thread unraveling from a spool and he uses it to tie them in closer. Convinces him to stay for a little while longer, one more longing look.

One more chaste kiss...or maybe not so chaste kiss.

Ortega nearly falls and Pollux curses, half dragging him up the stairs to his building and he wrangles him through the door to his building. He’s half slumped over him now along with most of his weight on Pollux’s shoulders and he might as well be dragging his feet.

“Can you please stand on your own fucking legs?” Pollux huffs, knees groaning and he’s only twenty two--his body shouldn’t groan like that.

“Gravity is too much, Pebbles.” He mumbles against his shirt near his neck and that is most certainly not helping the situation, his face flushing the under mask.

“I’ll dump your drunk ass on the floor.”

“Please Lux don’t do that.”

Thankfully there’s an elevator or he might have sooner just dumped Ortega in the lobby and left rather than drag his ass up the stairs. The doorman knows Pollux well enough by now that he just waves them on and shakes his head, grinning to himself. Oh the indignity of the Marshal of the Rangers being dragged drunk through his apartment lobby, but the doorman has tight lips. Plus there’s undoubtable amusement in watching Ortega getting wrangled into an elevator when his feet aren’t working correctly.

The door closes before Ortega can spill his guts about how much he likes him to the doorman, or spills his guts all over the tile floor. That would be a mess and Pollux wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. He’s had enough of cleaning up vomit, acid dripping down his chin from his nose, the corners of his mouth..

“Please tell me you have your keys.” Pollux nudges him off and leans Ortega against the elevator wall, patting around his pockets. He finds his wallet—thankfully tucked in his back pocket still—but no keys.

“I got em Lux don’t worry.” Ortega oh so helpfully pats his butt and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“That’s your wallet, you ass.”

Ortega snorts. “You touched my ass.”

Pollux groans loudly, face flushing under his mask and Ortega laughs in self satisfaction. A sharp pinch of his side and he yelps, grumbling under his breath as he rubs the tender spot. His coat pockets next and Pollux finds the jingling ring of keys--thank god.

“At least you have some sense of hindsight...” Pollux grumbles to himself and the elevator dings. He helps him out of the elevator and they drift side to side down the hallway, Ortega mumbling something or another in his ear the whole time, oh so helpfully close like earlier. Pollux tries not to care--his cheeks are most certainly not warm--fumbling with the lock until it clicks open and he pushes Ortega inside. He kicks the door shut and miraculously Ortega is standing on his own two legs and even more miraculous is that he’s looking at him.

“Can’t believe it took this long t’get you to come to my house after Hoots...” Ortega mumbles with a lopsided grin, subtly lost when he’s still got that drunk look to him--the smell of beer and stale french fries still on him. Pollux’s face flushes and his ears burn, quickly squashing down *those* sprinting thoughts.

“Save the drunk flirting for someone else, lover boy.” He helpfully turns him around to push him towards the living room, putting the keys down. Ortega somehow manages to not bump into too many walls along the hallway, hands outstretched to guide him. Pollux sighs and quickly squashes the little soap bubble thoughts of his goofy sashay down the hall--he was not staring. Not at all, no wandering eyes.

Ortega is reasonably safe in the living room. Not like he can go many places--he could fall down and break his head open on the coffee table his head helpfully tells him--and Pollux heaves a deep, long sigh.

There are pain killers and other meds he’ll need in the cabinet above the bathroom sink; Pollux picks out the ones he’ll need for tomorrow among the menagerie of orange bottles, sifting through what it means to keep a modded body running--thousands of dollars tucked away in that cabinet. They’re the ones he’s watched him take when he won’t stop complaining about the pain in his back and elbows. Others he’s listened to Ortega lament at how bad they taste.

Pollux pulls the throw blanket from off the bed where he’s held frozen peas to the side of Ortega’s head, listening to him talk about how the fight went--the good parts and the bad parts. He’s stitched bleeding wounds there and gathered up stained blankets to clean later, wrapped gauze over washed abrasions, keeping chiding words tucked behind his teeth.

A cup for water in kitchen and he’s sat on the counter top and watched Ortega cook him all the foods he’s never tasted before. Pies that tia Elena makes, a beautiful cake that his cousin’s aunt makes which reminds him of this tiny hole in the wall place in downtown Los Diablos. He could rant for ages of all Pollux has missed like a fool, how he hasn’t lived until he’s tried this, or tried that. It’s sad just how close is accidentally gets to the truth.

Laughter calls from the living room and Pollux peeks his head out of the kitchen, finding Ortega sprawled out on the couch, one shoe on and the other off, holding a decorative pillow under his chin. Who knows what he’s laughing about now, something stupid inevitably.

“You need to take off both shoes, Ortega.”

Pollux reminds him, picking around for the biggest bowl and settling on a rather large sauce pan instead. By the time he comes back he’s figured that out along with getting his jacket off, leaving it in a heap on the ground. Pollux knows he’s watching him, setting both the painkillers and the water on the coffee table for when he gets the sense to need them.

“Hey, hey Pollux?” He pauses putting the pan down. “Why do you always got your mask on?” Ortega asks, brows furrowed like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Pollux mirrors the expression behind his mask, lips slipping into a familiar frown.

“My face is a secret.” Pollux retorts and Ortega grumbles.

“Friends don’t keep secrets...!”

“Oh yeah? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of secrets you don’t tell me.” Pollux gives him a pointed look and Ortega waves his hand dismissively.

“Nothing like my entire face, Pollux.

“You’ve seen the lower half of my face.”

He’s kissed him too, cupped his face and the back of his head and held him like he was all that mattered in that moment. But Pollux isn’t telling him that at all. He certainly does not want to think about that right now and he scoops up Ortega’s jacket, balling it up in his arms.

“That doesn’t count!” Ortega laments and oh this is just a piss poor attempt to cajole him into showing his face that’s for certain.

“Well tough luck lover boy.” Pollux heaves a sigh and sits down on the floor near Ortega’s head, face resting against couch cushion, jacket still balled up in his hands. He has half the mind to take it with him, as payback for making him drag his ass through the street at 2am. He’d be looking for it up and down his apartment tomorrow and the thought of the frantic text he’d get makes him bite his lip to suppress a smile.

Plus it is a nice jacket--a pretty leather bomber style, well loved and well taken care of.

“You’re so mean to me.” Ortega grumbles, playing with his lip between his teeth, and Pollux ugly snorts, dramatically rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I’m just the worst best friend huh?”

“Yes, the absolute worst best friend. You’re so awful and mean to me in the worst ways imaginable, Pollux.” He can’t help but snort and that sets Ortega off with a loud groan.

“I *cannot* believe that you are finding this funny, getting all this amusement out of you being so mean to...”

Pollux zones out watching Ortega rant, the clumsy way he’s speaking and the way he moves his hands like he needs them to speak, snapping for the words he’s struggling with. It’s...interesting watch the facade crumble, how he’s so perfect with words and oozing charm for crowd and cameras, but just the two of them in his apartment and he’s stumbling, stuttering.

He’s not the Marshal when he’s sprawled across the couch, one foot dangling off the edge, slurring and tripping over his words, little unabashed laughs slipping out. It’s more real seeing him like this, less questions to ask, more straightforward. There’s no guessing here, no games of chess to play where he needs to be five steps ahead, no guessing his thoughts by the tilt of his brow or the quirk of his lips.

It’s just the calm even breaths between them, enough space to breath the same air and yet it’s still like an ocean dividing them.

Pollux swallows against the lump in his throat and he pushes the thoughts out to sea, staying on the shore where he keeps watching Ortega talk, the turn of his lips and the slope of his neck, down to the hint of collarbone. Places where Pollux has put his lips and felt Ortega’s breath hitch--his pulse race. Put his hands and felt him breathe in his chest, the rise and fall of rushing breathing, the scratch of five’o clock shadow on his cheek, under his nose, the gasp of air in the space between wet lips.

If he was the betting kind of person, he’d put money on Ortega not remembering anything tomorrow and it would so easy...could pull the mask off and let him see for a bit. His hands sweat at the thought, giving an inch and losing a mile to a silly drunk man’s smile and how comforting it is--how is so completely and utterly easy to lose himself.

H’s betting on him not remembering and Pollux is running low on chips. Either and neither way he’s screwed and he takes a long breath. Steadying his hands and he reaches under his mask, pulling it up and over his head.

He blinks, adjusting to the soft hazy light of a nearby lamp, the flush of alcohol and cologne in his nose. Cool air on his sweaty face and he resists the urge to sneeze. Ortega keeps talking, eyes even fluttering over to him once, twice, three times and...there he gets it, brown eyes growing big.

He blinks once, twice, three times and a wide smile breaks across his face, eyes focused on him. With difficulty, Pollux shoves down the urge to yank the mask back on, cover himself back up and hide; he worries the jacket between his thumb and index finger instead, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Happy?”

Pollux chokes out past the lump, face flushing. Ortega keeps staring, keeps his eyes focused on him and it’s because he’s drunk, Pollux tells himself, and he’s never seen his face before, and he’s staring at him like he’s something far too precious--a twinkle in his eyes, the curl of crows feet. Pollux’s skin itches and he resists the urge to scratch and pick, tear and yank yank yank--

“You have red hair...” Ortega mumbles and instinct makes him take a deep breath to quiet his nerves. Neither here nor there and Ortega’s hand twitches like he wants to reach out, but he can’t quite get there

“Nice observation there captain obvious.” Ortega snorts at his reply and Pollux runs his fingers across the fuzzy curls starting to grow back in.

“Do you know how many freckles you have?” He still has that half stupid grin on his face, eyes darting about his face, taking it all in like he’s piecing together the person he’s always wondered about under the mask. Fitting him into the image he’s made of him, constructed in his head.

Pollux is too used to that and he fights the roll of his stomach.

“A million.” Pollux grumbles and Ortega whistles dramatically. “You’ve seen them on my hands before, don’t act so surprised.” Tacking that on and he rolls his eyes too.

