#for the drama of one-sided ramrod | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

boredzillenial · 7 months

Text

Day 2: of @flightlessangelwings fawktober!

Orestes follows you to the bathhouse and admits how intriguing you are to him.

Themes: Definite historical inaccuracies lol, afab!reader, nb/gender-fluid!reader, Roman bath, mention of a binder, pushy classmate!Orestes, pinv, creampie

Word Count: 1137

(Not beta read just doing my best to get these out for fawktober lol)

You searched the quiet darkness of the bath house after another hot day in Alexandria. Finally satisfied that no one was around you drop layer after layer of robes at the edge of the pool, the cool night air tickling your skin to goose flesh. Today had been tedious, full of debate and hot tempers as your classmates turned to squabbling. You desperately needed the reprieve the water offered. You went to remove the binding around your chest but hesitate as you catch your dim reflection in the pool, feeling a bit more natural with it on this evening.

You take a deep breath as you sink into the pool steam rises in the night air. The darkness and twinkling of the stars above gave you a sense of peace as you’re tender muscles melted from the heat. However, in an instant you’re ramrod straight as you hear your name echo off the stone.

“I thought that was you!” Your classmate Orestes calls out cheerfully. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” His voice lilted as he approached, torchlight sending shadows across the walls of the bath the house.

“I- I enjoy the stars Orestes. Please put your torch out.” You stammer an excuse and sink down to your neck.

“Alright alright. But- .” He chuckled as he capped the torch, returning the stars and crescent moon back into their brighter view. “ - I need help getting in.” You heard his robes hit the smooth stone and his soft footsteps approach. Looking up you see him reaching ahead and taking short steps to feel for the pools edge.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” You huff as you see a grin spread across his lips. He may not be able to see in great detail but he was definitely playing up how dark it was.

“Oh come on, what’s life without a bit of drama huh?” He hissed through his teeth as he sunk in the pool a few feet from you. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you enjoy dramatics, at least the ones that play out in class.” He jeered.

“Whatever do you mean?” You teased slightly as you scooted a bit further away from him.

“Debates turning to squabbles yet you silently gaze as if viewing a play!” He exclaimed and splashed at you. “Don’t think I don’t catch your smirks!”

“It’s not my fault your bickering is so entertaining!” You giggle and splash back.

“Ugh I don’t know how you find that entertaining.” He sighed as he laid his arms across the edge of the pool. The curves of his shoulder and arms highlighted by the dim moonlight sent a shiver through you.

“And what do you find entertaining then?” You ask stepping right into his trap.

“Well, you.” He leaned forward, smirking and moving a bit closer. “You’re, not a man, yet not like any women I’ve come across. I find you intriguing.” His voice lowered seductively.

“I - I…” you stammer, feeling suddenly laid bare more than just your nearly naked form hidden neck deep in the darkened waters.

“Oh don’t worry I will not tell the others. They are far too dim notice anyway.” He winked as he scooted closer still. “I do wonder though, about what you hide under those robes.”

You cross your arms over your soaked bindings and feel your back pressing into the stone. “Orestes please -“ your words are cut short by his laughter as he lunges at you, boxing you in with his arms on either side of you.

“Oh come on, can’t we play? We’re both students and well, I am a hands on learner…” he bit his lip as mischief sparkles in his eyes. “What have you got down there.” His eyes flicker to the water then back up at you. “I’m sure I can handle whatever you may have.” His grin widens.

“Orestes I-“ you were stunned, you’d never had someone be so forward and curious. “I don’t think -“

“Good, don’t think.” He cuts you off with a kiss. He hums against the softness of your lips as he pulls himself closer to you. Slowly gliding a hand up your supple thighs he stops before reaching your core. In an instant he pulls away and sits next to you, the warm water lapping at his chest. “Sit.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you try to catch your breath. It had been months since you felt another touch and his kiss left you aching. You leaned forward ever so slightly to touch his lips with yours again. “Ah ah.” He tuts, “let me have what I want and I’ll give you want you want.” He grinned, his damp curls falling across his moonlit skin.

You take a deep breath and adjust, straddling over his lap and letting your slick folds glide against his cock. “Gods.” Orestes says as his breath catches in his throat. “You feel incredible.” He groans as he shudders in anticipation beneath you. You lean forward and gently take his face in your hands as you pull him close. While you focused on exploring his mouth with your tongue he was adjusting to explore you elsewhere.

Lining his fat tip against your entrance he took your hips and pressed down as he thrust up. Sinking completely in one swift motion. He swallowed your gasp with another groan of his own as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Setting a steady pace as he drew out almost completely only to sink himself somehow deeper. The spot he hit was devastating as you shook above him. Within a few thrusts you were already so close to the edge.

You fluttered against the rhythm his hips set eliciting another groan from him. Your name like honey dripping from his lips as he repeated it like a prayer. “Orestes I - I can’t much longer.” You whimper.

“Neither can I.” His strained voice echoed off the walls. He anchored your hips and began thrusting up at a more erratic pace, sending water sloshing against the stone. You swore the stars shone brighter in the moment your orgasm came crashing over you. The only thing stopping the whole city from hearing was Orestes slotting his mouth over yours again as he came with you. His thrusts turning to slow methodical rolls as he throbbed filling you to the brim.

You pulled away panting as you began to laugh, wiping a wet hand over your face and gazing up him. “You laugh?” He grinned, both of you in a blissed out state.

“Well, did you learn anything?” You huffed and buried your face in the crook of his neck. His hips pulled a low whine from you as he shifted.

“I think I may need another lesson before I can say that.”

——————-

Taglist: @melodygatesauthor @lunar-ghoulie @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

#fawktober2023 #orestes #orestes X reader #gender fluid reader #afab reader #agora fanfiction #orestes fanfiction #orestes fanfic #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac fanfiction #oscar isaac #showing some love to a character I don’t see many fics of #look at those curls

58 notes · View notes

shychick-52 · 9 months

Text

Gosalyn, Gandra, Fenton, and the Solego Circuit

So, in this post and this post, I talked about the ways the twist reveal about Gandra's secret relationship with Fenton and her secretly being good came off as clunky and confusing when it was revealed in 'Beaks In the Shell.'

But one thing I want to specifically focus on is her role in sabotaging what was perhaps Gosalyn's only chance at finding her grandfather in whatever dimension he was stuck in.

At the end of 'Let's Get Dangerous', Darkwing urged Gos not to give up on trying to get back her grandfather, saying "Launchpad knows some super scientists!" (implying that Team Science might help, eeeeeee), and then promised he'd help her find him. The Solego Circuit and its plans- one of the Missing Mysteries, and the key that could open doorways to other dimensions- was left with Darkwing (even tho Gosalyn was forced to destroy the Ramrod machine, which needed the Solego Circuit to bring in things and people from other dimensions; it was still their only hope, and they probably planned to use the plans for the Solego Circuit to build a new device like the Ramrod).

In the episode right after that one, 'Escape From the ImpossiBin', Bradford had Gandra hack into the Bin's new-and-improved, so-called impenetrable security system while Scrooge and some of the family were testing it, which turned out to be an elaborate distraction to keep the Ducks busy so that F.O.W.L. could steal the Missing Mysteries the family had found so far...

...including the Solego Circuit and its plans, Gosalyn's only hope of recovering her grandfather. In St. Canard, Steelbeak got the drop on Darkwing at his hideout and stole them:

(Darkwing: *on the phone to Scrooge* "...Some bruiser with a steel beak!")

("Didn't catch his name. Stole the Solego Circuit plans!")

Here's the thing, though. In 'Let's Get Dangerous', it was established that Darkwing and Fenton talked all night for days, trying to figure out a way to get Gosalyn's grandpa back (Darkwing was presumably friends with Fenton- who designed his AI supercomputer and crime-fighting tech- through Launchpad, but I digress). And, like I said, it was implied at the end of that episode that Fenton (along with the help of Team Science) would continue to help Darkwing and Gos save Dr. Waddlemeyer.

I know Gandra had no real loyalty to F.O.W.L. (she was only following orders, and had to make it appear to them she was really on their side for her safety) and was secretly in a relationship with Fenton, and was using the money she got from F.O.W.L. to help build her and Fenton's top-secret VR project, and planned to quit as soon as it was finished... but even though it wasn't entirely Gandra's fault, did Fenton know she was partly responsible for Gosalyn losing her only chance at getting her grandfather back?? I'm sure he at least knew the Solego plans were stolen, since Darkwing was in regular contact with him. And since Fenton wanted to help Gosalyn get her grandfather back, I'm sure he felt terrible for her!

Honestly, I think Gandra probably did tell Fenton she had no choice but to follow Bradford's orders to distract the Ducks so that F.O.W.L. could steal the found Missing Mysteries, and I'm sure she felt really bad about Gosalyn too- she probably knew about Gos from Fenton- and I'm sure Fenton still understood that Gandra was in a difficult position. It's a really interesting conflict/drama I wish they would've had time to talk about in either 'Beaks In the Shell' or 'The Last Adventure'; it definitely would have been something to bring up in a fourth season!

This makes things even more difficult when you think about how grateful Gosalyn was to Fenton for his efforts in trying to help her get her grandpa back. It was implied in 'The Last Adventure' that Gosalyn knew how badly Fenton was missing his girlfriend (heck, Fenton talked to Drake and Launchpad about how worried he was about her at the beginning of that episode) in the scene where the kids insisted on coming with the adults to storm the Lost Library:

(Gosalyn: "Fenton tried to help me get my people back. I'm gonna to the same for him!")

I mean, I'm sure Gosalyn knew by then that Fenton's girlfriend was a former F.O.W.L. agent who betrayed F.O.W.L. and got captured for it (Drake and Launchpad knew, according to their convo with Fenton in the beginning of this episode, and the twist about Gandra really being good was known ever since 'Beaks In the Shell;' and in 'The Last Adventure', she was even included on Webby's extensive family board). But did she actually know about Gandra's role in the Solego plans getting stolen?? Because if she did- even though Fenton had tried to help Gosalyn- how didn't she feel betrayed by him (one of Darkwing Duck's closest friends and allies, no less) for secretly associating with not only an 'enemy' the whole time, but one who played a significant part in dashing her last hope of getting her grandfather back? How didn't Darkwing feel betrayed by his friend, since he vowed to help Gos find a way to bring her grandfather??

And yes, they likely recovered all the Missing Mysteries- including the Solego key and plans- when they left the Lost Library in the end of 'The Last Adventure' (even tho it wasn't actually shown).

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #gosalyn mallard #gosalyn waddlemeyer #darkwing duck #fenton crackshell cabrera #gandra dee #character analysis #headcanon #let's get dangerous #escape from the impossibin #the last adventure

16 notes · View notes

comatosebunny09 · 2 years

Text

How Many Drinks? [ Pt. 3 ]

Summary: It’s no secret that you’ve had a thing for your bestie for quite some time. With a few shots loosening your tongue, will you finally have the courage to confess?

Genre: Romance, Humor, Drama, Modern AU

Warnings: Sexual Content, Mentions of Alcohol, MDNI!

You’re inebriated, stumbling over the eroded path in heels six inches too tall. Feet pulsating, vision doubled. If not for the sturdy body beside you, you would’ve long eaten dirt.

Kyojuro grabs your arms to steady you. Gives you a once over, concern etched within his countenance. You titter. Pat his head whilst he kneels to unlatch your sandals. And as deft fingers ghost over your swollen ankles, something dangerous flickers deep within you.

“Don’t have to do that,” you mumble. Struggle to keep your lids open whilst you lean against him. Kyojuro looks up at you with fondness permeating his eyes.

“I know.”

Through your drunken haze, you think that he is just the purest thing. Know that you would gladly give him your panties your soul the world, no questions asked. Your heels held in one hand, Kyojuro holds you at the small of your back with the other, ushering you up the last few steps of his home.

Swathed beneath the soft glow of the porch light, you both stand. Him rifling through his pocket for the house key, and you tucked into his side, trying to pilfer his body heat.

God, he smells good. Feels even better. Sounds just as sweet as he mutters an apology into your ear after finally unlocking the door. You curl further into him as he patiently shepherds you through the threshold, shutting the door soundly behind.

Bathed in the inky blackness of the entryway, your back finds a wall. You feel him reach around you to flick one of the light switches on. And as harsh, yellow light floods your eyesight, Kyojuro attempts to maneuver himself around you.

However, you won’t be having any of that.

With a burst of energy, your hands lurch forth, ensnaring the silken collar of his button up. Surprise overtakes him. Body ramrod stiff, eyes blown wide. You tug and he hurtles into you, catching himself on the wall at the last second. He cages you in with virile arms and heat as your name falls from his lips in a panicked whisper.

“Kyo,” you drawl, sketching a languid triangle between his eyes and mouth. He swallows audibly, gaze fastened to your lips. “God, Kyo, I’ve wanted you for years. I like you. Like, a lot.” And he’s grown even more rigid with whorled brows and his jaw set in a tight line.

You expected this reaction. Turned your confession over in your mind for months, thoroughly prepared for rejection. Though, you wish it hadn’t bubbled to the surface after you downed one too many drinks. You wanted something more romantic; something cliché out of a harlequin novel, over candlelit dinner or beneath the stars.

You look down at the tiled floor. Arms falling listlessly at your sides. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you grumble, dejected like a child. Feel a sudden urge to recede into yourself at his silence. It’s louder than anything. “I can catch an Uber home. Come back in the morning to get my car. I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I still wanna be your friend, Kyo. I just—"

A lithe digit curls beneath your chin, scattering your wits. Angles your head back, enticing you to look up into his smoldering embers. They’re creased with affection, understanding, smugness. He smiles until craters form in his cheeks.

“Do you honestly think that I am blind?” Kyojuro questions, levelling his vision with yours. Incredibly close. Hot air wafting across your lips. Near enough to capture your mouth in a fervent kiss if he wanted. However, it is your turn to be stricken with confusion when he says, “the way you acted last night confirmed my suspicions.”

You fix him with a suspicious gaze. Can tell he’s trying his damnedest to hold in a laugh. Kyojuro continues, curling his thumb and index around your chin. “You tried to make me jealous. You threw a tantrum when I gave another woman attention. You’ve been quite fidgety and tongue-tied around me as of late...”

You can’t help but groan as he writes out the laundry list of things you’ve done to wear your heart on your sleeves.

You lean pitifully against the wall. Would slide down it if not for the robust arm encapsulating your waist, drawing you closer. Suddenly, you’re dizzy for an entirely different reason. His touch is enough to bring sobriety barreling to the forefront of your mind. “Did I really make it that obvious?” Cautious like a child caught scouring through the cookie jar. Kyojuro nods in the affirmative, amusement sitting atop his features.

A sigh wrenches itself from your throat. So much for being mysterious and hard to get. “Okay, well…well, what happens now?” Hands thrown up in frustration. You move to tear your fingers through your disheveled locks, but Kyojuro grasps your palm in his. You look to him with lidded eyes as he stamps your knuckles with his sweltering mouth. You bite your lip to ward off a moan; the gesture too intimate for you to handle.

“Now,” Kyojuro rasps, plucking you from the wall. Circles your arms around his neck as he guides your bodies into a gentle sway, hands fit to your hips. Presses your foreheads together and exhales as if a weight has been hoisted off his shoulders. “Now, I take you out on a nice date. Anywhere of your choosing, of course.”

Your childish pout morphs into the barest of grins. Heat simmers in your belly, delight washing over your limbs. He returns your affections without having said it. You’re swimming in the notion. Feel overwhelmingly pleasant and giddy. Still, you push your luck.

“Can we discuss it over sex?”

He chuckles, the rich lilt of it coiling in your chest. For a moment, his mouth pans in. Hovers over yours, teasing soft whimpers from betwixt your lips. “In due time,” Kyojuro promises. Cups your cheek in his palm, gliding the hardened pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. You chase after it, dazed with desire. He roots his nose in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Stamps the flesh there with a quick peck. “Besides,” murmured hotly into the shell of your ear, “I want you sober when I am buried deep inside you.”

At that, your thighs quake. You feel a wicked smirk forming on the side of your neck. Kyojuro tears himself away, clasping both your hands in his. Drags you from the entryway further into the sanctity of his home. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he tosses over his shoulder, setting course for the master bedroom.

You do not miss the honeyed undercurrents of his voice. A silent declaration of the wonderful things to come.

<< Previous | Masterlist | Next >>

#rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #rengoku kyojuro #demon slayer fanfic #kny fic #kny reader insert #kny rengoku #demon slayer rengoku #rengoku kyojuro x reader

118 notes · View notes

of-nyon · 11 months

Text

was going through my wips and unearthed the decepticon X AU that fizzled out cause I don't know how to finish it, and...I still don't know how to finish it, lol. So here's what I got.

vvvv CLICK BELOW to see Soundwave having a nice night out, X getting to be just a little bit manipulative (as a treat), and Zero having a bad time.

There had been some terrible mistake.