Ortega found his hands fascinating back then too, his fingers long and slender compared to his palms, compared the whole of him. Piano fingers Ortega had called them as they measured palm to sweaty palm one lonely day in the break room. Ortega’s fingers daring to slip a fraction, to slip his fingers into his, to hold his hand palm to palm, five fingers interlocking. It was enough to set a fire in his gut then, like pressing his hand to a stove and he’d yanked his hand back and shoved his gloves back on too. Too much of a touch--far too real and new with skin pressed to skin.

“You’re very handsome, Pollux.”

He blinks, tossed from his thoughts by the sudden admission, scrambling, eyes shooting up to look at Ortega.

That wasn’t what he was expecting--not the words like that, for Ortega to blurt that out and there’s that damn honesty again.

Ortega is staring at him, eyes more focused than he should for how drunk he supposedly is...or was, for that matter. Damn it. There’s the truth wrapped around his tongue, coating his words and fuck Pollux doesn’t like how it makes him feel, not one single bit.

He blushes deep red and his ears burn, tucking his chin against his chest like that will do any good. If pulling the strings on his hoodie tight to hide his face would do any good he would.

“Shut the fuck up, Ortega.” He manages and fuck his voice shakes more than it should—more than he wants it to.

“I’m not lying.” Ortega’s got that stubborn look in his eyes and there’s a frown of his own on Pollux’s face, lip twitching in an almost sneer.

“I...” Pollux snaps his mouth shut and bites his lip hard. “I don’t care if you’re lying or not, just shut up.”

That’s a lie of his own and he pinches hard between his thumb and index finger, worrying his lip.

“Just because you say that doesn’t mean I’m lying. I am being honest, Pebbles.” He presses further and Pollux looks up at him and he shouldn’t have because Ortega is leaning in far too close.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t get to call you a bastard.” Pollux replies, breathing harder than he should, less butterflies and more like a beehive in his stomach, waiting to be shaken.

“You would call me a bastard no matter what.”

“That’s because it’s the truth, Ortega.” Pollux doesn’t lean away even though the rational part of his brain is screaming otherwise. Ortega’s breath still smells like booze, but he smells more like cologne this close, the subtle musk that tickles his nose, stale french fries a thing of the past.

“Do you want the truth?” Ortega asks and that is the question.

It’s always been the question, the one he can’t find answers to no matter where he goes looking—what is the truth? What does he need to know the truth about? What happens when the truth is laid before him--or if it’s set in front of too many people, naked and exposed. Far too many questions for the skinny space between them right now, breathing in sync.

“Could I stop you from saying it?” Pollux asks in return, eyes sliding down the slope of Ortega’s neck, fingers itching. He can’t remember if he wore a necktie or not, but the top buttons are undone regardless. Pale pink cotton sharp against deep brown skin and Pollux swallows against the lump in his throat.

“No...” Ortega grins, a soft flush on his cheeks that isn’t from the alcohol. “But I would very much like to kiss you.”

Pollux bites his lip and he’s still, holding himself just so he won’t bolt from the floor, knuckles tense in the jacket. He steals a glance at Ortega’s face and fuck that isn’t any better than staring at other parts of him, his stomach twisting itself in knots of indecision.

“You smell like beer.” Pollux skirts the question, Ortega’s lips just inches from his--breathing in time, breathing in the same air and if it were anywhere but here, anywhere but this moment. If he was anyone--anything--but what he is.

“Is that better than blood?” He asks and Pollux quietly snorts. Bastard.

“I’m used to blood.”

Pollux unknits his hand from the jacket, reaching and pulling back and he knows he’s touching what he shouldn’t be--feeling what he isn’t mean to feel--but he’s doing it regardless. Reaching again, his fingertips ghost up the side of Ortega’s neck. He smooths his fingers up bronzed skin to the curve of his jaw, jagged thumbnail slipping along the rough line of stubble there, thumb finding his chin. He swears there’s a sharp intake of breath, but Ortega is still, staring, eyes searching his.

He knows it’s almost three am and he doesn’t know how he’ll drag himself back to his bed with how tired he is now, tired enough to think that kissing Ortega is a good idea, tired enough to loose his inhibitions. He’s seen his whole face and he hasn’t run, trembling fingers still holding his face in a gesture far more intimate than palms pressing together, fingers almost linked.

Pollux supposes he’ll wake up the next morning and if his phone isn’t dead he’ll have a slew of text messages waiting for him; supposes Ortega will remember and ask a dozen questions, or he won’t and still ask a dozen questions like he’s used to. Either way Pollux supposes he’ll lie to him, tell him that nothing happened, that he just dumped him on his couch and got him settled in. He supposes they’ll both know better than that, but neither will say anything. Supposes Ortega won’t even remember his face in the morning, or remembering kissing him.

His thumb is still stroking his chin, eyes staring at his lips.

“But I can make an exception. Just this once.”

Pollux lies to himself, to both of them. Another one to add to the dozens, a pile like he’s digging his own grave.

He crosses the gap between them and he pauses just enough to know how bad of idea this is--how screwed he’s going to be. Ortega doesn’t give him time to back out, cradling the back of his neck and he yanks him close, lips pressing against lips.

He tastes of stale beer--better than fresh blood, the taste of metal and electricity on his tongue. Here he feels the shape of his chapped lips against his, the curve of his jaw, hand curling sharp into the nape of Ortega’s neck, fingers slowly bunching in his hair. Ortega’s hand cupping his cheek and jaw, hand warm against his already flushed skin. Nose bumping nose to try and fit lips together and it’s soft, tender, worming into the dark places he’s hidden away, pulling lengths of thread to bind them together. Pollux pulls away, forehead to forehead, biting wet lips.

Oh he’s certainly going to be cursing himself later, Ortega pulling him back in for kisses upon kisses that keep bleeding into each other, one after another, tongue and teeth and he wonders how much Ortega is trying to memorize the shape of him, the flush of his lips against his, fitting puzzle pieces together. Ironic considering he wasn’t meant to be remembered and here Ortega is, slowly, achingly, trying his best to do just that and fuck it *hurts*.

It isn’t fair, kissing Ortega when he’s drunk on his couch, Pollux’s fingers knitted tight in his hair, hand finding it’s way under his collared shirt to press against his chest, needs these needy kisses. Hands holding his own face, the back of his own neck, hands daring--wanting to explore more. Fuck he wants to hold him tight, let him keeping touching him, drink in every single kiss and then maybe he won’t feel so empty.

Maybe he’ll feel like an actual person, like he’s more than what’s on his skin, what’s buried deep down--the terrible, gut wrenching truth.

And that is one of the scariest thoughts he’s ever had.

He pulls away from the kiss, peels his hands from Ortega and Ortega’s hands away from him, hiccuping with each time he tries to breathe, trying to hold the panic steady in his gut.

“Stop.” His hand is firm on Ortega’s chest, keeping him at bay as he tries to lean back in, to try and kiss him again. “You’re far too drunk, Ricardo.” Pollux whispers, sense crawling back up his spine, a cold weight filling his gut.

“Just drunk on you.” He’s trying for smug and the way he’s looking at him through his eyelashes would almost be charming, but it’s just not fair, not fair at all.

(It’s always the almost, isn’t it?)

“Stop, please...” Pollux presses his hand firm against his chest, enough to push him back a bit and Ortega’s brow scrunches together, confusion slipping into worry and further into scarier emotions.

“Pollux? Are you okay”

“You’re drunk and I’m going home.”

Pollux says again, trying to be firm, to hold his ground, despite knowing what he wants to be feeling, his chest tight. He needs to go, needs to leave before those feelings get the better of him, before he decides to do dangerous things--things that come attached with regrets. Things he can’t even fathom, ones that leave his skin like pins and needles.

(Needles under the skin, needles in veins, wrists chafing)

“Pollux, please, I’m sorry...what did I do?” Ortega tries again and Pollux gets to his feet to stay out of reach of scrambling hands, jacket knitted in his hands once more, knuckles squeezed of their blood.

(blood on white tiles, muffled screeching and sobbing)

“You didn’t do anything, I’m sorry.” Pollux chokes out, pursing his lips into a thin white line, looking everywhere but at Ortega.

“No, I-I did something...I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you--” He tries to get up, but Pollux puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down, quickly pulling his hand back out of reach.

“No, I’m...I’m going back home. You’re drunk and didn’t do anything wrong.”

That’s right, it’s always him making the bad choices, going against the boundaries he’s set for himself and they’re there for a good reason--to keep him safe. Keep his secrets safe, locked away behind his teeth and his lips still taste like Ortega.

“Pebbles, come on...pl-please...”

“No, I am going home, Ricardo. I’m sorry.”

He takes his mask out and slips it back over his face, adjusting the fabric and he can hide again, pretend like he’s calm and not that his stomach is still twisting itself into knots upon knots, that he doesn’t want to bolt down the stairs and out the door.

“Don’t throw up all over yourself, please. Take your meds. Call Steel in the morning so you don’t cause a panic when you don’t show up at eight am.”

Pollux speaks quick, sliding the pan closer towards Ortega with his foot and he skirts around the couch, jacket still locked in his hands. He hears Ortega scrambling to extract himself from the couch, still whining for Pollux.

Pollux reaches the door and disregards his pleas, opening the door to the cold hallway bathed in green florescence from the flickering lights overhead.

“Bye Ortega.”

He slams the door closed behind him, the sound ringing in his ears over and over again, a rhythm as he takes the stairs in sets of threes and he’s out into the night, disappearing into the dark.

#fallen hero #fhr #chargestep #owen writes #oc tag #oc: pollux #okay to rebloog go wild #this is the mostly done wip i was lamenting about #i've been meaning to finish this for days #but yeah. pollux hurts even back before hb can you imagine that #pollux voice i will apologize i will apologize i will apologize

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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, ALLI! You’ve been accepted for the role of SEVEN OF SWORDS with the faceclaim of CILLIAN MURPHY. Canis is certainly a fucking concept, whom I adore to no end. He’s got a tenacious and willful sort of attitude about him, the kind of incredulous charm and wit that lends itself to an air of villainy and danger, and I think that he fits into the Seven of Swords like one fits into a well-made boot or glove. In spite of remaining leashed like a dog, he’s got no small amount of fire in him, and I’m eager to see what (or who!) he sinks his teeth into during gameplay. You’ve brought me a real gift, dropped it on my doorstep, and I am grateful.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

— APPLICATION

OOC

NAME: alli PRONOUNS: she / her AGE: twenty - one TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: cst / i am currently on summer break and have the ability to be really active , but sometimes things do come up ! i definitely have plenty of time to be on the dash with several posts within activity limit and when my muse is high ( i’ll be honest i’m a hoe for high fantasy ) my activity is also super up ! ANYTHING ELSE?: what’s the mead sis…….. the wenches are squabbling …….

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: seven of swords NAME: efferus aubenet / “canis” & “the dog” efferus - of latin meaning , “wild , savage , cruel , barbarous” . a name canis has long since abandoned , preferring even the subtle jab of “the dog” given to him by opponents of his crew and the highborn that look down on him . he finds it just about as cutting as a bread knife . no one except those closest to him ( ie . the pack ) even know this name exists . canis - latin for “ dog ” , though also the scientific genus for all canines , including wolves and coyotes . meant to symbolize canis as the leader of his pack of wild dogs , and a sign of respect , a nickname earned on the streets and not given to him in tyrholm . the dog - a nickname received while working under king septimus , by those that see the second fangs as dirty , unruly , savages . also by revolters who see canis as a dog blindly following the orders of a tyrannical king. in any case , he still prefers this to efferus . sometimes he even barks in response . FACECLAIM: cillian murphy , michiel huisman ( he / him pronouns , cis male ) AGE: thirty - nine , born on the twenty - seventh day of the twelfth month

DETAILS: i always find myself drawn to underdog characters , muses that have overcome more than most others could even imagine to find themselves in their present position . i believe there is so much depth to backgrounds like canis’s . no family so he created his own , nothing to his name so he created his own legacy . a moral compass that tries it’s best to always point north . that fails , because the muse is so painfully human . the irony of a sellsword who wants more for himself ? incredible . when i was skimming the skeletons , it was his that startled practically writing itself , this street urchin turned warrior figure , so i spent a lot of time picking apart the biography until i was left with canis . i did a bit of research on the seventh of swords tarot card , but let me tell you .. i was so pleasantly surprised and intrigued when i did . on one hand , when upright , seven of swords means scheming , resourcefulness , cunning , and lies , all traits that have gotten canis to where he is today , however negative , the legacy he’s forged for himself and all deeply tied to his work . however , when reversed , the seven of swords can mean confession , conscience , regret , and maliciousness , which i think lend beautifully to this character’s private struggles . there is a very heavy mix of negative and positive attributes leant towards seven of sword’s core character , someone who wants to do right by themselves at great cost . when interpreting the tarot as canis , i was drawn to the maliciousness and the regret ( in sometimes equal measure ) of the reversed card . i believe there is so much more to this character than just his web of scheming and lies , that canis’s true self comes from somewhere within , and i’m really excited to explore his inner conflicts. this man has so many issues that he’s buried and i think the possibility of him becoming a part of the revolution? impeccable. my muse for this skeleton ? through the roof .

BACKGROUND

I . O’ ROMULUS AND REMUS , CASTOR AND POLLUX , WHAT IS ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER ? a twin , you were told , though it feels like something you should never be permitted to forget. you’ve never felt him there , not like a phantom limb or a guiding whisper. just a story , when you’re feeling ungrateful for your lot in this realm , that there is only one where there once was two. born in the dead of winter -- the one that bit at the napes of even the most fur cloaked nobility of markholm , that anyone unlucky enough to live through it can still recall as “ceaseless” -- and childbirth takes your mother as it goes. two children , born sickly , cold. so you are dubbed efferus , a savage beast who can claw his way into life , barely holding onto breath , already having taken a life. it takes a village to raise motherless boys. sometimes it takes more than that. your brother doesn’t make it past the winter , but you keep growing , getting stronger by the day , and finally spring flowers bloom forth from hard soil. the goat farmer next door tells your father you are a resilient one , that the undying smiled upon him. another miracle , that your life could be a blessing and not a curse. as long as you knew him , your father kept steadfast in deep religion , devout , praying over the crops. the cattle. the harvest. even your birth , a story he recants so mystically it’s hard to imagine you were there. “we all bled fer you ,” he always starts , like it’s your fault , “my son , my son. let all else be damned fer ‘im.” two lives for the price of one , he reminds you , and you’re just a boy , but you still find it all absurd. there’s never been a rhyme or reason to suffering. “you make a deal with the undying and you get what you paid fer.” sometimes it seems a compliment. others .. you aren’t so sure. your father hath no mercy for the weak or spineless , though he wasn’t an inherently evil man either , at least not in the figments you can conjure of him. you plow the fields , with hands so rough with calluses you can’t feel the hilt of the axe you use to cut the firewood. you milk the cows , so gentle with great beasts you start to forget your name. you’re skin and bone and beating heart , not much to look at , but just the blessing your father asked for all the same. a good boy , in that you were capable and healthy and strong. a bad seed , in that you cared for little and didn’t always do as you were told. it’s your tenth winter when frostbitten tendrils take first your farm , and then your father. you make a deal with the undying and you get what you paid for , you remember , and it almost makes you laugh. perhaps it’s not so funny that you mourn very little the life you lost. perhaps still it is a testament to your strength , a boy of only ten who shoulders already a lifetime of death and decay. who makes it look a load easy to bear. who are you , efferus aubenet? and who will you become?

II . A MIRRORED MIDAS , IF EVERYTHING HE HAD TOUCHED TURNED TO DEATH AND ROT . a street urchin with no farm , no family , and most prominently no coin. winters slip away like sand through an hourglass , and it’s all you can do to keep track of the time that folds beneath you. one year , and you’re frail and quiet and know only to keep to yourself. three years and you’ve developed a taste for fighting , scrappy as you are. it’s just a game , in the beginning , one the other coinless children keep telling you you’re too good at , “it’s no fun fighting a hungry dog.” five years and you’re taller , more meat to your bones. you’re better at sneaking things out of the market , extra to feed your friends. you learned the hard way what happens if you don’t bring back enough , if you turn a blind eye to people who call out your name. you hear it when you dream , half awake in chilled darkness. “i’m so hungry, efferus. i’m so hungry.” you start going by canis. it makes it easier to sleep. six , seven years and you’re so good at fighting that your pockets start to feel heavy. cobbled streets whisper canis when you cross. bruised fists and a bloody conscience , not all soldiers make it out of battle alive. it dawns on you , slowly but with all the force of a crack of lightning , why the others like to call you dog. maybe it’s because you were born from death , or because you know loss so well it colors your eyelids when you blink , but it seems all you’re good for. you discover a rage within you , one which you’re sure ( you hope , foolish as it is ) any man is capable of , if pushed too far. but it’s directionless , vile in the way it sits inside your chambered heart. there is nothing more universal than pain. nothing more isolating than anger. a boy with a taste for blood. so blind to the way you snap , like branch under boot , when you push too hard. what place is there for you in an unforgiving world , wracked with hardship? at whose table do you dine? you knew love once , it felt like sharing bread and blankets and tales of woe. like years on the streets relying only on wit and steadfast determination to survive. like knowing a person fully , inside and out , as you’d always known yourself. that too would be taken from you , like everything else. for the price of just a single coin , you watched your love take their last breath , watched the thief make off with their blood money , felt truly and terribly powerless. worse than losing your father to deep winter chill you lost your first love to a blade. and in the end , it meant nothing. the sons of argos could not undo what you’d done , what had been done to you , but maybe you could give back tenfold. it starts small , at a table in your favorite tavern , as all great plots tended to do. an invitation to join a company you’d heard about only in whispers. you saw espace , penance where others saw a home , but that would always be enough for you. it was intended to be permanent , a family you couldn’t lose , under a friend who would lay down their life for the men , women , and children under their protection. a life of adventure to call your own and you didn’t need to suffer anymore. you had but one skill , it seemed , beyond tending to the herd and trimming too tall crops , and your father once taught you that skill fed fortune ( though the money , you’d find , would come later ) . you don’t think the sons is quite what your dearly departed had in mind , and this makes your smile widen. you’ve always found humor in odd places. what follows is a career far short of extravagant , fighting crime like a bunch of vigilanties , tied to a city state that knows little of its own streets. you hunger for travel , to sink your teeth into shores unseen , land untended. to make a real name for yourself and anyone who followed suit. “mind your place , mutt,” you hear more than once , and you want to swat the others away like flies buzzing in swelling ears. but there’s something sharp , too , like a cut that just won’t heal. your voice is too loud amongst the rest , your name -- the name you paid for in blood -- nothing next to strength’s. the captain you were meant to worship turned to dust in your heavy fist , the family you forged alongside them never yours to call your own. you tell yourself they betrayed you , like everything else in this life they gave you nothing to hold onto save for the back of their coattails , but in truth you were never meant to stay. minding your place felt a lot like digging six feet down to lay rest. it’s like waking from a dream , one you push down when it returns to you in the night , leaving the sons for good. four winters you slept under their tents , ate at their table , and still you feel nothing when you pack what’s yours ( and maybe some of what isn’t , but who would dare come looking for it? ) and go. no one follows , no one even pleads your case , and when you see them playing knights on the docks the fire in you swells. it’s all rot now.