From Soundwave's briefings and his own research, X had fully expected an invitation to a performance as the Decepticon diplomatic envoy to the Vynhar, a species that above all else loved dramatic performance and passion, and also had been identified as having useful resources that the Decepticon Army was stretched too thin to justify a full-scale invasion to acquire. And also, X tended to dislike that approach, and with Soundwave surprising him by backing him up, Megatron had agreed to send him out here instead.

But, it seemed, the Autobots had the same idea. And the Vynhar were either playing for drama, or had simply decided to lump the Cybertronians together in the audience.

The red-and-yellow mech next to him was ramrod-stiff in his seat, his EM field tightly pulled against his frame. Awkwardly sat between the lone Autobot and the reassuring presence that was Soundwave, it was near-impossible for X to focus on the opera, a well-loved Vynhara tale about forbidden, star-crossed lovers.

Something pinged in his inbox. The Autobot – Zero, or so he called himself during an awkwardly stiff introduction – was requesting to open a comm channel. X checked in with Soundwave first.

:he wants to comm me. Do I accept?:

Soundwave was silent for a moment. Then, a file packet of info was sent over to him, which X opened curiously.

:Autobot Zero: potential recruit,: Soundwave explained as X scrolled through the mech in question's personnel file, some of it plucked straight from Autobot data networks. Soundwave truly lived up to his well-earned reputation. :Recent disagreements with Autobot high command. Unsure why they have sent him, but still an opportunity.:

:I see,: X replied. :thank you: He accepted the request, noting recent disciplinary action in the file. Brig time, extra chores. Not very Autobot-like -

:Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you right now.:

X blinked.

That was one way to introduce yourself.

:Well, it would cause a scene. Vynhar hate interruptions. They wouldn't look kindly on the Autobots afterwards. And, maybe you could take me. I'm not much of a fighter. But Soundwave is. I suppose that's two reasons.:

Zero didn't reply. On stage, the hero sang out his anguish at the prospect of being separated from his lover, who he'd met about ten minutes ago.

There was two more hours of this.

:My name is X,: he tried, bringing to bear his greatest weapon: the principle of sheer, grit-stubborn politeness that even Starscream wasn't unaffected by when meetings ran long and everyone was tired and grumpy.

The Autobot stared ahead. X didn't expect a reply, but a few moments later, his inbox pinged again.

:You're not a warbuild. You don't even have any visible weapons. You're tiny. You look like an accountant. Why are you a 'con?:

:Well, why are you an Autobot? Seems you get in trouble with them an awful lot.:

The red mech somehow stiffened even further. Finally turning to face X, his Autobot-blue optics shined in the low light with startled accusation.

“How do you know that?” Zero hissed, ducking in closer. His hands gripped the sides of his seat. X just smiled and tipped his head upwards at the not-actually-that-monolithic-once-you-got-to-know-him block that was Soundwave, who was currently doing an amazing job of pretending to be utterly unaware of the miniature drama playing out next to him, appearing totally focused on the stage. Zero cursed under his breath and sat back.

:Can he actually read minds?: Zero's uncertain gaze darted from one Decepticon to the other. X gave a reassuring smile.

:I can ask him not to! We're having a private conversation, after all. So why all the brig time? Don't you agree with them?:

Zero said nothing, turning to once more watch the stage. Well, that was fine. No need to push this early. X decided to give him some ground:

:Well, if you must know, you were close. I was a clerk. But…two of my older siblings were created as domestic helpers. Disposable-class.: Even if their creator had never intended it that way, there had been no escaping the chokehold of Cybertron under Functionism, not until Megatron had stood up and said enough.

Even then, X had still had to smuggle them out, Blues dropping in with a rare reappearance and an ultimatum to get them to safety. The fees had been exorbitant, and, discovering the perceived betrayal, X's good graces with their creator finally ran out. He wasn't the all-powerful outlier he'd been intended as – just a normal mech. A clerk.

:…I don't know much about that stuff,: Zero admitted. :I was made for the war.:

So, the Autobots weren't teaching their history, then, at least not the parts that didn't suit them. X and his siblings had technically been illegal, their creator thinking that his genius put him above something as mundane as the law. No doubt Optimus Prime, then known as Orion Pax, an Enforcer, would have without question upheld the law had he ever become aware of -

:I think Prime thinks he's doing the right thing,: Zero continued, interrupting X's internal pity-party. :He's either being deliberately kept in the dark about how bad it is, or he does know and just doesn't care. I don't know which option's worse.:

:How so?: X asked curiously. He would have thought that worshipping the ground Optimus Prime walked on came standard with being an Autobot, especially one being spoonfed a carefully abridged history of Cybertron, but he was always ready to learn new things.

:…the MTO factories. I have some fancy ability that means I get to be a real person. The rest of my batch got sent out to die before they were an hour old.:

X's face paled. Of course, something had to sustain planet-wide battlefields and uncountable atrocities. The Decepticons used up every scrap they had, up to and including prisoners. The Autobots simply created their own warm bodies – Made-To-Order mechs, stripped-down versions of Cybertronians who had guns put into their hands and were pointed towards the enemy sooner rather than later.

X tried his best. Sometimes Megatron could be swayed; sometimes he couldn't. But surely it was the better option than the Autobots, defenders of the old regime.

It was there in Zero's file: the facility was hidden away in the middle of an asteroid belt, but when he cross-checked it with current data, it had in fact been targeted and destroyed two centuries ago.

He wondered if Zero knew. He wondered if anyone had bothered to tell him.

:So you didn't get a choice?: X asked, seeing an angle. :You were just made an Autobot, that's that?:

They were both distracted when the heroine on stage screamed, forced unwillingly to strike down her beloved. There was dramatic, booming music, and the curtains closed to polite applause from the audience. The first of three intermissions – the true appreciation was expected to be saved for the curtain-call finale.

:That…happened fast,: Zero said. Avoiding the question, perhaps, but it opened up another opportunity: the reveal that he'd been paying attention.

:X: requires refreshments?: Soundwave pinged, standing up.

:Oh, I'm fine, thanks.: He smiled and nodded his appreciation. Out loud, he said: “Zero, do you want anything?”

“Huh?”

“Soundwave's offering.” He was not, but the idea of trying to recruit Zero had been his, so X figured he wouldn't mind.

“O-oh.” Zero's optics darted once more between them. In the better lighting, with X able to get a proper look at him, he didn't look half-bad, especially for a cold-constructed MTO. Maybe the Autobots had given him a frame upgrade? His outlier ability was listed as classified, so they had at least some backend security that Soundwave couldn't pass through with barely a thought.“No. No, I'm good.”

“Acknowledged.” Soundwave turned to leave. :Request: please contact me immediately if you require assistance.:

:Acknowledged,: X teased lightly back. :Go and let your little terrors out. I bet they're bored out of their processors.:

:Rumble and Frenzy: unappreciative of finer arts,: Soundwave agreed with a sigh, then began to stump his way down the aisle to the stairs. “He's not that bad once you get to know him,” X said. “A bit of a softspark, honestly.”

“That's Soundwave,” Zero said disbelievingly.

“He's a carrier model. He has five cassetticons that depend on him,” X replied. “He's-”

“Ah, gentlemechs, I believe the term is, how are you enjoying the play?” The Vynhara representative that had met X and Soundwave when they first disembarked approached them, taking the empty seat next to Zero.

“It's a very interesting production!” X said brightly. “The lighting in particular, it's very cleverly done!”

“Oh, our Chief Technician will be pleased to hear that,” the Vynhara trilled. “I will be sure to pass on your compliments.”

“I liked the fi- the choreography,” Zero offered. “The. Main actor? He does some good stuff.”

“Ooh! Glint will be thrilled! A Cybertronian, complementing him!” Their feathers ruffled in glee. The Vynhar were an avian race, of about a height with X and Zero – not minibot sized, but smaller than the average mech. X's creator had handcrafted him as a personal project and only had so much material to work with; Zero was taller only by a head.

“Save it till the end, though, yes?” X said – it was a traditional Vynhara saying, meaning to wait until a story was finished in its telling to fully judge it. The representative dipped their head in understanding, crest-feathers falling about their face.

“Of course, of course! I do hope you continue to enjoy it! I will pass on your complements to the relevant parties~” with an extravagant bow, they left.

“They will want to know your thoughts, so you might want to start putting your review together ahead of time,” X advised. Zero looked at him, then sighed and shook his head.

“I'm not the kind of guy you want doing something like this. I feel like I'm being set up to fail. Prime called it a vacation.” Zero grimaced. “He was smiling, too. He's not taking it seriously.”

“He takes the battlemask off?” X asked, surprised at the notion.

“No, but – you can tell. The derma under his optics kind of crinkles. I think Prowl might have put him up to it to get me out from under his feet for a few cycles.”

“Oh, him.” X instinctively tensed, his plating pressing closer to his frame at hearing the name of the Autobot Second-in-Command.

Zero raised an optic ridge in question, but X didn't feel like elaborating, not with memories of the interrogation threatening to claw in at the edges of his mind. He was grateful Soundwave had come back for him, and that was that.

Speaking of, the large mech chose that moment to return, Laserbeak – usually the best-behaved of the cassettes in situations like this – perched on his shoulder. She warbled a greeting at X, fluttering her wings lightly at him. He smiled in return, nodding to his superior officer as he sat down once more.

:Progress?: Soundwave queried as Zero looked away.

:It's going well! He only threatened me once, at the beginning. He's been talkative since then. He thinks Prime and – and Prowl have set him up. That they don't think he'll succeed.:

:Noted.: Music began to play, signalling the second act. As the lights dimmed, Soundwave's red gaze looked past X to size Zero up. :Continue if you wish.:

:Noted,: X mimicked back, reaching out to pet Laserbeak, who leaned into his touch happily.

:Is he your boss? Why are you both here?: Zero questioned as the play resumed, starting with an energetic dance number meant to tonally clash with the drama of the close of the previous act.

:Oh, he insisted,: X replied, turning his focus to the less-than-perfect Autobot. :I proposed diplomacy instead of invasion. Soundwave backed me up.:

:…must be nice,: Zero said. :I think Prowl would eat his own arm before he agreed with me on anything.: He gave an audible sigh. :I'm telling you too much. No-one's actually sat down and had a conversation with me, you know? Prime tried, but it didn't really work. It was after I got picked up from the facility and had a proper badge given to me instead of just paint. I'd only just found out my batchmates all died.:

X made a noise of sympathy, catching Laserbeak's attention. She trilled quietly, moving over to his shoulder to butt her head against him in her own way of showing solidarity.

“Oh, no, I'm all right,” he murmured quietly, using a finger to stroke her head in a way he knew she liked.

In the play, the hero, thought dead, made a dramatic return, the effects and lighting technicians truly going all out. With all the booming distraction, X reached out, daringly, to take Zero's hand.

:We're all just mechs in the end,: he said.

Zero said nothing, but he didn't pull away, either.

#anyway i highly recommend writing this kind of tf fusion/crossover #and giving your transplanted faves ~tragic backstories~#it's a good time #it's also always morally correct to dunk on prowl #my fic #transformers #megaman x #soundwave #x #zero #xzero

9 notes · View notes

dragonmuse · 2 years

Note

I love the feels just like I'm falling in love for the first time AU and I'm curious how/if Read fits into it at any point? Does she still end up moving in next to izzy? And does she have a relationship with Pete as well as Lucius?

(you know I wanna talk about my girl!)

Lucius' phone rang at far too early in the morning, he made a disgruntled noise. No one said anything. Because he was alone, right. Shit. He sat up groggily. Pete was already doing the groceries and Izzy was likely at the gym. Lucius, how had rolled in the door at 2AM last night, had not yet had enough sleep to talk like a human.

Then he saw Izzy’s name and groaned, hitting the talk button,

“Too early,” he informed him.

“The kid I use for errand work got roughed up last night,” Izzy talked right over him. “I’m taking her to the ER.”

“Shit,” that would wake a man up. “How bad?”

“Not sure. Jim is going to tell Pete, just not sure when I’ll be home.”

Lucius checked the time, “Which hospital?”

“Our old favorite.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there. Bring you lunch. Think she can eat something?”

“You should sleep.”

“Yeah well, that ship has sailed.”

“Might as well bring her something. If she can’t eat, she can’t eat.”

“You got it.”

Lucius called Pete anyway.

“Hey sweetie,” Pete chimed. “Heard about that poor kid?”

“No details. I’m going to head over there in a bit, bring Iz and her something to eat. You know how long the wait there can be.”

“Oh good idea. I was thinking if she needs a place to crash, I can set up the fold out in Izzy’s office.”

“Izzy thought she had a place though.”

“Dunno. I’ve only seen her once, but I think if she’s got somewhere, it’s not a good place to heal alone.”

“Oh,” Lucius frowned and got out of bed. “Didn’t realize it was like that. Then yeah, set up the bed when you get back. Sheets are in the closet.”

“Yep, got it. You want more cantaloupe while I’m here? Looks like it’s on sale.”

“Yes, thanks.”

Lucius didn’t rush. They’d probably be at the E.R. for hours. Instead, he showered and changed, gathered together a few things including lunch, then headed out. He knew the way all too well.

It wasn’t hard to spot Izzy, his ramrod posture unmistakable. He was sitting talking quietly to the woman beside him. She was tall and very blond, her shaggy hair hiding most of her face. Her arms were crossed tight and there was a rusty bloody stain coming through the left side of her hoodie. Lucius had no idea how old she actually was, but just then she looked about twelve, eyes wide and focused on Izzy. Izzy, who clocked Lucius immediately,

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Heya,” Lucius covered the last few feet.

“Read, this is my husband, Lucius. Luc, this is Read.”

“Love making new friends in the emergency room,” Lucius handed her a cold bottle of water from the bag. She took it with a question in her eyes. “You will get thirsty here, it’s like a rule. Especially with blood loss.”

“He’s not wrong,” Izzy nodded. “You gonna hang?”

“Yeah,” Lucius took the seat next to Izzy’s. “Figured you’ll need stretch breaks or whatever.”

“You guys do this a lot?” Read asked. Her voice is a pleasant contralto.

“Izzy likes to experiment with dying sometimes,” Lucius said lightly. “He needs hobbies.”

“Anaphylactic shock is not my hobby,” Izzy rolled his eyes. “I’ve got food allergies and he’s being a fucking drama queen.”

“You watch you go through that someday and we’ll decide who the drama queen is,” Lucius sniffed. “Anyway, you go around the carousel a time or two and you learn. I’m guessing you’re not dying if you’re still out here.”

“I don’t need to be here,” she said stiffly.

“You definitely do. Izzy would stitch you up if he thought he could get away with it,” Lucius waved that away. “Right?”

“Don’t know if she’ll need stitches, but she needs a tetanus shot,” Izzy shrugged. “Those I don’t keep around.”

“Why a tetanus shot?”

“Guy got me with a piece of metal he picked off the floor,” Read grumbled. “I had him down too.”

“Uh huh,” Lucius gave her a long look over, things starting to fall into place here. “What were you fighting over?”

“That I didn’t want him to fucking touch me,” Read said calmly.

“And you won?” he double-checked, heart rate picking up.

“Yeah, I kicked his ass.”

“Good,” Lucius nodded, Izzy had no reaction which meant he’d already known that. “So you help Iz with cases?”

“Sometimes,” she hunched over a little more. Pain or hiding? Or both? “Mostly act like a dirtbag teen so I can eavesdrop.”

“Are you a dirtbag teen?” He asked suspiciously.

“She’s 21,” Izzy rolled his shoulders back. “Two weeks ago. So barely not.”

“Not barely.” she contradicted. “I’m grown.”

“Sure,” Izzy glanced at Lucius, who did his best to keep his face neutral. “You have anything to do?”

“I’ve got your e-reader, my tablet, and I brought a few choices for you, Read. Crossword, sudoku or ....I don’t actually know what book this is, I think I grabbed something off your shelf, Iz.”

“Huh,” Izzy plucked it up. “Yeah, it’s a decent one. You want the mystery or the puzzles?”

“The mystery,” she said quietly and huddled around the book as the hospital flowed around them.

It took them three hours, but they came out the other side with antibiotics, five stitches and tetanus shot for Read and a mild headache for Lucius.

Read had born up stoically, occasionally flashing a killer smile when a nurse or doctor asked her thing she didn't want to answer. It was only when needle went to skin that she'd hissed a breath, eyes watering. Lucius had picked up her hand and held on tight as she held back. So. There was that.

“I can handle myself,” Read kept insisting, even as Izzy herded her into the car and Lucius kept extolling the virtues of not dying alone because you were too stubborn to accept help.

Pete had dinner waiting when they walked in which coupled with the outstanding view out the windows seemed to fully convince Read over to their side.

“Is that chicken noodle soup?” She asked, with a little too much awe for a single steaming bowl.

“Yeah,” Pete smiled softly at her, clearly already charmed. “Iz’s recipe, but I made it so...fifty-fifty on quality.”