III . WHERE WOULD ICARUS BE NOW , IF SOMEONE WISE HAD CLIPPED CURSED WINGS? iriebury is the stank of unwashed flesh , the heat of southern sun , something to conquer. the citizens are mean and the crime meaner. it makes tyrholm look a lot like playing pretend , the sons seem like a group of toy soldiers. to survive in iriebury you need your bark , you need your bite. naturally , you thrive. it takes just one winter , one warm southern winter , before you have something to call a crew of your very own. the second fangs , a handful of beaten down , nearly finished off mutts that think you look like a future. you’ll find one day , when you’ve turned to face the wrong end of a sword , these dogs’ loyalty knows no bounds. and maybe you do have a family after all. they don’t look like warriors born for battle , but they’re sharp on every edge and speak of you like you hung the moon. like a prophecy spun from the undying herself. the queen of iriebury’s no different , when you flash her a smile and run a sword through her guard. this is your destiny. with work and full bellies , the second fangs grow , picking up more men and women the rest of markholm cast aside , giving them all purpose. leadership becomes you , you’re kind in places other captains breathe fire. your men adore you , and maybe this is why it’s easy to lose yourself a bit. you’ve always been looking for him , that voice inside of you that has guided every confident step , and you really start to believe you’ve found him at the end of a blade. what you do isn’t pretty like life in a castle , it isn’t gentle like the farm or humble like a temple , but it suits you. you find company at the bottom of a bottle , family inside the taverns and brothels , atop dirty cobblestone. it all feels a lot like honor , like duty. you’re known for your loyalty and cunning among burdened skill. work lends to virtue or some mirrored image of the sort. the second fangs take the jobs you approve , not the ones the queen hands you , nails stained with blood , and who knew a mercenary crew with such an eye for morality? bastards that comb the streets but speak with love fresh on their lips. you’re a heathen with heart , of that not even the fiercest opponents can dispute. maybe there is a place in this world for nameless , coinless men with a hunger for something more. you give back to your beloved pack what they give to you ; everything , everything and then some. a life that means more than scraping the bottom of the barrel. you can’t carry on like this forever and survive , and it’s only a matter of time before real gold starts knocking. a steady job , you’re promised. a lifetime of stability , peace. you know more of the king of tyrholm than you let on , and maybe you are naive to trust the word of a woman who did not raise herself , but when you look at your company’s worn faces and tired smiles , weathered from southern strife , it’s never been easier to bend a knee. some odd winters , some odd springs , lived with modest lavesty. septimus is an arse of a man that whispers corroded bidding into your graceless ear. no one but the second fangs knows how much you shake , when the job is done and you’re safe at home. how much weight you shoulder , for yourself , for your men , for the lives you’ve taken. the lives you will take. your crew was never meant to become a rebellion. the glory feels lost , you’re a knight without chivalry , a wolf without teeth. you hear dog more than your own name and you bite back bile when you look in a mirror , but still , you think , you would do it all over again. the second fangs are a happy crew , well fed and housed and nothing like the orphans you sheltered so many moons ago. when it starts to feel like you have your own sons of argos you shelf the thought. your pack looks at you , strong and fit and still just a bit withered , and laugh and cheer. “yer getting old, canis,” they jest , when you stumble into bed. “hunch - backed from all that gold in yer pockets.” you’ve always been wiser than most of them , something raw in your heart that keeps it beating steadfast. better you than them , you know. most men would crack at what you’d seen. what you know. there’s good to be found , once you learn how to look , like the devotion of judgement , a beauty in worship that reminds you of all your father’s useless praying. peaceful in all it’s absurdity. there’s friendship in odd places , with the empress you serve. you find it hard to trust in tyrholm , unaccustomed to the politics of a ruling class , the society that never once smiled down on a farm boy and his widowed father. you want to be wise and cunning , still sometimes you feel inadequate next to those raised in education , but the queen saw your potential before anyone else in the whole retched kingdom , and that has to mean something. there’s the fool , a real dog you sometimes think , who mirrors your old captain so much it makes your skin crawl. they aren’t so bad , but it’s hard for you to look up at someone who serves at the hand of the king. you wonder if others think the same of you. fools , the whole lot of them. you know what the queen expects of you , your word is your livelihood , but these things take time. for now , you’re comfortable ; your cup is full. there’s always been something about wars to come that feels like home , ragged and battle scarred thing that you are. and besides , it’s easier to put out a fire that burns inside your ribs than one that swallows an entire kingdom , of this you are certain.

PLOT IDEAS

STRENGTH: oh boy oh man. canis can’t hold his tongue with distaste even if he tried , and he definitely doesn’t try with them. his anger often gets the better of him and i believe he would try to confront strength every chance he gets. he sees this skeleton as nothing more than the king’s right hand ( literally so exciting to me that strength is also a revolter and i’m sure neither of them know they’re destined to work on the same side again?? ) and i think he reflects a lot of his own inadequacies onto this skeleton , a lot of his failure. with such a tension relationship i’d like to see fights break out .. maybe even between their own respective men that they’d have to quell. far down the line even settling their differences and working together as the military leaders of a revolution because who is better suited for the job than them? but it would take a big blow to canis’s pride to share such a job , to ever work alongside this skeleton instead of against them like he always has. so all around? here for it all. NINE OF WANDS: canis looks at them and sees passion he once was sure he felt , the sharp thing in his gut that once spurred him to forge his own path in a world that never once showed him kindness. his scars are internal , but they wear their scar like a badge of honor , at least that’s how canis sees it. he’d love to not have to kill the king himself , even if he would never admit it. it means a safer life for his men , it means being done with tyrholm and a life of ease and travel , everything he’s always wanted and never seemed to be able to grasp. i wonder if them growing closer through sparring and their ability to provide him the best weapons he’s ever seen could change his opinion on wanting them to kill the king in a fit of rage?? i could see canis wanted to strategize with them , in the end , once he’s done poking the bear. love this gift of a connection a lot !!!! THE EMPRESS: definite ass kissing going on here. canis is more than grateful he was hired by her and not the king , though i do think he might resent them a little for the work the king makes his company do. he prefers to take jobs from them , when ordered , though i feel their relationship at this point goes beyond just work like it does with septimus. he trusts them and it does help him to sleep at night thinking he could be serving their hand and not septimus’s. also entirely possibly they call him the dog but with them it doesn’t feel like malice. he would never dare disrespect the queen , especially one he sees goodness in , sees his entire future in. would be really interesting if canis even is a little too friendly with them , giving them a hard time where maybe no one else would dare to do , an annoying prick in her side that she NEEDS to get what she wants. THE HERMIT: i think he has a lot of respect for the hermit. in ways that his pride keeps him from seeing his similarities with strength , he sees so much of who he once was in them. young , making their own way , maybe even some of the same rage , though canis has no place to put his own. i feel like if the respect was mutual they could have a friendly relationship , canis even pushing advice onto them they might not want or need. if a revolution came he would back them. somewhere , he probably even sees them as something of a good king. canis doesn’t trust them fully , but he could drink with them , knows the second fangs would treat them kindly as well. THE HIGH PRIESTESS: canis is scared of little , but he’s scared shitless of them. he avoids them at all costs , looks the other way when they’re brought to the same space. he doesn’t talk kindly of necromancers , though maybe there is some envy there he needs to address. he’s sure this doesn’t go unnoticed , not with all their years of wisdom. i think it could be really interesting though if one of his closest friends is killed on a job and they bring them back as he watches , sees this power first hand , feels even a debt is owed though none of the fear is gone. a lot of possibilities , i could see the second fangs might be dying a lot more often pretty soon ... JUSTICE: the world calls canis the dog because they see him as filth , as something mangey that feeds from table scraps of the king , but canis sees that justice is the real dog. and he pities him for it. there’s little glory in the work of a bodyguard , and maybe canis wonders how justice would fair in his own company. never the less , i think they could butt heads just as easily as they could share a pint. maybe they’ve even fought in some of the same battles , know each other from war torn lives and have a bond because of this. lots of potential for both malice and comradery , no matter what line of the revolution they tread. THE LOVERS: canis sees himself and more in them. he doesn’t pity easily , has an ability to find the strength in even the smallest mouse , but he pities the lovers. in some ways , i think he wants what they have , longs for something as fulfilling as love , and doesn’t want to see this squashed. every day he gets closer to telling them of the war to come. i really wonder how long he can go without letting anything slip , especially if they look at him with gentleness or show him great kindness. he feels they need to prepare , like he is , for a future of destruction. THE MOON: okay okay .. i have two different paths that i think might be interesting with this skeleton depending on what gets plotted out. BUT .. i could imagine canis stumbles into their office after being badly injured on the job , probably requesting some random herb because it HURTS and he’s WEAK and he needs it to be DONE WITH. one path would lead to the moon healing canis , and once he discovers this ability he probably begs and bribes ( heavily. the man is too wealthy for his own good now , and what else is he going to buy? new boots? his work just fine. ) them to start visiting the second fangs around the city to heal them in secret. he’ll do anything for their ensured safety. the other path works quite the same , only with no healing , just plants , and he’d be very dependent on this muse either way because of the miracles they’re able to work with his men. really really excited for the possibilities of plots with this skeleton. THE TOWER: a backstory plot for these muses is calling my name?? like maybe the tower and canis had a deal where the second fangs would assist them and their men on voyages and pillages for a cut of the treasure when all was said and done , back when the second fangs were fresher and poorer and in desperate need of work. and maybe one of the two betrayed the other on one of these trips , with greed for treasure or something of the like? things could be tense between them now , at each other’s throats. OR there could have never been a betrayal and they’re actually quite good friends who know a little too much about each other’s pasts , and canis offers the tower company amongst the pack knowing he’s lived through canis’s own worst nightmare. the terrifying ordeal of being known. canis could definitely trust them more than he should. this one has me really excited i won’t lie.

CHARACTER DEATH: canis would quite literally volunteer for this so that’s a big yes from me.

WRITING SAMPLE

THE SELF PARA: the tent is warm and the burn of the lamplight casts shadows across familiar faces. the second fangs. his pack, he always calls them, like they’re puppies and not vicious mercenaries. canis is most comfortable here, at ease, his usually pin straight posture relaxed despite the job he knows lays ahead of them. it’s not one he’s entirely comfortable with, an uprising in a poor village. always messy, always felt a bit like putting down a weakened calf at the farm. so they drink, to forget the day that lies ahead, the uncountable days behind. the faces. faces. faces, that echo like screams. he can’t recall who speaks first, but it was likely canis himself, always a little too bold when his body buzzed with liquid courage. “that’s not what i’m asking,” one of his men corrects with a nudge of canis’s shoulder, always aggressive with each other, a pack of wolves nipping at each other’s heels. “the death’s on your hands. but it’s meant to be a good one. worth while.” and the captain’s own eyes twinkle uncharacteristically, perhaps because his inner conscious knows what his mouth does not. that the answer lies waiting at the tip of his tongue, a snarling beast of a target. “and how much coin are we gonna get fer it?” ajax jests, but canis can see the gold flashing in front of his face, even from across the table. canis barks out a laugh, and they all bang their goblets on the table. “aye,” in unison. they know each other inside and out, they speak a language strange and foreign. a family with many moons in their pockets. how many knights can say that? “no coin,” canis finally adds. “no glory. no private dance at the brothel,” eying ren, and there’s another chorus of easy laughter, more aye’s. “one of the nobles,” lawren grunts, and at first there’s just ringing silence. a paranoia that winds it’s way through the small group. they trust each other with their lives but this .. it’s like blasphemy. it’s revolution uncurling within them, more than just a job, it’s a force awakening. lawren speaks again, gentler, louder. “undying knows they’re all pricks.” and it’s easy again, more aye’s, cups overflowing with wine and ale. but in between the laughter, he feels the wrench in his gut, the rage that threatens to flare. an allegiance of blood and blind faith -- it reminds him so much of religion that he squirms. maybe his answer lies in a job, with wicked tendrils wrapped around his neck like a leash. the dog. how wrong would it be to bite the hand that feeds you? “i’d cut off my ring fingers and swear to celibacy to be rid of the fuck all king already,” canis growls, his knuckles white where he grips tight on his cup. and it’s quiet again. when he speaks they listen, they all listen, even the highborn in the castle, like he’s a wave crashing on shore. commanding attention. demanding it. “you’re spending too much time with the clerics,” ren groans, with a face like a fox, her hair hanging limply in her face. he can’t tell if she’s smiling or frowning, but they’re nodding in agreement. all of them. “what good’s that sack of shit king, anyway?” lawren chimes in, and then it’s deafening chatter. all canis can do is listen, absorb the pain of his men, the frustration, see himself reflected in their woes. say what any outsider will about his crew, maybe they are all mutts. one mind, one body, one restless spirit. tired of being used, of being chained to a cause that tries to fill deep chasms in bleeding hearts with gold. what is the price of true freedom? “maybe the end is closer than you think, canis,” a small voice that rises above the others. a girl, mary, raised in the pack, only nearing her seventeenth summer. and she’s a legacy of everything canis has created, the family he wove with bruised and boney fingers. “we haven’t lost a battle, yet.” and she’s right, of course she’s right, whip smart and flea bitten. if there is to be a revolution, aid of the pack would be an immense advantage. it isn’t arrogance with which his men speak. it’s truth. he has to chew on the suggestion, sharp glass in his mouth with every bite, impossible to digest, but maybe with the backing of his crew .. canis has trouble seeing the future beyond a sack of coins and a full bottle of ale. he knows little of politics, even after all his withered years serving as something of a king himself. it’s overwhelming, and he thinks his whole arm shakes when he raises his goblet. “nasty fuckers,” but his teeth shine in the lamplight, like fangs. like canines. “trying to get your own captain killed.” but when they clink glasses, it feels like a deal has been made, like he owes this death to more than just the queen, like the undying herself is watching.

EXTRAS

VOICE : canis has an eclectic sort of accent , a combination of all of the people he met while living on the street , his father , the lands he’s traveled and settled into with his companies . he constantly sticks out as an outsider , no matter where he is . he doesn’t mind this sense of otherness because whenever canis goes , his family is never far . canis’s mockblog can be found HERE his pinterest can be found HERE ( blood tw )

#accepted #accepted: seven of swords

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miresofblack · 4 years

Text

𝒊 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒌𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 — i never promised you an open heart or charity / i never wanted to abuse your imagination

𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 : the date is may 25th, 1938, and spring is not the only thing twisting dark damsons by their stems.

her clothes don’t fit quite the way she likes it – being away for months had meant she’d grown out of everything but aside from the lightness, she is clean and sprightly as spring rain, and has arrived at pollux black’s countryside estate like a strong current blowing through the drapes. the morning had been spent hovering about the entire estate, listening to her aunt’s mumbling about minding the carpet, the way the humidity clung to the glasses, fussing at every green thing in turn until alphard, poking his head out from the top of the stairs, asks if lucretia has seen the great dane in the courtyard.

“maybe i saw it the foyer,” she says as she draws closer to the railing, “but i saw cygnus cleaning today. what’s that all about?”

alphard finds her trivia hardly interesting but simply stupid. it’s obvious he’s busy about the dog and all, and what he does offer is not quite an explanation but a well-know fact: “cygnus doesn’t do many things, much less with cleaning anything.”

“oh.” lucretia’s hand settles on the edge of the railing where she lingers inconveniently, smiling like a thunderhead on a tether worth pulling. “you don’t say.”

-❈-

it’s noon now, and the day's heat is whistling through her kindling body like a greeting.

she looks behind her and finds that the light behind her is weaker — like looking at sunlight through a fine white cloth, orion is now sat at the hilt of the mound, a silhouette of grey and shadow no different than an unsuspecting doe resting in a round, makeshift nest of grass.

'can you believe—' (now rolling her eyes, a fine spray of lucretia’s flyaway hairs scatter with irritation in the breeze; in this way, it's true that lucretia has always been a thing of motion.) '—they're making me learn—' (and motion, like way of sound, can only be compelled to change its state by the actions of an outside force.) '—about those BEASTS!' (and lucretia, by way of law, will always be the one of two to carry that force.)

the way he sounds and looks at her seems to turn every leaf, every single one, to a breathless crisp. “what.”

“the half-beasts. i’m talking about centaurs.”

he glares for something else that isn’t her answer even if it is all the more unspectacular and irritating. “like you? you’re half-gnome yourself.”

lucretia wastes no time shoving him into the grass with the delicacy of a bulldozer. “don’t ever say that to me again.”

and then she felt a tug. it was the kind of tug like having a rug pulled out clean from beneath her, like a plug yanked out straight from a socket. and then another tug, carrying with it that same sense of surprise, the same sense of blinking and finding herself severed until she’s face-planted into the ground. the dead of spring breeding dead thistles that scratch her bare legs with each shock of pain with every tussle, shredding whiteness into her skin and pinpricks of blood in the afternoon glare.

"you SNITCH—” he mumbled between both of lucretia’s hands she’d placed over his face in attempt to ward him off. “now i won’t be able to go to the world cup game, because of what you did, you snitch!”

“stop it, cygnus!”

they strike each other hard enough to ring a two-tone bell, the sound mad as a bull and heavy and scarlet enough that it all but shakes the trunk of the trees.

“you shouldn’t have done what you did!”

the thought of it leaves an agitation, a trepidation, like wings beating in her chest, that precise half-moment she’d watched cygnus hide something in his pocket before going through a chest full of linens. at first she’d thought he had been cleaning, that perhaps had meant to launder the linens, but elves did the laundry and she’d found for herself the antique pipe he’d placed behind four layers of linen.

“you stole.”

“and was it worth it to have told? well, let me tell you something lucretia - nobody likes a know-it-all, especially one as stupid and sneaky as you.”

when she’s older the pressure of her disdain will smash windows, but for now it only rattles in her scowl, the spring air giving a violent rustle as if it’d developed the requisite nerves to feel cold. lucretia stands over him and delivers one final spat:

“i’m not to blame for the bad thing you did, cygnus.”

when she shuffles down the path that cygnus had led her to not long ago, the soles of her shoes drag on the dried-out flower heads that litter the path, slogging miserably and diminishing the brown husks to ash. cygnus is following in her tracks and calling out to her only to remain in miserable earshot.

it is only when she nears orion she is reminded her to correct her dizzied gaze. “do not ask,” is all she has to say, “but you may see later.” with a hand now at his forearm, she steers them to a less aggravating area of the estate. “ right now i’m thinking bad things because i’m mad.”

-❈-

there’s a lag in the star’s sparkle, a wrinkle, a chink, in the way she blinks and unwraps her eating utensils and crosses her legs at the ankles after taking her seat at the table. both violent with thistle and scalded like flowering dogwood refusing to be pared for the cold bark of winter.

“a-yā!” her mother’s hand pecks at her hair and the slit of dirt on her elbow. “don’t look so pestilent, lucretia. we’ve hardly begun to cut into our food.”

terse, but still shaken after the tremor of cygnus’ underfoot, lucretia decides to try her best to remain placid. “i’m sorry,” she exhales with a squaring of her shoulders, gently smoothing out the fabric of her skirt as each thistle catches her fingers like a small sting. now with butterknife in hand, she’s cutting into a scone and eyeing cygnus with the fondness of an arrow enroute to bullseye. “i guess that cyngus and i are just not good at playing fair.”

the other looks up in gummy embrace and toothy smile. “it’s all in good fun, really.”

“but lucretia isn’t used to such excitement...”

“she has to.” a third voice announces as graceful and filled with intent as a serpent, or arrowhead, both marked with imperial demand. “present afflictions tend to our future good - better she and orion scrape their knees in the bounds of our homes than be clubbed over the head by anyone else outside our gates.”

they all nod. but what they don’t say is that tyrants are blind to their own rubble until they are crushed by it; which is to say, there is a kind of joy in the being crushed, as well as a kind of apathy. that’s all holiness is, really – the joy of indifference. so lucretia sinks like a stone into her seat. at a glance, her expression is flat, the body looks discarded, like a doll flung akimbo, but she’s eleven and all play, a wind-up toy waiting to be vitalized again after dinner. she doesn't know words like hate, like smash, like pain, like war, like murder, but she knows that familiarity is a type of ownership, ownership a type of omnipotence, and so that famous black family spirit is naturally crammed tight into all four foot, eleven inches like a handful of a molotov cocktail.

so she’ll play along, and the look she levels him from across the table is scorched and barren from the height of day. “next time, cousin, we play a game that you won’t see coming.”