“Smells right,” Izzy assured him, trailing a hand along his back as he headed for the bathroom. Probably to shower the hospital smell off. Actually a great idea. Lucius followed him, crowding into the shower with him. Pete would set Read at ease. He was excellent at that.

It worked, at least a little. Read stayed the night at least. She locked the door behind her with a loud, definitive click that made Lucius’ chest hurt.

“We’re keeping her, right?” He checked.

“She’s not a pet,” Izzy growled, but his eyes were on the door.

“She’s a scared kid, without anybody,” Pete fingertips grazed the back of Izzy's neck, slowly and soothing. “We’ll take care of her as long as she lets us.”

And look, Izzy never sold his old place. He meant to, but it was rigged up just right, a decent safe house and only a few blocks away. Close enough to keep an eye on the kid at least. And hey, he had two extra sets of eyes. Pete would take her out for lunch on her days off. Lucius got her into the Revenge’s orbit. Three if you counted Jim, who took an interest in her. Four if you count Eddy and it was hard not to count her, frankly.

Of course, Read meets a woman with bright red hair and trouble on her mind, but you know that story already.

#leda house and the kraken verse #feels just like i'm falling for the first time

25 notes · View notes

mighty-ant · 3 years

Text

A Cup of Coffee at the End of the World

Drake can’t remember the last time he was awake after nine a.m.

Before Mayor Owlson’s crime prevention tactics went into effect, he’d get some decent action out of a few arms deals now and then, a meeting between low-level crime bosses, maybe nab the occasional Beagle Boy who got lost on the turnpike. Then, seemingly overnight, he finds himself saddled with purse thieves and carjackers, muggers in the park with nothing but a puny switchblade to their name. Drake learns very quickly that his speeches and smoke bombs are wasted on the likes of them.

Is it wrong of him to long for a little drama, just a dash of panache? Maybe, but it’s not like he wants anyone to get hurt. He just wants to prove, if only to himself, that he’s more than a tower full of flashy gadgets and cheesy one-liners. He doesn’t have a suit of armor or magical powers between him and the rest of the world; it’s just him, fallible and human, bruised and bloody, raising his fists in preparation of the coming blow because he’s never learned the meaning of surrender.

And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, he gets his wish granted in a big way⁠—read, the worst way.

It’s deception hiding behind an ingratiating smile, the scream of a child braver than he could ever hope to be as she plummets, witnessing reality be torn asunder and knowing they’re too far away to stop it. Drake never imagined he would run away from his first real supervillain fight but if nothing else, this has been a night full of surprises.

Or, morning now, technically.

After a power surge so great it blew out most of the windows at McDuck Labs and ascended into the heavens to part the clouds, it’s been...almost quiet. If one counts the inexplicable flooding keeping any sort of police force from entering the building or the hundred foot vines that sprouted out of the bay and are currently blocking any passage to or from the city as quiet.

As Drake waits for Fenton to return his call (poor guy was dragged away to help with some Gizmoduck related business) he cycles through all the morning news channels with dread burrowing into his gut, seeping into his veins, and weighing down every inch of his body like lead. There’s panic in the city that had for so brief a time known peace, and they are all asking the same question:

Who’s responsible for this?

Some hero he is, falling for easy flattery and leaving the literal key to all their problems in the hands of a madman. Bulba must have used the RAMrod again and Drake has a terrible, sinking feeling that he knows exactly what has entered their dimension (or rather, who). And if he’s right...well, if he’s right then he just made a happy ending that much harder for the little girl in the next room who he doubts is getting any more sleep than he is.

Drake grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, and the pressure momentarily overwhelms the burning ache of exhaustion. He has to fix this. He has to.

“You won’t fix anything if you don’t get some sleep.”

Drake stiffens at the low voice before his mind catches up with him. He must’ve spoken aloud.

He looks up, blinking thickly as black spots take their sweet time clearing from his vision. Launchpad is staring back at him when he’s able to make out more than blurred shapes and color, his smile verging on wry but the pinch of his brows betraying his true worry. He removed his chauffeur’s cap at some point, his thick red hair mussed without it.

Drake’s fingers flex with the urge to reach up and smooth it out for him. He realizes he’s been staring at Launchpad too long when he tilts his head to the side, the concern in his expression overtaking the humor.

“Buh, what?” Drake says quickly. “I mean, it’s—I’m fine, LP.”

“Uh huh,” Launchpad replies, his shoulders releasing a tension that Drake hadn’t noticed they were carrying. He wonders how much of that concern was for him.

Launchpad sets something down on the console in front of Drake and he blinks at it, out of surprise rather than bleary vision this time.

It’s a cup of coffee, steam steadily rising. And it smells heavenly, nothing like the blackened sludge he cajoles out of his coffee maker every evening before patrol. Launchpad even knew not to put it in one of his limited edition “Shatters in the Night” Darkwing Duck mugs that he only uses for display. This mug is old and chipped and reads Goose Lee-In-Training. It was a gift from a few friends he’d made on the set of the first movie he ever did stunt work in. Some straight to DVD nonsense over a decade ago.

Even with the evidence right in front of him, it takes Drake’s tired mind a few seconds to put two and two together and make five.

Launchpad made him coffee.

Launchpad, who stepped away an hour ago to make some calls, because Scrooge McDuck and his great-nephews are missing, and Launchpad had an extensive family to inform of the grim news. But they’re Launchpad’s family too, and Drake knows that. Know that McDuck is less a boss than an uncle, the triplets more his brothers than friends.

Launchpad, who is supposed to be occupying himself with helping his family, not puttering around Drake’s kitchen, somehow wrangling his coffee maker into submission, and being careful about which mug he used.

The thought of Launchpad learning to navigate his kitchen, going through the same motions Drake does every night, is frighteningly domestic in a way he hadn’t known he wanted until recently. Until Launchpad barrelled into his life and dared him to achieve his dreams.

“Hey.” Launchpad’s touch, careful on his shoulder, jolts him out of his spiraling reverie more than the low timbre of his voice, rough with exhaustion. “It’s gonna get cold.”

“Right, sorry,” Drake says on autopilot. He reaches out to grab the mug with both hands, the ceramic just shy of scalding against his palms. It’s a miracle he doesn’t spill any on himself.

The coffee’s delicious, because of course it is: only slightly sweet with plenty of cream, just the way he likes it. Although Launchpad could probably hand him a mug full of dishwater and he’d still cherish every drop because Drake is just that sort of pathetic.

“It’s good,” he manages after chugging a third of the coffee.

Launchpad laughs, deep in his chest in a way that makes Drake want to press his ear to Launchpad’s sternum and feel the vibrations. The thought has heat zinging through his cheeks and he feverishly raises the mug again, because he clearly isn’t as awake as he thought he was.

“I’m surprised you were able to taste any of it,” Launchpad replies, leaning back against W.A.N.D.A.’s console.

Drake narrows his eyes at him and purposely takes a long, slow sip. “Mmmh,” he hums, with emphasis. Launchpad snorts, which immediately sends Drake into fits of laughter that results in him practically inhaling his coffee. That sets them off into new peals of laughter, and frantic attempts at shushing each other lest they wake Gosalyn.

As their exhaustion-fueled hysteria peters out, Drake scrubs a hand down his face, dislodging his mask on the way down. “It’s way too late for this,” he groans, the lingering smile on his face turning into more of a grimace.

“Which is why you should get some rest,” Launchpad says, his tone already more even than Drake’s. The humor on his face has softened, becoming something hazy and warm to Drake’s eyes. He takes another sip of coffee to negate the image his mind has conjured.

“What about you?” Drake redirects unsubtly. He’s too tired to put up a veneer Launchpad would see through anyway.

“Me?” he replies, brows raised.

Drake hesitates before nodding at the screen behind Launchpad, where McDuck and the boys’ photos have been displayed since the news channels first declared them missing.

Launchpad looks at them for only a moment before turning back around, his shoulders hunched. “I’m not too worried,” he says, words belied by the darkness of his furrowed brow. “Mr. McDee and the kids have gotten out of plenty of tough scrapes before. They’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they will,” Drake says at once, and his confidence is even mostly genuine because Launchpad would know best, wouldn’t he?

Drake’s breath catches when Launchpad leans forward, suddenly occupying his personal space and his face very close to Drake’s own. “Just like we’re gonna be fine,” he says, gently tugging Drake’s mask back into place. His heart leaps up into his throat, pounding a staccato rhythm.

Launchpad moves back, and while Drake can breathe easier again, he’s left feeling strangely bereft. He musters a smile though, for Launchpad’s sake. “I hope you’re right, pal.”

“Course I’m right,” Launchpad retorts, his grin bright in the darkness provided by the tower’s blackout shades. “You’re DW, DW. And I’m DW’s best friend. Together, there’s nothing we can’t handle.”

As ever, Drake is blindsided by Launchpad’s faith in him. In them. He doesn’t know how to put his gratitude into words, how to be smooth and collected and confident. Drake Mallard flounders where Darkwing Duck flourishes.

Overwhelmed, and at the risk of becoming horribly tongue-tied, Drake takes a breath and falls forward, pressing his forehead against Launchpad’s chest. Launchpad doesn’t stiffen at the sudden contact, doesn’t startle in any way. He let’s Drake in, just as he always has, but there’s more to it now. He welcomes Drake, resting his hand on the back of his neck, cupping the base of Drake’s skull. Drake shivers a little under his cool palm, arrested by the feeling of his fingertips against his skin.

“I don’t want to let you two down,” Drake admits in a mumble, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his fears. He knows things are going to get worse before they get better, just like he knows Gosalyn is counting on him, just like he knows there’s little he wouldn’t do to become the man Launchpad already believes him to be.

Launchpad gently squeezes the back of his neck, the pressure grounding him. Then Drake’s heart promptly skips when Launchpad rubs his thumb back and forth just beneath his jaw.

“Never gonna happen,” Launchpad says, confident as anything. “You know why?”

“Why?” Drake responds, amazed by the ease with which Launchpad draws a smile out of him. He leans back, needing to see Launchpad’s determination for himself. It’s exhilarating in a way that’s tentative and new, the way Launchpad’s grip adjusts, sliding down onto his shoulder. Even then, his thumb lingers above the collar of Drake’s uniform, brushing against his pulsepoint.

“Because there’s a great kid up there counting on you,” Launchpad says, ducking his head to meet his gaze fully, like Drake would bother looking at anything else. “And when Drake Mallard gets knocked down, he gets back up every single time.”

The breath rushes out of him in a rough exhale, and he feels unbelievably light despite the weight of Launchpad’s faith in him. The idea of standing to reclaim the barest inch of height between them seems enticing rather than daunting, especially with the knowledge that it would do little to change the way Launchpad towers over him.

Drake is already lifting his hand, with half a mind to card his fingers through Launchpad’s hair like he’s been longing to, when the computer chimes with an incoming call.

Without any further warning, Fenton’s face appears, blown up giant on the screen.

“Hello, Darkwing? Sorry that took so long, I, uh, Gizmoduck needed—”

Drake and Launchpad jump apart like they’ve been shocked. Drake goes the extra mile and leaps out of his chair.

“Fenton!” he exclaims too loudly. “Good to see you, buddy!”

“Um…”

Launchpad snatches Drake’s mug off the console. “I’ll make some more coffee,” he says in a rush before vanishing down the stairs.

Drake stares after him, if only to avoid looking Fenton in the eye.

Fenton clears his throat, sounding far too innocent, and still Drake risks a glance up at the screen. There’s an expression of mischief he’s never seen on his friend’s face before. “Am I interrupting something?”

Drake hides his face in his hands. “Fenton, buddy, no offense but you’ve got the worst timing in the world.”

#ant writes #set post LGD part one #drakepad #let's get dangerous #one of my many days drake stayed awake talking to fenton #darkwing duck #launchpad mcquack

95 notes · View notes

miss-ingno · 3 years

Text

Peace and Prosperity

Fandom: 镇魂 (Guardian) Ship: Shen Wei vs. Zhao Xinci, the Regent vs. Zhao Xinci Words: 1.9k Tags: post-canon everyone lives AU, Dixing-Haixing Politics, Black-Cloaked Envoy!Shen Wei

Summary: In the aftermath of Dixing’s invasion, officials on both sides meet to renegotiate the Treaty

A/N: for @bird-armadda :D after our chat about the drama's politics (or lack thereof), I was itching to write something I could actually post (without needing 20k of set-up lol), and then this happened. I hope you enjoy!

Read here on Ao3.

***

There were many things requiring Heipaoshi’s attention in the aftermath of Ye Zun’s failed coup. Once Ye Zun was secured, the clean-up in Dixing alone had kept him busy for weeks, during which he barely saw Zhao Yunlan. Shen Wei was exhausted, but there was one more urgent matter he couldn’t put off.

The Xingdu Bureau had tried summoning him multiple times, before finally settling for sending a letter to the palace. They demanded explanations, reparations, and most importantly: a meeting to renegotiate the treaty. Shen Wei felt more trepidation than hope for the latter. In his experience the Haixing ministers were reluctant to agree to any compromise which might give Dixing even the smallest of rights. He had bashed his head against that particular wall too often in the past.

Still, it was inevitable and necessary, if they wanted peace to prevail.

And thus Heipaoshi led the Dixing envoy, consisting of the Lord Dijun, the Lord Justiciar, and himself into the appointed meeting room, leaving their guards outside with the nervous Haixing soldiers posted there. Inside, Director Zhao, Minister Guo, and Vice-Minister Gao were waiting for them. Here, too, everyone was on edge, a bad sign for things to come. Shen Wei could already feel the headache looming behind his temples.

“By invading Haixing, Dixing broke the treaty,” Zhao Xinci announced the moment the door closed behind them, not even offering them a seat or a pretense at formalities. His sharp eyes took in the regent and the king behind Shen Wei, then promptly honed in on Heipaoshi. “Or do you deny this infraction as well?”

“There is nothing to deny when all here are aware of the truth,” Shen Wei said evenly, folding his hands inside his long, flowing sleeves. “Trust has been broken on both sides and needs to be rebuilt.”

“On both sides?” Gao Jingfeng scoffed, crossing his arms. Shen Wei turned his head slowly, pinning the former minister with a sharp look. “I do not see how you can lay blame for what happened at Haixing’s feet.”

“Do you not?” the regent piped up, and Shen Wei stiffened at his solicitous tone. At least this once, he wasn’t the target of the old fox’s machinations. It should put Shen Wei at ease. It did not. “After all, Haixing broke the treaty first, and many times over.”

Gao Jingfeng bristled, sitting up ramrod straight. “We did not!”

“Indeed?” The regent scratched at his hair, pretending to think hard. He turned to look at Shen Wei, who mentally braced himself to not let anything slip past his mask. “Heipao-daren, please correct me if my memory serves me wrong. You did find the Hallows on Haixing soil, did you not?”

“I did,” Shen Wei agreed. He wondered where the regent was going with this.

“Then, am I mistaken in that the treaty specifies that the Hallows shall remain within Dixing?” the regent asked, hissing as if in pain and knocking his knuckles against his head. “Apologies, I am getting quite old.”

“You are not mistaken,” Shen Wei answered, wishing the regent had deigned to inform him of his role in this play before springing it on him. He did not enjoy the feeling of being moved around like a pawn. “The Hallows were given to Dixing as a sign of goodwill and to secure prosperity and security for all races.”

“Aiya, aiya,” the regent winced, shooting a quick look at the Haixing delegation before dropping his gaze. “Quite unfortunate, then, that they were taken from Dixing about, hm, a bit over a century ago?”

“Luckily, they turned back up,” An Bai agreed dryly, seeming to decide they should present a united front. He turned to the ministers and arched an eyebrow. “Fascinating that they all just happened to end up in Haixing.”

"What, exactly, are you insinuating?" Zhao Xinci demanded coldly.

"I'm certain it's just a coincidence," the regent offered in a soothing tone, smiling at the ministers. "After all, we wouldn't want to hold the actions of a few against the entirety of Haixing, hm?"

Shen Wei noted Zhao Xinci's lack of response, his expression gone sour as if he'd bitten into a lemon. The regent had deftly manoeuvred the director into a corner: if he wanted to use Ye Zun's actions and that of his subordinates against them, he opened himself up to an equally bad infraction of the treaty, one that predated Ye Zun's and could be argued to have led to the invasion in the first place. But if he dropped the matter, Haixing didn't have nearly as much leverage to gain advantageous terms in the new treaty.

Moreover, the regent had handed Shen Wei a weapon for their future arguments, should a Dixingren cause trouble in Haixing again. Which was likely a consideration, and the regent wouldn't hesitate to call in that favour soon.

Already, the headache started pounding behind Shen Wei's mask.

The silence turned awkward the longer it lasted, until finally Guo Ying cleared his throat. Guo Changcheng came by his bravery honestly, Shen Wei mused.

"You spoke of multiple infractions." Guo Ying nodded respectfully at the regent, who hid his face behind his hand with a fake cough. "Please, let us lay old grievances out today, so we may move forward with lighter hearts tomorrow."

"If we're doing that, then what about all those Dixing troublemakers!?" Gao Jingfeng brought up nasally, crossing his arms with a harrumph. "We would not need a special subunit to deal with your lot in the first place, if only you kept better track of your own people!"

This set An Bai's temper off. "Do you execute anyone who wishes for a better life?" he demanded, eyes flashing. "With the Hallows missing, what were our people to do? With no legal ways to immigrate, how were they supposed to integrate in Haixing's society, obey Haixing's law? It is the treaty who forced them into petty crime in the first place!"

"Many of them went too far!" Gao Jingfeng objected. "They got what they deserved!"

“Ah, that, yes." The regent coughed. "In the past, Haixing has proven a troubling tendency to execute Dixingren on their territory,” he pointed out, wincing a little as everyone’s gazes returned to him. He bowed, once, twice. “Forgive me, but I believe the treaty states that Haixing has no such authority?” He straightened, folding his hands behind his back. Shen Wei noted the unholy gleam in his eyes. “Ah, is that not why Heipao-daren is exempt from the border crossing clause? It is his duty to return the fugitives to Dixing for appropriate punishment, is it not?”

“It is entirely unreasonable to demand from our officers to refrain from using lethal force when the other side is under no such restriction,” Zhao Xinci said, tone mild but eyes flinty.

“Ah, of course.” The regent bowed, hiding the cunning look on his face as he prepared to deliver his blow. “I was unaware how Haixing dealt with their own criminals. A cultural misunderstanding, forgive me.”

“That- That’s not-” Gao Jingfeng sputtered, his expression equal measures shocked and offended.

“That’s different,” Zhao Xinci interjected, keeping his face politely blank. “Dixingren are, by nature, always armed and dangerous. There are risks to both sides when the Dixingren refuse to comply with our officers.” His hand slashed across his chest, as if to cut through the topic. “Besides, all past cases have been ruled self-defense.”

“Your son seems to manage well without,” Shen Wei said, his tone deceptively light. “The number of Dixingren dying on Haixing soil have drastically reduced since he took charge of the SID.”

Zhao Xinci turned to face him slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Zhao Yunlan has other advantages,” he stated curtly.

“Such as?” Shen Wei challenged. The disgusted look Zhao Xinci threw him let him know exactly how he considered Zhao Yunlan's and his relationship, but refused to bring up personal matters in a state meeting.

“Technology has advanced much since I’ve headed the SID,” he offered instead. “And is this not why you sent Chu Shuzhi to work with them?”

Shen Wei inclined his head because it was true enough. It had been one of many considerations in Chu Shuzhi’s placement.

“Ah?” The regent perked up, and Shen Wei tensed, bracing himself for whatever the cunning old fox had in store for them next. “That’s a great idea, Director Zhao! Yes, certainly, it would make things much easier for both sides if the SID team were a combination of Haixing and Dixing officers, hm?”

"Unacceptable," Zhao Xinci snapped, his glare fit to cut through concrete. "Under no circumstances will more Dixingren join the SID and live on Haixing soil, flaunting their defiance of the treaty!"

"I thought we were here to renegotiate the terms of said treaty," An Bai commented mildly. He remained unruffled by the director's glare.

"We are indeed," Guo Ying agreed, folding his hands on the desk. "Please, have a seat. I for one would like to hear more of this proposal."

"You cannot possibly suggest-" Zhao Xinci cut himself off. He grimaced, struggling but trying to hide it. It gave Shen Wei an idea.

"Do you truly believe Dixing-Haixing cooperation is that impossible?" he asked quietly. Zhao Xinci glared at him, his clenched fists pressed to his knees. "That seems rather… hypocritical."

"Don't you dare," Zhao Xinci hissed. Shen Wei arched his brow, aware of the regent's sharp gaze on his back, and everyone else's curious looks.

"The current roster of the SID includes a combination of beings," he continued softly, holding Zhao Xinci's dark gaze. "Two Haixingren, two Yashou, two ghosts. Two Dixingren." He paused for effect, including Guo Ying and Gao Jingfeng with a turn of his head. "They have the highest success rate of solved cases since the founding of the SID."

"As well as the highest rate of insubordination," Zhao Xinci snapped back. "They are unruly and undisciplined."

"Ah, but you're rather biased, aren't you?" the regent chimed in with a quick glance at Shen Wei's masked face. "Isn't the current Lord Guardian your son?"

Zhao Xinci's face resembled a thundercloud. Shen Wei tilted his head and pulled the trump card out of his sleeve.

"Zhang Shi," he commanded quietly. Zhao Xinci's face distorted in rage and panic as he struggled to subdue the entity living in his head - and failed, eyes flashing gold. An Bai startled at his side, while the regent managed to hide his surprise. "Do you agree with Director Zhao's assessment?"

"No," Zhang Shi said softly, ducking his head. Guo Ying and Gao Jingfeng whirled around to gape at him. "I do not."

"Do you agree with him that lethal force is necessary?"

Zhang Shi pressed his lips together, lifting his gaze to meet Heipaoshi's. "He's not always had a choice, you realize."

"'Not always'," the regent echoed into the stony silence, "means that sometimes he had - and still chose not to show mercy."

Zhang Shi bowed his head in shame - and Zhao Xinci snapped it back up. "There. Are you happy?" he snarled.

Shen Wei pursed his lips. "No." He glanced around the table, and finally took a seat. "But now all cards are on the table." He nodded to Minister Guo's, who took a shaky breath.

"Then let us discuss how we can move forward from here," he suggested, avoiding looking in Zhao Xinci's direction, "and how our two people can, perhaps, help each other."

Shen Wei leaned back and let the others haggle, exhaustion dogging at his heels. But for once, he felt a glimmer of hope.

Not just for himself and Zhao Yunlan, but for his people, both their people to live in a true, peaceful union.

***

fluffy Weilan sequel

7 notes · View notes

franklyshipping · 3 years

Text

The Consequences of Energy ~ A Jacksepticeye Ego Fanfic

Here we have a snazzy anonymous prompt that features two of our favourite septic lads engaged in a battle of the ages! LET’S DO THIS!

Jackie rolled his eyes. He knew this was going to end in tears, but when Chase Brody was happy and excited, nothing in the world could stop or dissuade him by even an inch. Every single day for about three weeks, Chase had been incessantly challenging Jackie to wrestling matches, and every single day….Chase lost those wrestling matches. This is because Jackie was a legitimate superhero with enhanced strength and an intense, consistent training regime….and Chase….well….wasn’t. Chase ended up drained of all his energy every single time, and yet this still didn’t dissuade him from his challenges! So, as Jackie looked at Chase’s half-excited, half-arrogant expression….he decided that during this match, he would have to do something to show Chase that he was well and truly beat.

Chase was excitedly squaring up to Jackie in the training room, wearing a vest and a pair of sweatpants whilst Jackie donned his hero suit, except without the mask. Jackie raised an eyebrow at Chase as he watched the man stretch, and asked with a slightly amused smile.

‘Are you sure you wanna do this again? We must be into the double figures by now with our sparring sessions.’

Chase rolled his eyes, because arguably Jackie was going into the double figures with how many times he’d asked that question. Of course Chase was sure! With every session of wrestling and careful fighting he was getting stronger and stronger, he could just feel it! He grinned cheekily at Jackie as he replied.

‘You’re just scared because you know I’m getting stronger by the day! Don’t worry, I’m not gonna take your job just yet or anything.’

Jackie pursed his lips at Chase’s cheekiness, and planted his feet on the mat as he smiled at him coolly. He couldn’t wait to just put him in his place.

‘I’m not scared of that happening Chase, I just don’t wanna see you cry when I kick your ass into next week.’

‘Oho yeah? Come here and get it then!’

Thus, they began. Admittedly it was a slow beginning, because the two of them circled one another on the mat for a good few minutes, and even when they started, the two of them only gave out a few faux grapples to the other. On Chase’s side this was because he was cautious, and secretly a tad nervous, but on Jackie’s side it was very much strategic. Jackie was trying to lull Chase into thinking he wasn’t fully invested in the fight and that he didn’t plan on giving it his all, so that eventually his defences would falter….and Jackie would strike him down. Of course, with Jackie being a well-seasoned superhero with much experience fighting a plethora of individuals, it didn’t take long for his stratagem to prevail….and Chase’s arms began to lower as he threw out a slightly impatient taunt.

‘Man, you really are a softie at heart aren’t you? Ihi mean you aren’t even going for me, it’s like you’re asking to be taken down!’

Jackie snickered at that, and straightened up, his posture ramrod as he fixed Chase with a cool stare. Chase had to admit that he got a little chill down his spine, getting a feeling that Jackie was preparing for something….and soon enough, that feeing was confirmed when Jackie replied to him with a sneer.

‘That’s funny, I was just going to say the same about you.’

Then, with the speed of someone almost inhuman, Jackie launched himself at Chase. The poor dad had never really stood a chance. In seconds Jackie just had him on the floor, pinning him on his back on the mat, planting his knees either side of his hips as he held Chase’s wrists down above his head. Jackie chuckled in fond amusement, because as ever it was just so adorably easy. Chase grunted and struggled amidst all of this of course, but to no avail. Once again, he was beaten before anything had truly begun. Still though, as he looked up at Jackie, his determination outweighed his embarrassment.

‘Another round! This was barely fair, you didn’t even give me a chance to defend!’

‘Chase I circled you for ten minutes and gave you ample opportunities to attack me whilst giving you faux attacks to practise defending yourself against! You have to admit that this isn’t for you Chase, there’s no shame in being a lover more than a fighter.’

Chase grunted and carried on struggling, yes okay maybe he valued caring for other people, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t toughen up as well! He wasn’t going to give up on what he wanted, even if he had to annoy Jackie to the ends of the Earth to have this continue! He grinned up at Jackie stubbornly, and stuck his tongue out before replying defiantly.

‘Well I’m not gonna stop tryna train with you, you can’t stop me, you know how determined I can be!’

Jackie rolled his eyes fondly, because yes, admittedly one of Chase’s most prominent qualities was how determined his spirit was. However, this determination had riled Jackie to no end for weeks….and he’d had enough. So he was going to have to break Chase in the most loving way possible. He leant down so he was nose to nose with his stubborn best friend, and replied in a low tone with gleaming eyes.

‘Sure, you’re determined….but let’s see how long that determination lasts when someone actually works to break you.’

Chase scoffed. If Jackie thought he wouldn’t be able to handle being pinned down and playfully manhandled then he was SO wrong! He maintained his determined smile when Jackie used one hand to pin his wrists down above his head. But then, Jackie started wiggling the fingers of his free hand in the air above one of Chase’s bared armpits, and Chase’s eyes widened. No…..Jackie wouldn’t do that….would he?

‘….n-no….’

Jackie chuckled as he watched the apples of Chase’s cheeks go pink, and he replied with a sneer.

‘Oh yes.’

Jackie let his fingers descend and scratch ruthlessly in Chase’s underarm, making him squeal and burst out into frantic cackles. He started tugging at his wrists, but with Jackie being a superhero it basically meant that there was no way Chase was going to be able to get free.

‘NOHOHO NOHO JAHAHACKIE!’

‘Awww what’s wrong? Is someone feeling a little less determined?’

Jackie teased with a grin, scratching deep and fast as he relished in seeing Chase laugh. Jackie loved tickling Chase in general, he was so adorable when all he could do was laugh and laugh, but it was especially satisfying to tickle him with a vengeance. Needless to say, Chase was starting to regret having been so cocky.

‘STAHAHAPPIHIT YOHOHOU AHAHASS!’

Chase struggled harder, which only made Jackie laugh fondly as he scratched his other exposed armpit now, raising an eyebrow down at Chase as he replied.

‘I’d be a bit nicer if I were you, you know I know just what to do to make you scream.’

Chase let out a flustered whine, squeezing his eyes shut as he shook his head, trying to block out Jackie’s voice. Because it was true. Jackie knew Chase better than almost anyone, and Chase shuddered to think of how badly Jackie could torture him if he wanted to. He cried out cutely and imploringly.

‘NOHOHO NOHOHOHO PLEHEHEASE DOHON’T!’

Jackie chuckled, and hummed musingly as he let his tickling hand lazily trail down Jackie’s torso. Chase gulped and shivered, whining nervously as he tittered at the teasiness whilst Jackie muttered.

‘Ohhhh it would be sooo easy for me to wreck you…..and given how much you’ve been riling me and bugging me recently, you definitely deserve it….’

Jackie’s fingertips landed at Chase’s waist where they swept back and forth, teasing and tracing the sensitive skin to make Chase squeak and twitch oh so cutely. Chase was red-faced and giggling warmly, restless beyond belief as his cheeks started to ache from how widely and giddily he was smiling.

‘N-Nohoho p-plehehease! Ihihit tihickles s-so muhuch Ihihi cahan’t!’

‘Awwww, poor ticklish baby….’

Jackie crooned, making Chase let out a high pitched, indignant squeak as he retorted adorably.

‘I-Ihihi’m nahat a b-bahaby!’

Jackie laughed brightly, and kept on cooing down at Chase as he softly tickled along his waistline.

‘Who’s a tickly wittle baby booooo, hmm? Who’s got the itty bitty goo-goo giiiiggles?’

Literally Chase wanted nothing more than to curl up and hide for eternity. His blush was creeping down his neck as the butterflies in his tummy rampaged at the baby-talk, this was so unfair, baby-talk was the most evil teasy thing ever!

‘D-D-Dohohohooon’t oho my gohod Ihi’m gohonna dihihiiie!’

Jackie snorted and shook his head fondly down at Chase.

‘Hey Marvin and Anti are the drama queens in our household, we don’t need a third!’

Chase giggled at that, and then couldn’t help but reply with a cheeky grin, his tongue poking out through his teeth.

‘Ihif thehey’re drahama queens thehen you’re the drahama empress!’

Jackie gaped, and pointed at Chase as he narrowed his eyes threateningly.

‘Oh you’d better take that back right now!’

Chase giggled, grinning even more as he replied in a faux innocent way, because by this point he had just accepted his tickly fate.

‘Or what….your majesty?’

Jackie growled under his breath, and to think he was about to be nice! This punk was SO getting it now! Jackie’s eyes flicked down to Chase’s torso, and erode in on one particular little…button.

‘Oh you’re about to find out.’

Jackie wasted no more time. He leant down and attacked Chase’s navel with a torrent of the strongest, most rippling, noisy raspberries that you have ever had the damn privilege to witness. And oh how Chase screamed.

‘AAAAHHHH NAHAHAHA WAHAHAHAAA!!!’

Chase’s eyes bugged out of his sockets as shockwaves of ticklishness shot through his navel and went through his whole body, making him shriek and scream with sweet laughter as he bucked madly. Now he realised what Jackie had meant at the start about breaking him. Jackie smirked into Chase’s taut stomach, eagerly blowing another raspberry before he growled.

‘You ready to take that back yet, huh? Or does the wittle tickle baby need some more of his five a day?’

Chase shook his head frantically as he let out another shriek, laughing brightly as he replied very frantically.

‘AAAHHHAHAH IHIHI TAHAHAKE IHIT BAHAAAACK! JAHAHACKIEEE!!!’

‘And are you sorry for having been a tenacious little brat recently?’

Chase nodded frantically, getting tears in his eyes as Jackie playfully nibbled the rim of his bellybutton, making him snort through his laughter. Jackie only wished he had a camera so he could capture how utterly adorable Chase looked, all laughed to happy tears.

‘YEHEHEEESYESYESYESYEHES!!!’

Jackie laughed warmly, and after giving Chase’s navel a light nuzzle with his nose he finally relented, leaning up and releasing Chase’s hands. Chase curled up into a ball the second that Jackie shifted off him, and the hero fondly stroked his fingers through the childish father’s hair.

‘You good buddy?’

Chase initially just whined into his forearms, which made Jackie snicker, before he scooped the hero up into his lap so he could cuddle him.

‘You are one determined little rascal aren’t you?’

‘Thahank you….’

Chase giggled into Jackie’s chest, humming as the hero kept stroking his hair. Jackie gently sighed, and looked at Chase fondly as he spoke in a soft, tender voice.

‘Y’know, sometimes knowing how to physically fight someone doesn’t actually matter. Sometimes, just have a determined attitude like that is more than enough….you feel me?’

Chase looked up at Jackie, and deep down….yeah, he definitely understood that now. Of course, on the outside he was still a complete goofball, so he rubbed his palms against Jackie’s cheeks as he replied with a giggle.

‘Yeah man I feeeeel yohou-‘

‘Alright that’s it, I’m using you as my bench pressing weight for the rest of the day!’

Chase squealed and laughed as Jackie slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, before indeed bench pressing using Chase as his weight for pretty much the rest of the day. It shouldn’t have taken the whole day really, but for some reason Chase was awfully giggly every time Jackie grasped him and lifted him into the air above him. That’s the thing about happiness, it persists in you for oh so long.