“— and, can you pass me the butter, please?”

#burialtask #violence tw

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sheriffofmagic · 5 years

Note

5. Burger writes poetry about his crush. Vang0 finds it and is determined to set them up. 6. Vang0 has a secret admirer on the forums. 7. They both talk about their crushes to one another but are too stupid to figure it out. 8. They both decide to run for an unwanted political office, but they're both very passionate about it and start to become enemies over it. 9. Burger Chainz needs to confess the truth... he cant actually drive. 10. Vang0 asks Burger out for the lulz on stream as a dare.

This is in response to #9 it’s pretty short but I hope you like it!

---

They’re in the middle of a chase when Vang0 finds out. Really fucking inopportune time honestly. Burger Chainz and Vang0 Bang0 had taken an UberLyftTaxi to their meeting spot. Dressed to the nines (which basically meant dressing like a normal ass civilian for once) and on their best behavior.

Everything had been going smoothly at first. No one was asking many questions and they had blended into the crowd of the upscale party they’d been at better than they had expected. They’d had it handled. Until someone asked how they’d gotten into business together and simultaneously spit out different answers. Then continued to dig the hole deeper over the next few minutes as they stumbled through an attempt to cover their asses and make the story make sense.

When Burger had looked around again, he caught a glimpse of their target (a tall, wispy man Dasha had only referred to as Pollux) disappearing into the elevator. The other guests eyeing them suspiciously.

“Well, we blew this one, huh?” Vango said as they started pushing their way through the crowd, people making no effort to hide their chatter about them as they went.

Just before they pushed through the door to the stairwell, Vang0 turned back to the disgruntled looking party guests, raised his hands high above his head in VB style and shouted, “Your party just got crashed by Vang0 Bang0, baby!”

And they took off down the stairs, nearly tripping over themselves and each other as they rushed down.

The air outside was muggy and moist, the street reflecting the neon lights of downtown, casting everything in a faint purple glow. Burger looked around quickly trying to catch sight of Pollux again. For a moment he thought they’d lost him but a sleek silver car peeled away down the street at a speed that would only make sense if you were that desperate to avoid awkward party conversation or running from something.

“We need a car,” Vang0 said frantically.

“Shit I don’t have the van.”

Vang0 started walking toward the curb, eyeing the various cars, “We’ll just have to take one of these.”

Burger looked at him incredulously, “What like steal it?”

“Borrow,” Vang0 said, slipping his lockpick tool out of his pocket, “We’ll bring it back, don’t worry big guy.”

Burger paced while Vang0 frantically tried to open the door but the lockpick didn’t seem to be working, they were losing time.

“Shit,” said Vang0, then and he looked up at Burger with a distraught expression, “Sorry.”

“Sorry for wh-”

Vang0 brought his elbow swiftly down on the window, shattering it. Glass falling to the ground like crystalline tears. The whole scene would’ve looked cool if Vang0 hadn’t immediately whimpered in pain when the blow hit.

“Didn’t think that would hurt so much,” he said as he reached inside to open the door.

“What the fuck?” Burger said, incredulously.

Vang0 shrugged at him, “We’re losing time. We need the car. Vang0 Bang0 get’s shit done.”

His face crumbles, “Dammit! I didn’t stream any of that!”

Shaking his head quickly he looks up at Burger again, “Come on, we’ve gotta go we might’ve already lost him.”

Vang0 motions toward the drivers' side and starts to make his way over to the passenger seat. Burger doesn’t move.

“What are you doing we’ve gotta go!”

Burger looks at his feet, shifting awkwardly.

“I, uh, I can’t.”

“Can’t what? Look I’m sorry I broke the window but we’ve gotta go or Dasha is gonna kill us herself. Now let’s go!”

“I can’t!” Burger looks directly into Vang0’s frantic eyes now, “I- uh. I don’t actually know how to drive.”

Vang0 is stunned into silence for only a moment before he shifts into high gear again, “What do you mean? You drive all the time? You have a van? You’re like the Van Guy? Of course you know how to drive.”

Burger shakes his head quickly, “Ah, no. I don’t. I’ve had the van forever but Keanu drives it. The AI. It does all the work I just sit behind the wheel and make sure it doesn’t crash us. But a real car? A Keanu-less car? I got no idea.”

He expects Vang0 to be mad. After all he might’ve just lost them their only lead on this case but to his surprise, Vang0 laughs. Loudly, a little unsettlingly even, He’s not used to the sound.

“I can’t believe this. I’ve known you longer than I’ve known anyone and somehow I never knew you didn’t know how to drive? Does Dasha know?”

Burger shakes his head, “I always just say we’ll take the van.”

“Oh my god! Burgs, if I wasn’t positive Dasha is gonna kill us after this, this would be the best day of my life. I can’t believe it-” and he speaks more quietly, almost to himself, “doesn’t know how to drive…”

He snaps back into action, more composed and a glint in his eye that Burger knows to mean they’re about to get in some serious shit.

“Alright, I’ll drive. You get passenger’s side, you’ll be the guns if we need ‘em. Let’s track this bastard down.”

Vang0 is already behind the wheel, starting the car with the same contraption that had failed on the locks, when Burger steals himself enough to open the passenger door. His seatbelt clicks into place as the car dully roars to life.

He looks at Vang0, slightly bewildered, “Have you ever driven before?”

“Not this lifetime,” he looks at Burger with a bright grin, “but I think I might’ve. Ya know. Before. Can’t be much different from riding a bike right?”

And before Burger Chainz gets the chance to panic, Vang0 has pulled them into the street, speeding in the direction they’d seen Pollux take off in.

Over the purr of the engine and the wind rushing through the smashed window Vang0 shouts, “Hey buddy! Do me a favor and stream this for me, would you?”

#vang0chainz #burgerbang0 #sorry this took so long mac #hope its alright #this isnt even exactly a ship fic i need to work on making them More Gay #vang0 bang0 #burger chainz #ptero-dactylic

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fracturedmotivationwriting · 4 years

Text

datura does a tarot reading

Datura mindlessly shuffled her tarot deck, watching the tendrils of smoke swirling up from her burning sage stick. Ambrose was lounging across her couch, reading Hamlet for their literature class, and his girlfriend was sitting on the floor before him writing something. She had told Datura what it was, but the witch hadn't listened.

The couple had come over because the demon had been salted out of Prom and Pollux's place. He'd done something to annoy Pollux. Again.

Datura was happy to have the company, her extroverted nature feeling rather depleted today since she'd locked herself alone in the studio for almost twelve hours. But now that she was sitting on her favorite cushion, across the coffee table from Fiona, she was feeling... Off. Some negative energy was bothering her, but she couldn't quite pinpoint it. Hence, the sage burning.

"Are you okay, Datura?" Fiona asked softly, glancing up from her homework to give the witch a curious look. Apparently, her internal confusion was noticeable.

"Oh, I'm fine," Datura mumbled, glancing down at the deck she was still shuffling. "There's just... Something hanging around. I'm hoping the sage will clear it away."

The lounging demon turned his head to inspect the introspective witch. He couldn't sense what it was she was feeling, but he had an inkling that it was because he was often such a negative energy in rooms being a demon and all. The witches had, thankfully, quickly gotten used to his presence, so this must be something different for Datura. And it must be something pretty minor if Ambrose couldn't feel it.

"Will a distraction help?" Fiona suggested, motioning to the tarot cards. "Like showing me how to do a tarot reading?"

Datura cracked a small smile. Maybe a little magic would help.

"The best way to teach you is probably to read your cards first, and then explain the deck," Datura mused, shuffling the deck with more purpose. "First we need to decide what question we're asking. What are you hoping to learn from this reading? What's the focus?"

"What's my future like?" Fiona offered uncertainly. "Is that too broad?"

Datura chuckled. That usually was the first question humans tried to ask. She nodded her head.

"Just a little broad," Datura agreed. "What specifically in your future are you curious about? Relationships? Career?"

Fiona seemed to consider this seriously. Biting her lip, she mulled it over. While she was happy with her relationship with Ambrose, she wasn't sure she wanted to look into their future. He was a demon and she was still technically human, as her powers were just starting to grow. She was far more interested in how her powers would develop than how her relationship would. It was clear that Ambrose, despite flirting with everything that moved, was smitten with her. If she'd already managed to wrap the demon around her finger, there was no need for concern there. Power was the concern.

Ambrose looked away from his book, curious to hear what Fiona would want to learn about her future.

"I want to learn more about how my magic will develop," Fiona decided, earning raised eyebrows from both supernatural beings. "How powerful with magic could a human get?"

Something about Fiona's answer perturbed Datura. It sent the same shiver down her spine as when she had started sensing the unnamed negative energy. She couldn't help but glance at the sage stick to see if it had gone out. It hadn't.

"Okay," Datura agreed, nodding her head with pursed lips. "So when you go to read tarot cards, you need to have a specific intention or question in mind. While you shuffle the deck, you need to keep this in the forefront of your mind. You can shuffle it any way you want, and you can spread them any way you want when you're done shuffling, but a three-card spread is easiest for your first few readings. You can either read them in the context of 'past, present, and future' or "situation, action, and outcome,' which is what I prefer."

Fiona nodded along, absorbing whatever information Datura was providing and keeping a careful eye on the cards in the witch's hands. Something about her cool, trained gaze made Datura a little nervous. She knew she was teaching Fiona how to do a tarot reading, and knew that the girl was a very good student, but something was bothering her about the girl's seriousness.

Trying to ignore her unease, Datura closed her eyes and focused her attention back on the cards. She shuffled and split the deck with expert hands, keeping the question of Fiona's future with magic in her mind. She let the cards speak to her, waiting until they decided shuffling was enough before placing the deck on the table. Opening her eyes, she kept her gaze on the cards, rather than Fiona.

"Now, you'll know when to stop shuffling pretty instinctively if you're good with magic. The cards will let you know when you're done," Datura advised the human. "I'm not sure how else to describe it other than that. It may take you a few tries to get it exactly right, but once you know, you know."