WOOOOOO HOPE YOU ALL LIKED THIS FIC LEMME KNOW IF YA DID WOOOO LUV YOUS XX

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye egos #chase brody #chase #jackie-boy man #jackie #sfw #platonic #prompt #ego fic #ego fanfic #tickle fic #tickle fanfic #tickle #tickles #tickling #ticklish #luv these lads

37 notes · View notes

thgfanficinspo · 3 years

Text

Fear of the Water - Ch 18

Finnick deals with the fallout from Annie’s breakdown (some sexy Capitol Finnick) (Henry Cavill was my fancast for Finnick before the movie came out)

My AO3 - Chapter 1 - Jonsa - Coryo - Discovery of Witches

(ANNIE)

When I wake up, I’m in a white tube. It’s small so small and I’m strapped down – arms, legs, body, even head. There’s a whirring, buzzing sound coming from within the walls. Then there are voices.

“Aw, shit, she’s awake.”

“Should we put her back down?”

I struggle against my bonds. Are they going to kill me? Why am I here? What are they doing to me?

“Yeah, she’s gonna fuss.”

There are footsteps now – coming toward me. I try to tear my arms out of their bonds but nothing happens. I scream. The voices yell to one another and I scream and I scream and I scream. I don’t want this. Finnick and Mags said it was over now and I was safe and I don’t think they’d lie to me but maybe they did or maybe they never said it at all I don’t want to die.

There’s a sharp pain in my right thigh. Then it goes dark.

(FINNICK)

We’re supposed to go back to that damn waiting room with the grey walls and floor-length windows and fake orchid.

I skulk around in the hallway after the others have gone inside, hoping to catch a moment alone with the female doctor who flirted with me. She comes out through a doorway which she locks behind her. She’s too distracted by the papers in her hand to notice me. I clear my throat and she looks up.

“Mr. Odair. Shouldn’t you be in the waiting room?”

“It’s a bit stuffy in their for my taste,” I say. “Especially after all that drama.” I straighten up and close the space between us.

“Yes, that was really something,” she agrees. Her eyes rake my body up and down. She has to turn away.

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“I haven’t personally.”

“No?” I’m not nearly as smooth as I usually am. I’m too anxious to be charming. “Annie’s something special then.” I step up behind her and move her hair away from the side of her neck. “Like you.” I press my lips to the side of her neck and she nearly collapses. I keep my arms tight around her waist and pull her against me.

She gasps my name.

“Will you tell me something?”

“What?” she asks breathlessly.

I flick the tip of my tongue over the pulse-point of her throat. “What are you planning to do with Annie Cresta?”

“Anthea!” We both look up. Her male colleague is standing at the other end of the hallway. He’s a good ten years younger than she is, but he has an air of superiority about him. And he looks pissed.

The woman – Anthea, I guess – goes ramrod straight and tosses off my arms. “It’s not –”

“We need to talk,” he says simply, his glaring eyes locked on mine. Anthea hustles down the hall and through the door the male doctor came through. He and I maintain eye contact as long as possible, until the door shuts behind him.

I growl under my breath. “Fuck.”

I’ve definitely made things worse. If that other damn doctor hadn’t come in . . .

Mags is pacing around the room with one of her hands over her mouth when I come in. Proteus stands a few feet away from me, apparently deep in thought. Eefa has made a surprise visit, which she clearly regrets. No sign of Broadsea, but that’s no surprise. He’s probably passed out in his own puke by now. I normally wouldn’t care but I feel that since Eefa made it here, he should’ve at least tried.

Proteus raises an eyebrow at me, silently asking what I found out. I shake my head.

The same two doctors as before come out to speak to us after about twenty minutes of waiting. They’re much more serious. “She did suffer trauma to the head while in the Arena,” the man says.

“But you don’t think that’s what’s causing her issues,” Proteus says.

Anthea nods. Gone is the quivering woman in the hall, replaced with someone cold and angry. She’s going out of her way to not look at me. “The tasks we had her do when she first woke up didn’t indicate any neurological or physiological issues. We did scans, too, after her tantrum at the recap, and they didn’t show anything out of the ordinary.”

“Tantrum?” I repeat.

“Then what’s wrong?” Proteus asks over me.

“We believe it’s mental illness,” the male doctor says.

None of us know what that means. We don’t have mental illness in the districts, at least not the words to describe it, but the Capitol has words for everything. They have enough leisure time to think about things like that, to come up with ailments to explain their every mood.

Our faces must betray our inability to understand because they take a different route.

The female doctor is the one to speak. “We are going to have Annie Cresta declared mentally insane.”

“What?” I spit.

Proteus speaks over me again. “Isn’t that a bit premature? She hasn’t been out of the arena for long.”

“We believe a swift announcement is in her best interest at this time,” the male doctor says.

“Her closing interview with Caesar Flickerman has been canceled,” the female says, totally ignoring our reactions. She may have succumb to my charms and looks before, but now she seems immune. “President Snow will make the announcement during that time slot instead.”

I don’t know what to say.

“What would you like us to do in the meantime?” Proteus asks after a moment, voice totally neutral. The crease between his eyebrows is the only sign that he’s troubled by all of this. The only sign.

I could kill him.

“She’s currently under anesthesia, but I recommend you board the train back to your district soon,” the woman continues. “Before anyone gets wind of this.”

“Why?” Eefa asks, brows creased.

“What do you mean, Why?” I ask.

“Why are you declaring her insane? What exactly is wrong with her?”

“Why do you think?” I snap. The first thing I hear her say in a week and she asks something stupid like that?

“I’d like to hear the diagnosis,” Eefa says.

The woman doctor sighs and looks down at her clip board. She knows we won’t understand any of it. “She shows symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, attention def –”

Proteus holds up his hand. “That’s enough.” He has no idea what any of it means, either. “Eefa?” he asks, turning to her. She nods, satisfied with what she’s heard. Maybe she was making sure they covered their bases; we generally accept that mad people are mad, but you need real proof to declare a victor mentally insane before the whole country.

“There is one piece of permanent physical damage I ought to mention,” the female doctor says. “Due to the stab wound in her abdomen, she won’t be able to conceive or carry children. There’s too much tissue damage.” No one really cares about that right now. What we care about – what I care about – is getting Annie out of here without adding to the damage that’s already been done. “I thought one of you ought to tell her once you’re back in your district and she’s had a chance to calm down.”

“I think you should get ready to leave,” the male doctor says. “She’ll be up in –” he checks his wristwatch and bobbles his head as he does the math in his head “– ninety minutes, give or take.”

“Yes,” Mags says distractedly. “Yes, of course.” She blinks several times. “I’ll start preparing. And have Brae send for the train. Proteus, please get Annie’s stylist so we can get her ready to go.” The others go – Eefa practically sprints out – and I want to move, too, but my muscles won’t let me. Mags’s hand finds my shoulder. “She’s alive, Finnick. That’s what matters.”

I nod again because I can’t think of anything to say.

“Go. Clean up. Clear your head. I’ll be along in a few minutes. I just want to check in on her.”

When I get upstairs to our rooms, Greer rushes towards me and starts making a lot of gestures. I’m not sure what she’s asking until she runs her hand down her hair in a smooth, wavy motion. Like the way Annie’s hair falls.

“Annie?” I guess.

She nods.

I’m too tired to explain it all. “She’ll be all right.”

I start undressing before I make it all the way into my room, discarding my clothes as I go. Somes picks them up as he follows behind me.

I blast the water in the shower to its highest setting and make the temperature as cold as I can bear. I only take hot showers in the Capitol when I’ve just seen a patron. Different temperatures for different problems. It helps me compartmentalize. Keep my head straight.

I’m good at that. Compartmentalizing, keeping my mind focused on the task at hand. I always have been. A lot of victors simply can’t do that – it’s why they turn to drink or drugs. But I haven’t. And I won’t.

I don’t notice the slip of paper folded on my pillow until I start dressing. The paper is off-white and thick – the sort of expensive, heavy stuff they only use in the Capitol. I open it up, and the custom watermark at the top of the page informs me that this is from C.X.S.

President Snow has left me a handwritten note of congratulations.

The others have all gotten them, too.

Mags says he always does for the victors of the winning district. Etiquette, she says, is the most important thing to Coriolanus. Not for the first time, I wonder how well Mags knew him when they were young.

Broadsea whips a lighter out of his pocket and sets the note on fire before dropping it in an empty metal bin. He hasn’t even opened it. Eefa drops her own note into the bin; Mags gives Broadsea her letter to burn, too. I don’t know if she’s read it. Proteus tucks his away in his jacket pocket and tells me to do the same if I want to be smart. I don’t have a reason to save it; I’ve already memorized every word. But I decide to keep it anyway. In case I ever need a reminder.

Mr. Odair,

Congratulations on your very first victor. This is an exciting time for your fellow victors and all of District 4. It is an especially important time for you, as this is your first time mentoring a victor.

Of course he adds a little statement of regret at the end of my note containing a veiled threat:

I hope that you will not be bogged down by the weight of responsibility. It would be unfair for anyone to expect a young man such as you to take on the burden of Miss Cresta’s care.

It seems innocuous enough, but it’s another little reminder to stand back and just let things unfold. Men like Finnick Odair don’t get involved with that sort of thing, and girls like Annie Cresta never really go home.

My best regards to you and your new victor,

President Coriolanus X. Snow

17 notes · View notes

the-melting-world · 3 years

Text

Drops of Jupiter 🍋

~ In which a secretive barhand explores the city with a fiery historian...

Music: “Drops of Jupiter” by Train

This fic is a rollercoaster. You can thank the chaos kitties. They crave the chase and the drama. Kannan @atypicalacademic thank you once again for letting me borrow the incredible and fierce Balam Maitreya! 💖

~ 2.4k words

cw: biting

Khleo didn’t get to spend much time exploring the city unless she was making deliveries. So she made the most of this moment with Balam in the sun, floating along the channels in a gondola. Khleo had packed a picnic basket with a light lunch, some wine, and something special for later...

***

The broad, balanced architecture of the Temple District gradually morphed into the bleached minarets of Center City. Khleo hardly noticed these things as she drifted along in the gondola. Sitting across from her was her date, Balam Maitreya – a dedicated historian of dreams and prophecy by day, and an even more dedicated bar-hopper by night. In a sense, Balam and Khleo were kindred spirits. Both were workaholics, but for very different reasons.

Balam had already relieved Khleo of her left boot. She didn’t bother removing the candy mint green stocking as she pulled the barhand’s leg into her lap and worked her ink-stained fingers into the grooves of Khleo’s sore feet.

Despite the special treatment, Khleo was intent on giving Balam a hard time.

“Didn’t find what you were looking for,” Khleo said, pointedly eyeing Balam’s hands, “so you decided to keep digging until your fingers bled?”

Balam didn’t think Khleo would have been able to detect the evidence of such beneath the layers of ink and library dust. No one else had.

“Oh, so you noticed.” Balam said it with a cheery laugh, throwing in a flirtatious wink for good measure.

Khleo, who didn’t bat an eye, folded her strong arms over her chest. “I can smell it.”

Balam rolled her eyes and shoved Khleo’s foot to the side. “Well, since we’re pointing fingers today, what’s your excuse? You claim I don’t give myself enough breaks, but have you tasted your own medicine lately, Khlee von Heine?”

“Hey.” Khleo flopped her foot back on Balam’s lap. “Watch your mouth.” Her words had bite, but her tone was too playful.

Balam gave a wry smile and went back to massaging Khleo’s feet. The barhand got a bit more comfortable in her seat and flexed her toes against Balam’s fingers.

“You can’t tell me that I don’t practice what I preach. Besides, you’re leaving out some important factors, Tiger.”

Without taking her eyes away from her task, Balam arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I’d love to hear this. Go on.”

Khleo turned her head, looking out at the passing city for the first time.

“It’s called not having a choice. My boss, for example, can go eat shit. The job doesn’t pay enough. Nothing really does unless you have the money to study somewhere. And I never did so… do the math. Just to make ends meet, I did the crime thing for a while. Wasn’t for me. You on the other hand…”

The truth was, Balam never revealed why she was in such a relentless rush to achieve the impossible. So Khleo had to follow her own line of assumptions.

“You are your own worst enemy.” Finally, Khleo turned her attention back to Balam. “Aren’t you, cub?”

The gondola turned the corner into Goldgrave. There was music in the streets. The watery path became more and more narrow, bridges and walkways hugging the space around them at closer proximities than in the previous districts.

Balam, looking for a way to distract the barhand from spoiling the date with more uncomfortable conclusions, got up and clambered out of the gondola onto a nearby wall.

“What are you up to?” Khleo mused.

Balam didn’t answer as she matched the pace of the gondola as well as the rhythm sounding off in the distance. She skittered along the winding, narrow wall on slightly bent knees, twirling in place every so often. Her wrists took to the air, twisting and fanning, waving and beckoning.

Balam’s sari, a compelling patchwork of reds and golds, was wrapped in a way that allowed for movement and flair. Despite the way Balam made her bangles sing, her skirts ripple, and her bejeweled cobra tattoo charm all the curious passerby, it was her mastery over her eyebrows and facial muscles that captured and held Khleo’s attention.

The barhand watched while she put her boot back on. Then she licked her lips, paid the gondolier, and joined Balam on the wall because, well, two could certainly play that game.

Khleo came as close as she dared while tucking her arms behind her and folding her hands against the small of her back before matching Balam’s pace with a dance of her own.

Spine ramrod straight and shoulders squared, Khleo demonstrated absolute control as she followed Balam along the narrow stretch of wall. She never once looked down at her feet, which unlike her stiff upper body, moved with alarming swiftness. One wrong step and Khleo could topple directly into the channel.

Balam definitely noticed. “Show off.”

Khleo smirked and waited for the path to open up a bit before ducking and dancing circles around Balam. She sped up, flirting more with the threat of falling. Then she asked, “Isn’t your apartment in this district?”

When Balam said yes, Khleo finally put an end to her dancing. Then she bolted and chased down the gondola before it could get away, cursing under her breath about a forgotten picnic basket.

“Just leave it!” Balam laughed, “I’ll get you a new one.”

But the barhand only shook her head, shouting over her shoulder that this one was special. When the two had finally reached the apartment, Balam asked why Khleo nearly got soaking wet just to get the basket back.

Khleo waited until the two of them were in Balam’s room with the door shut and locked before revealing the bewitched toy that she usually kept under the counter back at the bar. It came with a leather harness, worn and weathered from use.

Balam, doing her best to hide her excitement, settled on the edge of her bed and snorted, “You brought that on a lunch date?”

Khleo shrugged, tucking the strap back inside the basket for later. “I had a hunch I would need it.”

Balam watched the wicker lid fall shut. “Nice hunch.”

Khleo approached the bed, her dark brown eyes tracking where all the lines of red and gold overlapped in Balam’s sari. She reached for it, but Balam stopped her. “You just relax, Firecat. I got it.”

Khleo only answered with heated kisses. She fought the urge to push forward until Balam was on her back.

“I want you to show me how it comes off,” Khleo purred. “Or else I’m going to be wondering after I leave and it’s going to drive me crazy.”

Balam slowed down, drawing Khleo’s hands to her waist. “Are you watching closely?”

Their foreheads met in the middle as Balam began her demonstration.

“Yeah,” was the barhand’s soft reply. “I’m watching.”

The reds, the golds – they loosened and unraveled under the barhand’s watchful gaze until there was nothing but the warm brown of Balam’s skin and the vibrant gem pattern of the cobra snaking up her arm.

As Khleo drank her in, she noticed another tattoo just above her ribs – lionheart etched in gold.

Balam shivered when Khleo tapped it with the tips of her fingers. The barhand elicited more reactions from the other as she brushed against nipples that were alive and dark, much like the historian’s eyes.

Balam wondered why Khleo hadn’t bothered to undress herself when it became clear that the barhand was waiting. With slightly shaking hands, Balam undid Khleo’s uniform, bringing herself every so often to kiss her freckled lips.

The clothing came off until they were both fully aware of the other. Finally, they came together, freckles against tattoos and disruptions of brown in the curves that didn’t get to see the sun. Khleo’s blunt teeth against Balam’s sharper canines. Balam’s delicate mewling under Khleo’s rumbling purrs.

Khleo tipped Balam onto her back, giving all of her body, listening to her partner sigh and grow comfortable under the weight. Khleo wedged her thigh between Balam’s so she could relieve just a little bit of the pressure that steadily kept building.

Khleo was satisfied with kissing, but her partners were usually demanding something by now. Khleo asked what she almost never had to. “What do you want?” She drew back to look at Balam.

The historian hesitated. “I want you to take me. Wherever you want. However you want.”

Khleo couldn’t help sensing some underlying addition to that first request. An unspoken away from here if she had to describe it. But she ignored the feeling for now.

Khleo kissed Balam’s forehead. “Don’t move.”