Fiona started to open her mouth, probably to ask a question, but seemed to think better of it. Datura was grateful.

"Like I said we'll do a nice three-card spread. When I lay these out, don't jump to conclusions. Lots of the cards look scary, but that doesn't mean that they are. And the same card can have different meanings based on their spot, the other cards, the questions, et cetera. Just lay them out. Get a first impression. Then try to really read them. Okay?"

Fiona nodded. Datura took a deep breath before placing her hand on the deck. Removing the cards one at a time she laid three of them out before Fiona face-down. Closing her eyes again, and taking another deep breath, Datura flipped over the first card.

"Is that... the devil?" Fiona asked, leaning closer to the card on the table to get a closer look at the half-goat, half-man being with the upside-down pentagram on his chest. She at least had the decency to look worried at such a sight.

Datura chuckled at the slightly bewildered look on the girls face.

"The devil upright," Datura agreed, making note of the orientation of the card. "It looks scary but it's not that bad. Kinda like Ambrose."

"Are you calling me a devil, Datura?" the demon drawled from his relaxed position, his eyes still trained on the book before him.

"If the card were reversed it could indicate something like a sense of freedom," Datura continued, ignoring the demon. "Releasing oneself from limits. Exploring darker thoughts."

"So what does it mean when it's upright? Confinement?" Fiona furrowed her eyebrows.

"It could mean some sort of restriction, yes. But I think in this context, it's more likely referring to your current situation: being tempted by the demon behind you and the witches you've befriended."

"I am quite seductive," Ambrose piped up again. His face was still turned away, but Datura could see edges of a smirk on his face.

Datura opted to ignore him as she rested a hand over the second card. Before she even flipped it she could sense the change in energy. While the last card was the devil, Datura knew this one was going to be the bringer of bad news.

Staring up at her, swathed in blue robes with the moon at her feet and a horned crown on her head, the high priestess revealed herself next. But upside-down.

Fiona must have sensed the hesitancy in Datura, must have seen the slight worry in the witch before her. She leaned away, no longer studying the cards but studying the witch. Datura did her best to channel her inner Prom and hide her troubling thoughts. It didn't stop Ambrose from sensing the same distress, as he sat up and glimpsed at the cards on the table. He furrowed his brows, his eyes flicking up to meet Datura's. Something was not right.

The human and demon both waited for the witch to speak.

"The reversed high priestess," she whispered, her face clear of emotion but the reverent tone in her voice making it clear that this was not a card one hoped for.

"The second card in this reading is meant to indicate action," Datura explained, keeping her eyes on the cards. "In the upright orientation, the high priestess could represent intuition or sacred knowledge."

"But in the reverse?"

"In the reverse... She often indicates secrets, hidden agendas, and harm."

A heavy silence hung over the trio. This reading was starting to trouble Datura, but she was doing her best to hide the extent of her fear. She knew that tarot readings could be tricky, even for experienced witches such as herself. There were always so many factors at play when reading the future. Things that could change. Things that could be misinterpreted. Just cause Fiona's second card, the "action," read secrets and harm didn't mean that Fiona would be keeping secrets and causing harm. It didn't even necessarily mean that secrets would be kept from her or harm done to her. There was lots of uncertainty.

Shaking her head a bit, Datura took another deep breath. She needed to relax. There was nothing from her experiences with Fiona to indicate that the human was dangerous. Datura was just on edge. Probably a lack of sleep again.

"And now, your final card: the outcome," Datura forced a smile back on her face. She moved quickly, not giving herself a chance to read the energy of the card or to second guess her actions.

She suddenly wishes that she had decided to show Fiona how to do palm readings.

It seemed at first to be a man, standing on one foot. But to the well-trained witch's eye, the card was upside-down. Meaning that the man was hanging from his foot.

Reversed hanged man.

Datura was confused. Worried. But still confused.

"Reversed hanged man," she informed Fiona, who also looked a bit confused at the card. But that was probably just from not understanding the picture.

"In the upright, the card can mean a pause, a change, a new perspective. In the reverse, it can mean much of the same thing just negative. It's not a pause, it's a delay or a standstill. It's not a change or a new perspective, it's a lack of control."

Datura furrowed her eyebrows. Something about those interpretations just wasn't sitting right with her. There had to be more to it.

"It can also indicate sacrifice when it's in this orientation," she continued softly, trying desperately to make sense of the three cards before her. "Usually of the time variety, but sometimes sacrifices of other things."

The upright devil, the reversed high priestess, and the reversed hanged man. Situation, action, and outcome. All in the context of Fiona's future with magic. How powerful could she become?

It was clear the upright devil referred to Fiona's current situation: her being tempted with magic by the witches she had discovered and the demon she was dating.

The reversed high priestess could be read as either Fiona keeping secrets and harming others, or perhaps the opposite. Maybe secrets would be kept from her and harm would befall her. Or maybe she'd become a secret, and harm would ensue. It was more difficult to piece together. Something in Datura's gut, however, was leaning towards the first explanation.

Finally, the reversed hanged man. The outcome. Usually, the sacrifices the card referred to were sacrifices of time, but Datura was skeptical. Especially given the question asked. Lots of magic required sacrificial offerings. It wouldn't be a far leap. Maybe the cards were merely referring to Fiona sacrificing a pig like the coven often did. Or maybe they were trying to warn Datura of something darker. Something much more dangerous. But surely Ambrose would never let things go that far?

Thankfully, Ambrose broke the uncomfortable silence that had befallen them.

"Well, I think the message is clear. Fiona, you're being seduced by me, we have to keep our sex a secret so we don't make Datura jealous, but it means that we have less control over our sex lives because we have to follow Datura's rules. Plain and simple."

Datura was never more thankful for the demon's teenage-boy-esque horny mind and clear avoidance tactics for confrontation.

#witches and ghosts and demons oh my #i got all my tarot information off the internet #i'm sorry if it is wrong i simply don't know what i'm doing #but i really kinda want to learn

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in-tua-deep · 5 years

Note

I'd love to hear more of you Daemon AU from part 6. Tell me about Five getting kidnapped and Pancha rallying the siblings to go save him

(referring to here and y’all can check out the rest of it on the masterlist ;3c)

So the Handler has reason to do more than just stall Five at a hotel meet up, she has more reason than to set out champagne and prepare a little speech. Because when Five oh so graciously blew her up with her own grenade and fought her, he revealed too much of his hand.

Because Pancha shifted in front of him, and revealed to the Handler that she was unsettled. An adult with an unsettled daemon - a time traveler in the body of a child with an unsettled daemon to match. Five turned from a failed experiment into a fun brand new experiment! So the Handler doesn’t try and stall him. Instead, she sets up a trap - and oh she’s had months to heal from the grenade that should have killed her to do just that

so Five can’t help himself, he goes with Pancha to see what the Handler has to say and he walks right into an ambush. Admittedly, he wasn’t really expecting the dart, but he’s Number Five. He’s the commissions best assassin. He might look soft and childlike, but he’s as deceptive as the hare daemon by his side that can erupt into a roaring tiger in one heartbeat and into a deadly mamba the next. He holds on long enough to push - because the dart is in his skin and the Handler’s grip on his arm is hard enough to bruise.

But the Handler doesn’t have a daemon. She made everyone uncomfortable, going around without her soul. The Handler doesn’t have a daemon, and she’s only one person, and she has a grip on Five which means she doesn’t have a grip on Pancha.

So Pancha jumps, shifting into something small and tiny and stumbling underneath a dumpster in an alley and hiding away before she passes out from the tranqs unloaded into her boy. The Commission got Five, the Handler has him, but they don’t get to have them both.

It’s not too long before she wakes up, panic under her skin and a sharp pain in the side of her face. The one boon she has is that Five can’t travel in time without her, not if they don’t want to kill them both. Not if they want them for experiments. (The Commission tried some unfortunate experiments with that early on - it’s a fact that people simply cannot time travel without their daemons) but that doesn’t mean they can’t hurt her and try get her to come to them.

(What hurts Five hurts her - and they have a high pain tolerance between them but Pancha can feel her skin getting raw already where they clearly have her boy restrained. Can feel the fear flowing between them. They never much liked to be restrained, either of them.)

So Pancha wakes up, and she doesn’t care about the apocalypse right now - because as much as she loves her siblings and wants to save them more than anything that’s her boy. And her and Five have been through so much, more than anyone should go through. They kept one another company through the end of the world, and Pancha will chew through the Handler’s jugular herself to make sure she stays dead this time.

But she needs backup. And a plan. And yes, she understands that her siblings are at one anothers throats right now and that Vanya and Pollux went crazy or whatever but Pancha doesn’t care. That shit can wait a hot second. God knows Pancha and Five have put all their very unresolved trauma on the backburner to stop the apocalypse, her dumbass siblings can put theirs on hold to save her boy.

So she jumps into the concert hall, and there are commission agents in there shooting and Pancha just sees red. Because the Commission took her boy, and so she can feel herself changing. Flitting through one form to the next, becoming a jaguar and tearing claws through a daemon before morphing into an elephant to stomp another into dust and then twisting into a hawk and plucking a mouse daemon from the floor and snapping it and -

Pancha comes back to herself pinning some idiot lackey and his weasel daemon in each paw in the form of an enormous bear, roaring in his face a terrible cry of - “Where’s my boy?” and her grief and fury and desperation is so very clear in her voice and she might be crying and she has blood running into her eyes from a wound that she didn’t receive in this concert hall -

And suddenly the background music that has been going on throughout the fight screeches to a halt. And Pancha looks up, and Vanya is sitting on the stage with a violin tucked under her chin and Pollux is perched on the music stand and they’re both still as statues and looking at her.

“Pancha?” Rowan chokes out, which is rude because is should be Pancha questioning them and Klaus considering the fact that she can still see Ben’s ghostly form and Tamaya sticking her head out of Klaus’s pocket. Silly Rowan, always keeping secrets.

There’s another shock of pain that rockets down Pancha’s arm, wrist burning where she didn’t just try and wrench it up to protect from a blow that she was never going to be able to block in the first place. She crunches the weasel daemon into dust and staggers sideways, only just realizing she’s still in the form of a bear and twisting herself into her hare form again.