She didn’t go far. The barhand entered a sort of trance as she got up and adjusted her harness. Already her body longed to be warm against Balam’s again. And very soon she was.

Balam knew Khleo’s terms. The talking, the crying out – keep it to yourself. She didn’t need to be told twice. This concerned Khleo – she expected a little pushback – but not nearly as much as it excited her. She wrapped herself around Balam as one would a pillow. One arm was snug around her middle while she used the other to cushion Balam’s head of disheveled midnight curls. Khleo’s hand rested on her partner’s crown, gathering and loosening in the hair there.

Balam became fully engaged in Khleo’s embrace, crossing her own strong legs around the barhand’s waist, squeezing her satisfaction into Khleo’s sides. And gods… she was so warm. Everywhere.

Khleo was met with no resistance when she started to really move, not even when she bit into Balam’s shoulder. No cry came forth. Balam’s only reaction was the roll of shivers passing from her head to her toes. Khleo instantly read what it meant and bit her again, harder this time, thrusting properly as she did so.

Balam twitched and groaned. “Nnn!”

That was all Khleo was going to get she supposed. Balam had never felt so close and yet so distant from her. Khleo couldn’t put her finger on it. As much as she craved submission, this didn’t feel quite like that.

The barhand nuzzled her partner and held her tighter until she felt her ribs strain against the pressure. But Balam was still getting further away. As if she was trying to use this moment to escape whatever infinite ache had inked itself into her fingers.

Khleo, who was beyond the realm of speaking, mouthed her concern against Balam’s neck.

Where are you? Stay with me. With me!

As if Khleo had lit a match in Balam, the historian exploded with a fierce sound and heaved Khleo to the left. The two of them rolled too fast, too suddenly, which landed them in a heap on the floor. The barhand scrambled back in position.

Balam welcomed Khleo’s return, but not without raking her nails against the barhand’s freckled skin before promptly biting into her shoulder.

This time it was Khleo who cried out.

The bite spoke volumes, reminding the barhand of Balam’s request when this all started.

I want you to take me.

So Khleo took Balam until the latter came all the way. Afterwards, while Khleo stimulated her partner through the aftershocks of her orgasm, Balam went back to her tiny mewls, licking the fresh puncture wounds she had left in Khleo’s skin.

Then Khleo pulled out, climbed back onto the bed where it was more comfortable and sat upright on her knees, taking a moment to breathe and cool off. There was so much fire between herself and Balam, she felt like her skin might be cooking in hot oil.

When Khleo looked down, she saw that Balam had joined her on the bed and was now trying to edge towards her pelvis, but she wasn’t going for the strap. Khleo reached for her hair, snatching her up just in time.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Balam batted her lashes. “Can I just have a taste?”

Khleo nudged the toy against her partner’s cheek. “Of what? Yourself? It’s right here.”

Balam’s eyes grew dark. “No. Of you, Firecat. I want to taste you.”

Khleo grimaced. “I’m not on the menu today.” Truthfully, she was in no mood to direct Balam in how gentle she needed to be with her.

Balam batted her eyelashes again and made her eyebrows dance just like she did when they were floating along the channel.

Khleo felt her resolve break the longer Balam carried on. “Damn the gods.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then?” She dipped her head, but Khleo needed to reestablish some authority.

“Take this thing off of me first. Then you can have a taste.”

Balam was happy to do it. When Khleo was free, she let go of Balam’s hair to grant her more mobility. The historian lifted one of Khleo’s legs onto her shoulders, all the while holding her gaze.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Tiger. You’re only getting a–”

Balam was too fast. She practically hooked her jaw to Khleo’s slit before emptying out her tongue deep between her sensitive walls. Khleo was paralyzed by the teasing bauble of Balam’s tongue ring as it dragged in places where she didn’t even know that sort of sensation was possible.

Khleo felt her eyes roll back despite her efforts to maintain some shred of control.

“Son of a–”

The barhand gracelessly toppled backwards into a heap of blankets and fumbled for purchase in Balam’s hair. The historian meanwhile continued her hungry pursuit, grabbing onto Khleo’s outer thighs and giving her everything she had.

Khleo’s raspy voice fought to be heard. “Balam – you can’t – I’m too sensitive – just… Oh fuck!”

Khleo wasn’t sure if she came or just suffered a sudden override of stimulation. Whatever it was caused her to squirm roughly out of Balam’s hold. The historian sat up and smirked. “Sorry. One lick would have never cut it for me. I had to… Khleo?”

She crawled over and sidled up to the barhand from behind. “What happened? Are you okay? Did I–”

“I’m fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. I never told you.”

“Told me what?”

Khleo sighed. “That was too much too soon. You have to go slow with me.”

Balam’s black eyes smarted. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you that it’s fine.” She rolled over to face her partner. “You’re fine.” She pressed a kiss to Balam’s wet cheek.

“No.” Balam closed her eyes. “I’m too much.”

“Damn it, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re enough. Tiger, look at me. You’ll always be enough for me, you hear me?”

She didn’t let Balam answer. She didn’t want to hear the denial if there still was one. Instead, Khleo ignored that shared unchecked heat and held fast to Balam. The barhand’s kisses were slow and thorough as she reached blindly behind her until she found a blanket. She pulled it over, wrapping them both up in darkness, eliminating the options for Balam to hold onto anything else except her partner.

Khleo created the illusion that there was nothing, no one else in the universe but them.

#slow burn lemon #chaos felines #khleo the barhand #balam maitreya #khleo x balam #the arcana #the arcana fic #my writing #lemon #minors dni #cw: biting

5 notes · View notes

timeless-hollywood-classics · 4 years

Text

Veronica Lake (born Constance Frances Marie Ockelman; November 14, 1922 – July 7, 1973) was an American film, stage, and television actor. Lake was best known for her femme fatale roles in film noirs with Alan Ladd during the 1940s and her peek-a-boo hairstyle. By the late 1940s, Lake's career began to decline, due in part to her alcoholism. She made only one film in the 1950s, but made several guest appearances on television. She returned to the big screen in 1966 in the film Footsteps in the Snow (1966), but the role failed to revitalize her career.

Lake's memoir, Veronica: The Autobiography of Veronica Lake, was published in 1970. Her final screen role was in a low-budget horror film, Flesh Feast (1970). Lake died in July 1973 from hepatitis and acute kidney injury at the age of 50.

Lake was born Constance Frances Marie Ockelman in the New York City borough of Brooklyn. Her father, Harry Eugene Ockelman, was of German and Irish descent, and worked for an oil company aboard a ship. He died in an industrial explosion in Philadelphia in 1932. Lake's mother, Constance Frances Charlotta (Trimble; 1902–1992), of Irish descent, married Anthony Keane, a newspaper staff artist, also of Irish descent, in 1933, and Lake began using his surname.

The Keanes lived in Saranac Lake, New York, where young Lake attended St. Bernard's School. She was then sent to Villa Maria, an all-girls Catholic boarding school in Montreal, Quebec, Canada, from which she was expelled. Lake later claimed she attended McGill University and took a premed course for a year, intending to become a surgeon. This claim was included in several press biographies, although Lake later declared it was bogus. Lake subsequently apologized to the president of McGill, who was simply amused when she explained her habit of self-dramatizing. When her stepfather fell ill during her second year[vague], the Keane family later moved to Miami, Florida. Lake attended Miami High School, where she was known for her beauty. She had a troubled childhood and was diagnosed with schizophrenia, according to her mother.

In 1938, the Keanes moved to Beverly Hills, California. While briefly under contract to MGM, Lake enrolled in that studio's acting farm, the Bliss-Hayden School of Acting (now the Beverly Hills Playhouse). She made friends with a girl named Gwen Horn and accompanied her when Horn went to audition at RKO. She appeared in the play Thought for Food in January 1939. A theatre critic from the Los Angeles Times called her "a fetching little trick" for her appearance in She Made Her Bed.

She also appeared as an extra in a number of movies. Keane's first appearance on screen was for RKO, playing a small role among several coeds in the film Sorority House (1939). The part wound up being cut from the film, but she was encouraged to continue. Similar roles followed, including All Women Have Secrets (1939), Dancing Co-Ed (also 1939), Young as Your Feel (1940), and Forty Little Mothers (also 1940). Forty Little Mothers was the first time she let her hair down on screen.

Lake attracted the interest of Fred Wilcox, an assistant director, who shot a test scene of her performing from a play and showed it to an agent. The agent, in turn, showed it to producer Arthur Hornblow Jr., who was looking for a new girl to play the part of a nightclub singer in a military drama, I Wanted Wings (1940). The role would make Lake, still in her teens, a star. Hornblow changed the actress's name to Veronica Lake. According to him, her eyes, "calm and clear like a blue lake", were the inspiration for her new name.

It was during the filming of I Wanted Wings that Lake developed her signature look. Lake's long blonde hair accidentally fell over her right eye during a take and created a "peek-a-boo" effect. "I was playing a sympathetic drunk, I had my arm on a table ... it slipped ... and my hair — it was always baby fine and had this natural break — fell over my face ... It became my trademark and purely by accident", she recalled.

I Wanted Wings was a big hit. The hairstyle became Lake's trademark and was widely copied by women.

Even before the film came out, Lake was dubbed "the find of 1941". However, Lake did not think this meant she would have a long career and maintained her goal was to be a surgeon. "Only the older actors keep on a long time ... I don't want to hang on after I've reached a peak. I'll go back to medical school", she said.

Paramount announced two follow-up movies, China Pass and Blonde Venus. Instead, Lake was cast in Preston Sturges's Sullivan's Travels with Joel McCrea. She was six months pregnant when filming began.

Paramount put Lake in a thriller, This Gun for Hire (1942), with Robert Preston as her love interest. However, she shared more scenes with Alan Ladd; the two of them were so popular together that they would be reteamed in lead roles for three more films. Both had cameos in Star Spangled Rhythm (1942), an all-star Paramount film.

Lake was meant to be reunited with McCrea in another comedy, I Married a Witch, (also 1942) produced by Sturges and directed by René Clair, but McCrea refused to act with her again, reportedly saying, "Life's too short for two films with Veronica Lake". Production was delayed, enabling Lake to be reunited with Ladd in The Glass Key (again 1942), replacing Patricia Morison. The male lead in I Married a Witch was eventually played by Fredric March and the resulting movie, like The Glass Key, was successful at the box office. René Clair, the director of I Married a Witch, said of Lake, "She was a very gifted girl, but she didn't believe she was gifted."

Lake was meant to co-star with Charles Boyer in Hong Kong for Arthur Hornblow, but it was not made. She received acclaim for her part as a suicidal nurse in So Proudly We Hail! (1943). At the peak of her career, she earned $4,500 a week.

Lake had a complex personality and acquired a reputation for being difficult to work with. Eddie Bracken, her co-star in Star Spangled Rhythm, in which Lake appeared in a musical number, was quoted as saying, "She was known as 'The Bitch' and she deserved the title." However, Lake and McCrea did make another film together, Ramrod (1947). During filming of The Blue Dahlia (1946), screenwriter Raymond Chandler referred to her as "Moronica Lake".

During World War II, Lake changed her trademark peek-a-boo hairstyle at the urging of the government to encourage women working in war industry factories to adopt more practical, safer hairstyles. Although the change helped to decrease accidents involving women getting their hair caught in machinery, doing so may have damaged Lake's career. She also became a popular pin-up girl for soldiers during World War II and traveled throughout the United States to raise money for war bonds.

Lake's career faltered with her unsympathetic role as Nazi spy Dora Bruckman in The Hour Before the Dawn (1944), shot in mid 1943. Scathing reviews of The Hour Before the Dawn included criticism of her rather unconvincing German accent. She had begun drinking more heavily during this period, and a growing number of people refused to work with her. Lake had a number of months off work, during which time she lost a child and was divorced.

In early 1944 she was brought back in Bring On the Girls (1945), Lake's first proper musical, although she had sung in This Gun for Hire and Star Spangled Rhythm. She was teamed with Eddie Bracken and Sonny Tufts. The movie was not a financial success.

In June 1944, Lake appeared at a war bond drive in Boston, where her services as a dishwasher were auctioned off. She also performed in a revue, with papers saying her "talk was on the grim side". Hedda Hopper later claimed this appearance was responsible for Paramount giving her the third lead in Out of This World (1945), supporting Diana Lynn and Bracken, saying "Lake clipped her own wings in her Boston bond appearance ... It's lucky for Lake, after Boston, that she isn't out of pictures".

Lake had a relatively minor role in a film produced by John Houseman, Miss Susie Slagle's (also 1945), co starring Sonny Tufts; Lake was top billed but her part was smaller than Joan Caulfield. In November 1944 she made a third film with Bracken, Hold That Blonde (1945). She liked this part saying "it's a comedy, rather like what Carole Lombard used to do ... It represents a real change of pace".

Lake then made a second film produced by John Houseman, The Blue Dahlia (1946), which reunited her with Ladd. While waiting for the films to be released in 1945, she took stock of her career, claiming, "I had to learn about acting. I've played all sorts of parts, taken just what came along regardless of high merit. In fact, I've been a sort of general utility person. I haven't liked all the roles. One or two were pretty bad".

Lake expressed interest in renegotiating her deal with Paramount:

The studio feels that way about it too. They have indicated they are going to fuss more about the pictures in which I appear. I think I'll enjoy being fussed about ... I want this to be the turning point and I think that it will. I am free and clear of unpleasant characters, unless they are strongly justified. I've had a varied experience playing them and also appearing as heroines. The roles themselves haven't been noteworthy and sometimes not even especially spotlighted, but I think they've all been beneficial in one way or another. From here on there should be a certain pattern of development, and that is what I am going to fight for if necessary, though I don't believe it will be because they are so understanding here at Paramount.

Since So Proudly We Hail only The Blue Dahlia had been a hit. She made her first film outside Paramount since she became a star, a Western, Ramrod (1947), directed by her then-husband Andre DeToth, which reunited her with Joel McCrea, despite his earlier reservation. It was successful.

Back at her home studio she had a cameo in Variety Girl (1947) then was united with Ladd for the last time in Saigon (1948), in which she returned to her former peek-a-boo hairstyle; the movie was not particularly well received. Neither was a romantic drama, Isn't It Romantic (also 1948) or a comedy The Sainted Sisters (1948). In 1948 Paramount decided not to renew Lake's contract.

Lake moved to 20th Century Fox to make Slattery's Hurricane (1949), directed by DeToth. It was only a support role and there were not many other offers.

In 1950 it was announced she and DeToth would make Before I Wake (from a suspense novel by Mel Devrett) and Flanagan Boy. Neither was made.

She appeared in Stronghold (1951), which she later described as "a dog", an independent production from Lippert Pictures shot in Mexico. She later sued for unpaid wages on the film. Lake and DeToth filed for bankruptcy that same year.

The IRS later seized their home for unpaid taxes. On the verge of a nervous breakdown and bankrupt, Lake ran away, left DeToth, and flew alone to New York.

"They said, 'She'll be back in a couple of months,'" recalled Lake. "Well I never returned. Enough was enough already. Did I want to be one of the walking dead or a real person?"

She performed in summer stock theatre and in stage roles in England. In October 1955, she collapsed in Detroit, where she had been appearing on stage in The Little Hut.

After her third divorce, Lake drifted between cheap hotels in New York City, and was arrested several times for public drunkenness and disorderly conduct. In 1962, a New York Post reporter found her living at the all-women's Martha Washington Hotel in Manhattan, working as a waitress downstairs in the cocktail lounge. She was working under the name "Connie de Toth". Lake said she took the job in part because "I like people. I like to talk to them".

The reporter's widely distributed story led to speculation that Lake was destitute. After the story ran, fans of Lake sent her money which she returned as "a matter of pride". Lake vehemently denied that she was destitute and stated, "It's as though people were making me out to be down-and-out. I wasn't. I was paying $190 a month rent then, and that's a long way from being broke". The story did revive some interest in Lake and led to some television and stage appearances, most notably in the 1963 off-Broadway revival of the musical Best Foot Forward.

In 1966, she had a brief stint as a television hostess in Baltimore, Maryland, along with a largely ignored film role in Footsteps in the Snow. She also continued appearing in stage roles. She went to Freeport in the Bahamas to visit a friend and ended up living there for a few years.

Lake's memoirs, Veronica: The Autobiography of Veronica Lake, which she dictated to the writer Donald Bain, were published in the United Kingdom in 1969, and in the United States the following year. In the book, Lake discusses her career, her failed marriages, her romances with Howard Hughes, Tommy Manville and Aristotle Onassis, her alcoholism, and her guilt over not spending enough time with her children. In the book, Lake stated to Bain that her mother pushed her into a career as an actress. Bain quoted Lake, looking back at her career, as saying, "I never did cheesecake like Ann Sheridan or Betty Grable. I just used my hair". She also laughed off the term "sex symbol" and instead referred to herself as a "sex zombie".