That’s about the time when she realizes that oh yeah, her siblings don’t know she’s unsettled. Or, they didn’t know. This was a somewhat spectacular way to introduce the idea to them. Pancha feels a little like giggling hysterically, but she swallows down the impulse as another sharp bolt of fear runs down the connection between her and her other half.

(She isn’t even sure if it’s his fear or hers - or if the distinction even matters)

“Where’s Five?” Vanya asks, voice loud and clear from her place on the stage. Probably the concert hall acoustics at work.

Pancha blinks blood out of her eyes and bares her teeth, still absolutely furious. “They took him.” She announces, voice cold. “They took him, and I’m going to get him back. And you can all help me, or you can continue your stupid useless tantrum while they rip him apart for fun.”

She can hear Diego and Val suck in sharp breaths behind her, but Pancha doesn’t care. She locks eyes with Pollux with a challenge. She always loved Vanya and Pollux, loved them when none of their other siblings would touch them with a ten foot pole. They’re her siblings. They’re also ending the world. If Pancha was in a petty mood, she might even hate them a little bit for causing the end that she and her boy were thrown head first into and expected to survive. But she can’t quite hate them when she sees the same furious grief in their eyes that she sees in the mirror.

(But the memory of the bodies, the bodies, will always stay with her. Corpses upon corpses and so much dust it choked the sun in the sky. Pancha hadn’t been able to walk without stepping in puddles of what used to be daemons, with thoughts and hopes and dreams of their own. Pancha remembers the children, the infants in their strollers and skeletons in plastic playgrounds.

Somehow worse than all of those were the bodies from the first day. The ones with umbrella tattoos on their forearms and a grief so thick that they choked on it and retched and cried to the heavens as they vowed to change it.

Vanya and Pollux were going to end the world - they did end the world - and even though Pancha loves them, she’s not quite sure she can forgive them.)

But Vanya stands up and looks at her siblings cowering among the rows of the audience. Looks at Pancha, who is bleeding and bruised and desperate. Pollux inclines his head ever so slightly, and Vanya nods decisively. “If they took him,” She says, danger in her voice, “Then lets go take him back.”

Because Five and Pancha vanished when they were 13 and went to hell. Before they left, they were the only ones who actively sought Vanya and Pollux out. Their childhoods were filled with quiet stolen moments basking in each others company and pretending they were family.

And then they came back. Five and Pancha had sought Vanya and Pollux out first, out of all of their siblings. They’d gone to her. Asked for her to believe them and help them. They’d complimented her book, and hadn’t condemned her for writing it.

They hadn’t been there when Luther had locked Vanya and Pollux away. If they had, they would have unlocked that door in a heartbeat, or else jumped into that soundproof room with them in solidarity. They hadn’t been there at the start of the concert hall attack, either.

Five and Pancha hadn’t done anything to incur Vanya and Pollux’s wrath. He was their brother, the one they’d left out peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches for and left the lights on. Of course they were willing to put the apocalypse on hold for him, anything less would be ungrateful.

So they pile into a van with some awkwardness (because how do you address your siblings almost ending the world??) and Pancha sits on the dashboard. Allison is driving and Raph draped around her shoulders while Vanya sits shotgun with Pollux on her lap. Pollux’s feather are brown-and-white instead of white-and-brown again, and Vanya’s eyes are back to being brown, but her suit is still white and the threat of her powers hangs heavy in the air.

Daemons always know where their people are, even ones that can separate as far as Pancha and Five can. She navigates, restless and angry and shifting between being a hare and being creatures with a few too many teeth.

“Is anyone going to address the elephant in the room?” Klaus asks, incredulous as Rowan hisses at him to shut up.

Pancha, in the form of a cat herself, swings her head around and draws up her lip to show her very pointy teeth. “Why yes, Klaus.” She snarls, “Why don’t we have a good long talk about why our sister is still alive and how you summoned our brother?”

She years Tamaya squeak in Klaus’s pocket and shift further back. Pancha pretends it doesn’t hurt, and Klaus falls silent.

She turns her head to look at the road ahead. Shifting back into a hare with her long ears pressed flat against her skull. She doesn’t look at any of them. “They’ll be after me, specifically. They want - they took him because of me. Because of what I am. Or, you know, what I’m not.”

Because it’s her fault. If she just fucking settled they wouldn’t have to deal with this. They wouldn’t have to deal with all the secrecy and hiding and the terror or not being able to put a single toe out of line during their time in the commission. She wouldn’t be stupid and immature and a million other things she snarled to herself because even after all those years stuck at the end of the world it seemed they had never quite grown up. If she’d found a form for them, they wouldn’t be in this mess. She’d be settled and grown and perfect and they wouldn’t have stolen her boy.

She shifts, and feels blood run down her claws to puddle on the dashboard. Five clearly wasn’t taking the restraints lying down and if he could get out of them well enough to move then it would make their job so much easier. After all, even if they got too tired to jump (a strong possibility with all the jumping Pancha did while on adrenaline at the concert hall actually) well. Five wasn’t their best agent because of his jumping, after all. He’d never needed his powers to beat a Commission lackey in a fight (though they didn’t hurt)

and they get to the warehouses they’re keeping Five in until they can obtain his wonderful unsettled daemon for whatever experiments they want to run.

(Pancha figures it’s a toss up between trying to sever them or some equally gruesome fate and between figuring out why she hadn’t settled to they could keep other people unsettled. After all, having such a versatile daemon couldn’t be anything but a boon in their line of work.)

Pancha stops them (and by them she 100% means Luther/Andromeda and Diego/Val) from busting in without a plan - because she’s come way too far for her idiot siblings to go and die on her again. But like, their plan mainly consists of sending Ben in to scout first and then busting in soooo

(Ben comes back absolutely furious, not that anyone except Klaus-Rowan-Tamaya can see that. Ben isn’t exactly super appreciative of the fact that their little brother is tied to a chair with blood and bruising and a women tutting and caressing his face in a way that is so far inappropriate that Ben kind of wants to skewer her.

They can’t help but look at Pancha with a more critical eye, see the bloodied pawprints and blood-wet fur and the way she’s sort of swaying just a little.)

“She’s waiting for Pancha, right?” Val says, frowning. Raph is wrapped around her where he’d normally be wrapped around Andromeda. The duo were still in the doghouse regarding their treatment of Vanya regardless of this little rescue mission.

“What’s to stop this bitch from just drugging Five as soon as we march in there and making Pancha useless.” Diego points out, subtle as always and making Pancha bristle. But it’s a solid point.

Except - “Five will be free in a few minutes.” Pancha says, which is news to everyone. “Blood as a lubricant isn’t exactly ideal, but we know what we’re doing when it comes to getting out of restraints. We just need the help to get out of there, I don’t know if we’ll be able to walk.”

Yeah, the less said about Reginald’s private training which oh so nicely prepared them for this moment the better. But it had the family frowning down at Pancha.

“You’re walking now?” Rowan points out, always a master at pointing out the obvious.

Pancha shrugs, because it’s probably more strategically sound to go over weaknesses before a battle, right? “The only reason I’m awake right now is because Five keeps purposefully digging the rope into our wrists.” She admits grudgingly. The frequent jolts of pain do wonders to keep her awake and moving though (and keep Five awake long enough for a rescue attempt to commence and for Pancha to make contact with allies)

because yeah, Pancha woke up in that alley but she’s still pretty thoroughly drugged. She wouldn’t have taken half as long to realize she’d revealed her unsettled status to her siblings if she was firing on all cylinders, and quite frankly the way the room had been spinning for the last while was probably more than a little concerning.

so yeah, maybe it’s a little bit of a disaster when they bust in and five slips bloody hands from restraints and staggers towards them, and the Handler isn’t exactly alone she has goons on her side but the squad have the power of a very angry Vanya and Pollux who still have all the fun energy they didn’t use to destroy the world in order to destroy the fuckwads who took their brother so

Diego scoops Five up for the second time in as many days (and that shrapnel would still hasn’t fully healed jesus five) as he snarls curses but all of them can’t help but notice how him and Pancha flinch away in fear when the Handler raises her voice (Pancha has always been terrified of the Handler who has no daemon, and now Five is definitely coming around to her line of thinking in a way neither of them wanted)

Pancha passes out at some point in the fight and gets scooped up by Andromeda with an uncommon sort of gentleness. The next thing she knows is her and Five waking up on Vanya’s couch in very much pain with cool cloths over both their foreheads and wounds seen to. Everyone is packed into the apartment. Vanya is serving tea with Allison’s help.

Five asks for coffee in a voice that’s more like a croak and Klaus hits him on the head for scaring them all so badly. It makes Pancha wheeze a laugh that turns into a hacking cough. Five whines about her always taking other people’s sides. They both might still be a little bit drugged.

They’re both safe. The apocalypse hasn’t happened. Klaus liberated the black suitcase that the Handler had on her person before her untimely death when Vanya and Pollux introduced her to the wall with great force. They get to erase what happened, just a little bit. They get to go back to before the house was destroyed, before Grace died, before Luther locked her away

(erasing it in time doesn’t erase it from their memories, and Vanya and Pollux still won’t look at their eldest siblings and Andromeda’s tail still hasn’t come out from where it’s been firmly tucked between her legs)

it’s not the end by any means - they killed the Handler. But the Commission still exists, and the Handler is but a cog in the machine.

But for now, Pancha and Five are safe. Neither are being tortured or are in the grip of their enemies (though if Klaus makes one more inane comment they might have to change their minds about that) and Vanya and Pollux seem to have called off the apocalypse for now.

Well, the only way to go is forward, right?

(Regardless of their liberal application of time travel ;3c)

#ask me #anonymous #far tua long #daemon au #five hargreeves #pancha #klaus hargreeves #rowan #vanya hargreeves #pollux #luther hargreeves #andromeda #diego hargreeves #valencia #allison hargreeves #amraphel #ben hargreeves #tamaya #the handler

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