When she went to the UK to promote her book in 1969 she received an offer to appear on stage in Madam Chairman. Also in 1969, Lake essayed the role of Blanche DuBois in a revival of A Streetcar Named Desire on the English stage; her performance won rave reviews. With the proceeds from her autobiography, after she had divided them with Bain, she co-produced and starred in her final film, Flesh Feast (1970), a low-budget horror movie with a Nazi-myth storyline.

After purchasing an airplane for her husband, André de Toth, Lake earned her pilot's license in 1946. She later flew solo between Los Angeles and New York when leaving him.

Lake's first marriage was to art director John S. Detlie, in 1940. They had a daughter, Elaine (born in 1941), and a son, Anthony (born July 8, 1943). According to news from the time, Lake's son was born prematurely after she tripped on a lighting cable while filming a movie. Anthony died on July 15, 1943. Lake and Detlie separated in August 1943 and divorced in December 1943.

In 1944, Lake married film director Andre DeToth with whom she had a son, Andre Anthony Michael III (known as Michael DeToth), and a daughter, Diana (born October 1948). Days before Diana's birth, Lake's mother sued her for support payments. Lake and DeToth divorced in 1952.

In September 1955, she married songwriter Joseph Allan McCarthy. They were divorced in 1959. In 1969, she revealed that she rarely saw her children.

In June 1973, Lake returned from her autobiography promotion and summer stock tour in England to the United States and while traveling in Vermont, visited a local doctor, complaining of stomach pains. She was discovered to have cirrhosis of the liver as a result of her years of drinking, and on June 26, she checked into the University of Vermont Medical Center in Burlington.

She died there on July 7, 1973, of acute hepatitis and acute kidney injury. Her son Michael claimed her body. Lake's memorial service was held at the Universal Chapel in New York City on July 11.

She was cremated and, according to her wishes, her ashes were scattered off the coast of the Virgin Islands. In 2004, some of Lake's ashes were reportedly found in a New York antique store.

For her contribution to the motion picture industry, Lake has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at 6918 Hollywood Boulevard.

#veronica lake #classic hollywood #classic movie stars #classic cinema #old hollywood #1940s cinema #1940s hollywood

6 notes · View notes

leiascully · 5 years

Text

Fic: Endeavours Too Short Of Desires

4500 words | Teen | moody atmospheric vignettes from season 6 and a hike in the woods that never was

A/N: This isn’t new. I just wanted a tumblr copy. It is, as ever, for @dilkirani

"Nothing ever happens," Mulder wakes himself saying, jerking back from the depths of sleep.

Scully's face is a stern half-moon in the driver's seat.

"Hmm?" she says, eyes on the road.

"Dreaming," he says rather pathetically, hauling one shoulder up.

"About your love life?"

"Hah," he says. She smirks to herself. Every now and then he remembers she is someone's little sister.

A semi oozes past, its bulk as eerie as the lanternfish Mulder saw in a photo, the small lights set to tantalize with false promises of goodness within. The rental car hurls them through the night, back to the hotel, after the long day of pounding on the doors of innocent farmers. The air conditioner has the same hushed burble as his aquarium filter. The night is clear enough to swim in. If he rolled down the window, the dark would spill in and flood the car. He spins out a story in his half-awake mind: he and Scully, in their rented (though stolen would have more glamour) subaquatic transport are speeding towards the last outpost of civilization to confront the crooked Merpolice. He finds he is holding his breath and abandons the narrative. More apt to be pioneers. The thought of Scully's face hidden behind a ruffled bonnet is too entertaining to pass up.

"Think the Homestead Act is still in effect?" he asked.

Her mouth crimped. "This isn't a Conestoga, Mulder, and you're not a country boy. You'd starve without a deli."

"You hunt, I gather. What do you say, partner?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"After seven years, you expect me to be suddenly amenable to your lunatic schemes?" She makes a smooth stop at a deserted crossroads and sets the car in motion again.

"But you were so good with those pigs," he wheedles.

"Only you would want to settle down by actually settling," she says, putting the turn signal on though there isn't another car on the road. She pulls into the parking lot and noses the car into a slot, equidistant from the cars on either side. He hovers as she unlocks her door and slips in.

"Night, Mulder," she says, tipping her head against the frame.

"Night," he says as she pushes the door to and slides home the bolts. He lays awake in his mirror room, arm cocked over his head so that the back of his hand rests against the wall, trying to feel her heartbeat through the dark.

II.

What the hell are they doing?

There was a time his days had purpose, but now he finds himself floundering. A day's work? A life's work? A fine romance, a deadly drama, a comedy of errors? Scully is no waifish Ophelia, but there are days he fears they'll all end up dead due to the miching mallechos set off by his own determination. At least piles of manure aren't as likely to kill them as most of his demons.

He remembers when he met her, the cool firmness of her handshake and the bad cut of her suit. She is leaner now. Honed is the word he would use: it suits the way they scrape against each other. She has the clean compact lines of his Sig and he reaches for her the same way in a crisis. She isn't pretty. The word isn't in her vocabulary, with all the frou-frou softness it implies. If he can say she is beautiful, it is the beauty of the scalpel's edge. He feels softer by the day, his hand always half-extended to her. There are weekends he orders two coffees just because he forgets she isn't there. He drinks the second and buzzes for hours, having learned to tolerate cream in his coffee rather than face the shades his brain creates.

He dreams about picket fences and Scully with a fond palm cupped over the head of a blond boy. He wakes in a sweat. She deserves more. Not just someone who calls to say, "Hey, I found a musty old file, want to get takeout and give up your weekend?" She merits someone who calls to say instead "I was thinking of you" and leaves it at that. She deserves to be the sign and the signifier. He still loves the hunt, too, with a modern man's shame over the thrill of the chase. Dress it in a suit, give it a pistol, and call the hunt a puzzle or a profile or a case, but she's right: he gets off on it. She rides with him, but it doesn't take her to the same place. Bad motels, bad food, his everloving need to track the villain to his last hideout. Or maybe she does feel the call of it these days: he's guilty about that too. What has he made of her, this serious woman whose family hardly recognizes her? The two of them in coordinating blacks, him stooping along in the shadows with her ramrod-straight and stern beside him.

Who would she be if she weren't his Scully? How many hours of laughter has he stolen from her? How many years of ease? He feels the weight of his debts as an ache when he runs, a tug between his shoulders when he drives.

III.

So she isn't pretty (too severe, too pale of skin and sharp of chin) and she rubs him, god, the wrong way entirely with her pointed insistence on the rational. There are days lately that they just prickle at each other until the air is so charged he isn't sure one of them won't take a swing. He gets smug and she gets arch and he wants to remind her of Scully-that-was with the bad suits and the naivete, but the quips dry up when he looks at Scully-that-is, who might just shoot him to shut him up, her eyebrow cocking almost audibly as a pistol. It was easier when they were upstairs, Moose and Squirrel against the Badinovs. Now they've won and they're back in their weird seclusion, and he spends all day trying not to think about things. Diana and Spender and the enormous scar on Scully's stomach and a normal life and that's just for starters. Scully nags at him: he should be thinking of his knees, his cholesterol, his prostate, his geriatric future chasing phantoms, and he almost blushes under her cool stare as she dissects him and gets irritable about that.

"You want to be the one saying I told you so for once?" he snaps. "I'm sure when I'm dead you'll find a reason." She doesn't rise to the bait, just purses her lips and turns away, and he spends a couple of hours coming up with a good retort for her to have said. "Sooner rather than later" or "I've already seen you naked, I understand the situation" or a reminder of how it's her logic that turns him into something the world doesn't shun. But none of them measures up to her eloquent silence and the fact that she's still here (god, the miracle and the thorn in his side) and it makes him crankier and crankier until he has to go to the vending machine and buy a candy bar to drop on her desk. She raises an eyebrow and splits it with him, both of them with sticky fingertips and dense mouthfuls of nougat and peanut. She swallows with an effort, taps her lower lip with one finger. He licks exaggeratedly at his mouth and tastes caramel. She nearly smiles.

There are some days they're so in sync it's as if they're sharing a skin. He never thinks of it until later, when he turns and she's not there. But they haven't either of them been there, lately. In the bullpen, he can't even stare surreptitiously sideways at her profile.

They talk on the phone in the evenings, too accustomed for self-consciousness. He doesn't remember how many times he's heard her fall asleep, even in the middle of some hushed dispute. He thinks of her, limbs askirl in the comforter, wearing those shapeless pajamas. He wants to ease her out of them, put her in his oldest, softest t-shirt, watch her curl around him as she dreams. Hell, he'll let her drool on his chest if that's what it takes to see her unlimber that prickly standalone self-assurance. She must have been a girl once, laughing with those blue eyes, listening to rough-voiced men croon about how they needed her to need them. He likes to think that he could stop running long enough to spend the morning reading snippets of news stories to her.

IV.

He stares at the phone on the table. It lies there, implacable. He sighs, picks it up, and hits the button.

"Scully."

"Scully, it's me."

"Mulder," she says with a touch of reproval, "it's Friday night."

"It only feels that way because it gets dark early," he says, glancing at the dusky mirror of his window.

"Mulder," she sighs.

"Yeah," he says, and almost hangs up.

"And?" she prompts.

"There's a haunted wood in West Virginia that's very scenic this time of year," he says.

"Haunted?"

"The hotel has a hot tub," he says. "And the hike up to the site is gorgeous."

There is a long moment of silence. He hums The Eagles under his breath.

"Pick me up in half an hour," she says and hangs up.

They spin out the long miles between haunted places together in a silence he likes to call comfortable. He has been a connoisseur of silences since Samantha disappeared: his mother's, Phoebe's, Diana's. Scully's are sometimes cool or pointed but never cruel. The evening dims into early night. He wants to hear stories of her childhood, wants to relate the play-by-play of sandlot games from the days when Samantha was there, pigtails bouncing against her shoulders as she scrambled for a foul ball and held up the game. Instead he tunes the radio to NPR and feels Scully slouch next to him, relaxing into a concert of Bach's sonatas. She props one stocking-sheathed foot on the glove box.

"You like Bach, Mulder?"

"I live for Bach," he says easily. She flashes him a look and he quirks his mouth in a doesn't-matter smile. Those are times he doesn't like to think about, when they were separated, when he abandoned her without looking back and she came anyway to save him from his follies. Dana Scully, Our Lady of Second Chances. He'd lay flowers at her feet, but she doesn't suffer reverence well, the deflection of affection almost automatic between them. Not all wisdom has benefits, he thinks: too wise to woo, they are stuck in the stasis of longing and denial.

The stairs to the basement still smell like smoke when he goes to salvage his files, and his car still smells like Diana's perfume, however he tries to air it out. Betrayal has an acrid bite in his nose. Scully's hands are ashy as they sort through burned fragments of manila; he is aware that he does not deserve her.

West Virginia will not solve any of this, but he is longing for the old earnest purity of the supernatural after the months and months of bureaucracy. After the indignity of being dragged out of their basement. After the wedge Diana has put between them, after his new disillusionment, after his near-drowning. A nice trip to the woods, one that won't end in some ancient hollow filled with bones or the two of them dehydrated beyond recognition. It is tending toward autumn in the mountains, and he has hope again.

She's seen him naked before with those doctor eyes, one self-inflicted health concern after another. He frets that when the day of glory comes she won't see him as anything but a collection of troubles bundled in a too-familiar skin. Where's the mystery of undressing each other when they know all the scars? Where's the room for shadows and secrets and discovery?

All these dreams of yielding, but in the light, they brace their feet and bicker, an endlessly rehearsed debate.

They get in too late for the woods, just collapse in their separate rustic rooms. She yawns through breakfast, but he plies her with coffee and drags her up the mountain.

"What am I looking for?" she asks, her feet clompy in her boots. She has brought a pack with food and water and a good pocketknife. He has a compass in his pocket and a pamphlet in his bag about the local hauntings.

"Any sign of haints, spectres, manifestations, you know."

"Projectile vomiting?" she asks wryly, and pushes up the sleeves of her fleecy pullover.

"Breakfast wasn't that bad, Scully. Now get ghost huntin'."

"Mulder, is this an apology?"

He stretches his legs and outpaces her, scrambling up outcroppings just because he can. The ghostly copse is bright and sunny, the leaves just edged with crimson and yellow.

"Look at that, Scully," he says, putting out his arms and spinning. "Have you ever seen a place more positively haunted?"

She laughs, unpredictably. They eat apples and spit out the seeds. She chose the apples from a bowl in the dining room; he doesn't recognize the names of the varieties when she says them. He thinks, briefly, that he should give it all up and they could grow apples instead. In the evening they sit by a fireplace and the owner of the inn tells them all the ghost stories. Mulder takes notes. Scully stares dreamily into the flames. They slip into the hot tub under the stars, Scully in a very functional one piece, her towel close at hand against the chill in the air. They seem to be the only guests at the lodge. He swats at a lonely mosquito. Scully peers up at the sky.

"You know," Mulder nudges her toes in the water, "if we went up there now, maybe we'd catch Old Smoky in the act of spooking deer."

She regards him, her eyes half-lidded through the steam. "Mulder, was there even a ghost here?"

"There's always a ghost," he says.

On Monday, they don't talk about it.

VI.

Sometimes he sees himself as she must see him, on bad days. Hulking, crowding Mulder, deranged Mulder, screeching inanity even the Gunmen would discount out of hand. Broody, sulky, disturbed Mulder, who hasn't had a date or even a bedroom in years, who has more than once held a gun on her. Same old same old, dragging her across the nation's pale and seedy underbelly for the sake of an anonymous newspaper clipping or a breathless phonecall.

"Why do you trust these whackos?" she asks once, point blank Scully bluntness. "Mulder, are you just aching to have faith in someone?"

He bristles, ignoring the opportunity to be sweet. "They're not whackos. They're truthseekers."

"They're attention seekers." She is already turning away.

"Please don't undervalue my work," he says stiffly, stirred into adolescent sudden outrage so that his elbows jab at the fabric of his suit and his ears feel too large, awkward, hearing sly whispers. "However little you may respect these people and their struggles to confront the paranormal aspects, things that people like you say shouldn't exist, they deserve at least the justice of being listened to. This is my life, Scully. I'm not apologizing."

Her shoulders tilt. "It's become my life."

He punches the buttons on the radio until he finds a classic rock station and taps the steering wheel, trying not to turn around or beg forgiveness. Maybe he'll miss the exit, just drive until they find her magical normal-normal suburb so that she could trot up some manicured walkway to a boring husband and two point five adopted children, since he'd taken the chance of her own from her. Picket fences, Irish setter, parade of heart attack victims and plain vanilla old folks splayed across her morgue table. Maybe that would suit her, he thinks, as they grind into the parking lot. He feels guilty later and turns his plate so she can steal his fries, but she is looking out the window.

The informant is an unqualified whacko.

VII.

She is asleep, her breath a rhythmic fog on the window. Her hair has drifted across her face like autumn coming on. He can see the pulse in her neck. The compact loveliness of her startles him: pulse, respiration, the flicker of muscle as she shifts. She is so solid: the brace of arm from wrist to shoulder as she sights along her gun, the stance of her when they argue. Her skin in the moonlight looks bluish, the milky color of old marbles. She had been almost heavy in his arms, that time in Antarctica, as he'd struggled to clothe her in the meager layers of down and Goretex. The two of them in the clothes he'd worn, sharing his warmth, sharing his skin. As he'd lifted her, he'd caught his own scent on her neck. Her damp skin, bare inside his parka. The two of them breathing in the defiance of the fathomless cold.

And now this, after the whacko. Each of them lost in particular frustrated solitude inside the cocoon of the rental car. The sussuration of tires on the highway. The clear air of the desert so unlike DC, with its concrete memories of swampiness. Go west, young man, he thinks as the car spins northeast back to the cluster of lights where their hotel hunches around a rock garden. Go west and grow up with your country. That made three times this year he'd dragged her along, restless in the bullpen, craving the nocturnal thrill of exchanged information. Cloak and dagger, he would say, thinking of spy movies. Like taking a woman's number in a dark bar, Scully would say, Mulder, what were you thinking?

VIII.

He shows up on her doorstep at Halloween, painted corpse grey with false stitches inked over the real scars. "Trick or treat," he rumbles, and she steps aside.

"You know Frankenstein was the doctor, Mulder."

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about things that go bump in the night?" he says over his shoulder on the way to the candy bowl, but she ducks past him and rations out three bite-size bars into his palm. "No apples? No granola? Why, Doctor Scully, what wicked indulgence. You're letting these kids live it up."

She half-shrugs, her shoulder cantilevered by the crook of the opposite eyebrow. Scully at equilibrium. "Any remnant of true ritual has been superceded by the commercialized sugar high, Mulder. The offering's only a gesture at the amalgamation of centuries of superstition and pagan belief."

"And yet," he murmurs, "think of the dental bills."

Her mouth quirks. In her line of work, he supposes, they appreciate distinctive dentition. "Not my watch. Plus, I like my windows unegged."

They watch bad monster movies on tv, punctuated by commercials and insistent variations on ghouls, heroes, and cartoon princesses. She rambles on about Samhain and Egyptian ritual and the bourgeois dilution of tradition until he unwraps a candy bar and pushes it between her lips. Not that he doesn't love to hear her talk, especially about fertility and death and holy holies and the human tendency to enjoy having the hell scared out of them, but it's Plan Nine From Outer Space and this is the good part.

She swallows, licks her lips, waits for commercial, worries a bit of peanut from between her back teeth. "I was you with all that Samhain stuff, you know. I don't think they sell Flowbees anymore, but I thought about stealing your awful ties."

"You may talk the talk, Scully, but you'll never encompass the Mulder mystique." She grimaces at him. "You're too short and too functional."

She brushes her knuckles against his knee and pretends it's an accident. "Happy Halloween, Mulder."

"Happy Halloween, Scully." He thinks his heart is growing three sizes larger, wrong season or not.

IX.

She pushes his hair back from his injured brow with a remarkable tenderness for a diagnostic. He touches the small of her back in possessive deference. They do not speak of this. It is a language of bodies, all fingertips and shoulders and the comfortable bump of knees under tables that are too small.

He steals her keys at Christmas out of hope.

They are often at odds. He knows she is seeing Diana around corners. The consummation goes on devoutly wished and entirely unconsummated; they are both restless with only their own skins around them. He is still hearing Padgett's voice on a loop (the lurid whisper, the revelation she didn't flinch from, so how could it be true except that she is not the swooning type), still seeing Ed Jerse's all-American face and blistered arm. The precedent of her lovers depresses him, but then, she's not tall, dark, and top-heavy. Tastes change.

He worries that he loves her by association. He worries that she tolerates him simply because she's used to him. In the daylight, in the office, their lives feel so ordinary. Two hired guns for the FBI, overeducated, underpaid, no scope at all for the kind of epic love he wants to believe they could share someday when they get around to saying it. When they find a safe space. "Son," says the bottom of the whiskey bottle some nights, "you're delusional."

He wants to believe.

"All right," she says at Christmas, exasperated, "I'm afraid. But it's an irrational fear." Scully tough as textbooks, always reaching for the quantifiable and the explicable. Love they can't riddle away so they ignore it, mired together in their apprehension, except for shining moments like Christmas morning, months ago. He knows this fear is rational, this fear of this, of them, as real and rational as his fear of Them, the consortiums, the shadow-men. She is not afraid, he thinks. She is not afraid of anything. She has confronted her demons and emerged cool and whole. But they push each other away.

He can't decide what he wants. Only her, to have and to hold away. She is exactly right and exactly wrong and there are days he wants to claim her and days he wants to put half the world between them for one reason or another. Mostly he just wants to go on like this, idle days in the basement. Funny. He can't remember when he stopped trying to keep her at arm's length. She was the spy sent in from the cold. Now she holds the earth steady as they boxstep around the space between them, though she sidles up almost under his arm now and then.

An ordinary stakeout, undercover work for someone else, placating the powers that be. They are in a restaurant. He has his arm slung over her shoulders, for verisimilitude, he tells himself. She doesn't quite lean into his side and toys with her drink: tonic with a twist. He murmurs nothings about the news, about some new article he read on acupuncture for abductees. She tips her head up and peers over his chin to give him the skeptical glare.

"Mulder, why do I think you have an appointment for tomorrow morning with this acupuncturist?"

"Hey," he says, "I'm not an abductee. But if you want to go...."

She starts to turn away, gives him the one-eyed fisheye. He is startled by the depth of blue of her eyes in the dim. Just as he starts to worry he's stirred up too much of the aching past, she shifts her hip against his.

"I'm packing," she reminds him. Her lips pucker in that amused way that makes him think of a perfect plum he ate on a summer beach, half-stolen out of a joint packed lunch as Samantha picked the crusts off her sandwich.

"Come on, Scully," he prods teasingly. "Maybe if you clear your chi, the crazies will quit following you around."

"I sincerely doubt it," she says, and for a moment, her head touches his shoulder. "Isn't that what we're here for tonight?"

Let's ditch it, he wants to say. You and me and a pizza and some beers, what do you say? Forget this Bureau shit. Dinner and a movie.

But she's already scanning the room again over the rim of her tonic, though she's still settled against him. He sighs and picks up a cold fry, leftover from what used to be lunch - they wouldn't let the waitress clear the table. Skinner spooked her pretty good too, Mulder thinks, wondering if he can flag the girl down for a piece of pie. But she's pinballing her way across the far edge of her section, avoiding them.

"You know it's Shark Week on the Discovery Channel?" he says experimentally.

"Should have led with the Mystery Science Theatre marathon," Scully counters.

"Scully!" he says, charmed.

"I get the TV Guide too, Mulder." She flashes a quick grin. "Better than skin mags."

"Research." He cranes his head. "Is that Grubeck?"

"Or his twin," Scully says grimly. Mulder lifts the arm from her shoulders and waves at Grubeck, who makes his way slowly to them.

"What's going on?" Scully says. "Is the surveillance over?"

"Dincha hear? Team shagged 'im block from here four hours ago." Grubeck squints at them. "Finito."

Mulder feels his eyes tighten with anger. Deliberately forgotten, left in this restaurant. For himself he minds less, but Scully doesn't deserve it. Grubeck shifts from one pudgy foot to the other.

"Well," says Scully dryly. "Looks like there is such a thing as a free lunch. Or at least an expensed lunch." She drains her tonic and touches his arm.

It was easier to be alone, but the rough joy she raises in him is a better armor than misery. He stands tall, towering over Grubeck, and ghosts along behind Scully as she strides out of the place, his fingertips grazing her spine. It is one of those DC end-of-summer evenings: the air is thick and gold as honey, so that breathing is a slow effort. Scully's idea of civvies is a tank top and a filmy skirt that looks as if she inherited it from Melissa: Mulder admires the bronzy glaze of sunset on her collarbones. She stops abruptly at a corner and props her hands on her hips.

"I feel like smacking the crap out of something," she announces. "Let's go to the batting cages."

He loops his arms around her when they get there, reminding her how to hold the bat; they both pretend she's forgotten. The nape of her neck smells like a picnic. He tries not to breathe her in too noisily. She plants her shoulders against his chest and crows when they connect. Later, tired of the machine, he lobs easy underhanded pitches for her and teases her for the wiggle of her hips as she sets up to swing.

"Technique," she insists, and slaps one back at him so hard and fast he has to dodge.

XI.

That night, like every night, he can't believe he doesn't say it.

#the x-files fic #x-files fic #xfiles fic #mulder x scully #msr #my fic #fic: endeavours too short of desires

110 notes · View notes

ificouldau · 4 years

Text

Section 3 - Chapter 24

50% of you chose to watch a movie.

50% of you chose to play games.

You glance back towards the rest of the group, all gathered in confusion as Hansol waits patiently for an answer.

“Now?” You ask quietly, “Here? Are… are you sure?” “I mean, we can do both, so-”

You all watch on as Vernon pulls open a drawer under the television, pulling out four game controllers and settling them on the glass coffee table before him. His movements are ominously comfortable. No one speaks for a second. “We’re going to be fine,” The boy assures the group with bold eyes, holding one of the controllers in the air, “Now, are we playing or not?”

It takes a few minutes of nervous glances and mumbles for everyone to force themselves into settling in. The thought of something fun after hell is blissful. After all, none of you have much of a choice.

As you take a steady seat, Jihoon settles himself on the floor in front of you, passing back a controller. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” you smile teasingly, “but I won’t need it.”

After grabbing his own controller, Wonwoo stops in front of you. He extends his hand out in an offered handshake, eyes slanted down at you challengingly. “I won’t go easy on you, just so you know.”

Your competitiveness comes out in the form of a small scoff, “And I won’t lose... Just so you know.”

You, Wonwoo, Seokmin, and Joshua sit ramrod straight as the intro song to Mario Kart 8 starts blaring out of the industrial speakers. The others gather about the couch, leaning against the backrest with eager eyes and quiet conversation.

Your thumbs rest comfortably on the joysticks as the numbers begin counting down. 3, 2… You find yourself smirking, already certain you’ll win.

“Don’t get too cocky.” Wonwoo cautions.

As the cartoon flag unfurls, the four cars shoot forward, twisting and turning around the others. Wonwoo drives his car through a hidden shortcut, you tailing him closely behind.

Behind you both, Seokmin’s car falls off the edge of the track, placing him in the very back. You and Wonwoo fight hard for first place, constantly switching rankings.

As you near the finishing line, you and Wonwoo are neck and neck. Right as you’re about to cross the threshold, however, Joshua tosses a powerup, sending both of your cars flying backwards. Before you can react, a fourth car comes hurling down the track.

Seokmin’s car, led by a speed booster, flies straight for the finish line. Wonwoo regains his ground as he hurries to move his car.

Before you can think to catch up, Seokmin zooms directly under the checkered flag, fireworks exploding in celebration. Wonwoo is quick to follow, passing over the line as he plops backwards on the couch in defeat. You speed up in desperation, not ready to settle with last place, but before you can pass the finish line, Shua’s car veers to the side and falls off the edge.

You speed past the final flag as loud music begins to play.

“Aw dang. I lost.” Shua laughs, eyes crinkling into a friendly smile. As the winning screen flashes over the television, you lower your controller, glaring over at him in suspicion.

“You did that on purpose.”

His shoulders bob up and down in warm laughter as Wonwoo turns to you. “Not as good as you thought you were, eh?”

“I never said I would win.” You challenge, “I said I wouldn’t lose... which I didn’t.”

“You didn’t lose, but I won!” Seokmin shouts, jumping onto the couch and raising his arms in excitement.

The boys congratulate him endlessly, singing and shouting their praise. Your laughter fades, however, as a tense Vernon beside you catches your eye. He seems stressed, bouncing a leg up and down anxiously on the marble floors. Though the kid tries his hardest to smile Seokmin’s way, you notice his eyes moving frantically around the room.

“Hey,” you whisper, leaning closer to him, “Is everything okay? If something’s wrong, we can-”

“No, no...” Hansol mutters, “This is the safest place we can be right now. Ignore me.”

His anxious state makes you desperate to calm his nerves. “Vernon-”

“Movies should be in the third drawer,” The boy announces before you can finish your sentence. The boys pipe back up into cheerful conversation, Chan hurrying over to pop a DVD into the movie player.

“What movie is this?” Jeonghan asks.

“No clue,” Chan says, pressing play, “I just grabbed one at random.”

You furrow your brows over at Vernon, running a hand nervously through his hair as he tries to sit back and stomach through the introduction screen. The other boys are so easily caught up in the sudden entertainment, but you try your best to focus and join without thinking too much of the situation.

After a couple of dreadfully long hours, the credits begin to roll and the boys stretch their arms in the air with tired yawns.

The movie was terrible. A cheesy drama about a girl running away from a serial killer, all while finding her true love in the midst of danger. After defeating the villain, the main character marries her love and they move far, far away together in isolation. There were so many plot twists that it was impossible to guess the ending. You rack your brain desperately for some sense of satisfaction, trying your hardest to piece together all of the shitty story. At least it ended happily. You raise an eyebrow, feeling more puzzled than ever.

As the end credits roll on further, you turn about to face the others. More than half of them are crying. Your eyes widen in surprise.

“Wh- why are you all crying…?”

“How are you not?” Seokmin asks, exasperated, “They were in love!”

“And they escaped together despite everything the world put them through!” Seungkwan cries.

“And they had such a pretty wedding,” Mingyu sniffles, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.

Before you get the chance to laugh, the man with the dirty blonde hair enters the room. He’s changed out of his dress shirt, sporting a freshly pressed t-shirt and joggers as he stands before the fourteen of you. He pushes his glasses further upon his face with his gloves, a fresh smile dancing across his face.

“Kids,” he says warmly, “dinner’s ready. You must be starving.”

The fourteen of you exchange cautious glances, silently ensuring that this would be okay. After all that has happened to you, you’ve learned better than to trust any hospitable stranger. Before anyone can think otherwise, however, Vernon stands up and begins treading towards the dining room door without hesitation.

“Alright,” Coups says, standing up, “I guess we’re eating.”

The man gestures the rest of you into the dining room, leaving you all in awe at such a sight. The moonlight rises steadily behind the room’s high, shining windows, and you find the table scattered with colorful light from the crystal chandelier. The table itself is a sight to behold, its varnished wooden surface extending down the entirety of the room to seat an entire classroom or two. Fine china is placed along each seat, porcelain teacups circling around the steaming hot food in the center.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I made a lot of different dishes.” The man stammers, as if his whole life relied on you all liking the meal.

“Thank you!” You grin, eyes trailing over the countless plates and bowls, “This is wonderful!”

“Oh, Vernon, look! Hamburgers, your favorite!” Joshua points out, hoping to get the boy to calm down.

Still, Vernon only seems to be more upset. “Yeah.”

All of you are quick to sit around the table, Mingyu taking place at the head. Soonyoung sits across from you, with Vernon to your left and Jihoon to your right.

“Sir, thank you for this meal! We’ll definitely enjoy this.” Seungcheol says gratefully.

“Oh, my pleasure!” The man laughs, waving off the thanks, “And please, call me Uncle!”

He takes a seat opposite from Mingyu, helping you all to load your plates. “Now is a perfect opportunity for me to explain a few things.”

You watch him intently, curious as to who he is and what his intentions truly are. Though Vernon knows more than he lets off, you can’t help but feel that you’ve finally ended up in a good place.

“I know that you were sent here by my old friend. I can’t go into much detail, but just know that we’re on your side.” He begins, smiling kindly at you all in turn. “You’re safe here. This town is a quiet one, and everyone tends to mind their business here. Because of this, you’ll be able to go outside safely, as long as you don’t stray too far.”

With this new knowledge, all fourteen of you freeze up in shock. You… You can go outside? He must be joking.

“All I ask is that you don’t enter my personal room or use any phones. I know you probably want to call home, but I’m sorry to say that phones are too easy to track. It’s safer this way.” As he continues to speak, his eyes trail carefully over to Vernon. The younger boy doesn’t return his stare, thoroughly chewing his food bite by bite. The stranger refrains a frown, but continues to speak regardless. “Ah, yes… If any of you are hurt, follow me and I can help you out.”

Mingyu glances down at the dried blood staining his dirty shirt. The man clears his throat, raising a green bottle to the air. You all look back up with overly eager eyes.

“By the way...” He continues, “Do any of you drink?”

Within the next half hour, you’re all slumped over your chairs.

A few bottles of wine and soju sit, scattered, about the tabletop. Some of the boys start playing drinking games while your side of the table quietly chats. You gently nudge your wine glass across the table and Minghao pours you more alcohol.

Watching the red liquid flow into the glass, you turn to Jihoon. “You don’t want any?”

“No thanks.” Jihoon mumbles, tired, “I don’t drink.”

“Bummer,” You mumble, taking a slow sip of your wine.

Next to you, Vernon tosses his head back as he gulps down a shot.

“Geez,” Mingyu mumbles, looking clearly worried. A long strip of cloth has been freshly wrapped around his stomach and shoulder, and the boy looks better than ever with a fresh new shirt and a cleaned up face. “Hansol... you okay?”

“Y-yup.” Vernon mutters, his words slurring, “Never better.”

You reach your hand out to stop the boy from taking another shot, until Soonyoung starts shouting from across the table. “Hey, you! Girl!”

Sighing, you turn to him in annoyance, “What?”

“Why are you-” Soonyoung hiccups. It’s clear that he’s much drunker than Hansol at this point, “Why did you have to ruin everything?”

“What?”

“Yes. You ruined everything. Nobody… Nobody listens to anything I say..”

“Soonyoung-”

“God, shut up! Let me talk. Before we met… met you, I had a say in everything.. But now, now everyone listens to you… You decide where we go, what we do. Why? I miss my friends… you took them- You...”

“Soonyoung.” Jihoon says warningly.

“Hmph, fine I get it- I hope you’re happy with your girlfriend. Running off and shit-”

Soonyoung’s head droops as he mumbles, eventually crashing onto the table as his eyes fall to a still close. You peer over to see that he’s fast asleep.

Feeling a tap on your shoulder, you turn to see Hansol, holding his shot glass in one hand and a bottle of soju in the other.

“Hey... wanna… wanna know a secret?” Vernon whispers, nudging your shoulder with his elbow.

“Hansol, you’re drunk.”

“Yeah. I am. But guess what?”

“Yeah, what?”

“That note I crushed into the snow- the address… I know it! I know it perfectly… It’s-”

You listen as Hansol lists off numbers to an address that you already know. He mutters the address to the same building that you’re sitting in, making you involuntarily laugh. As if caring for a small child, you softly take his shot glass away and pat his back. “Thank you for telling me. You should get some rest, alright?”

“Yeah, alright…” Hansol’s head falls softly into his folded arms and he quickly falls asleep.

“God.” Jihoon mutters, concern filling his face, “What’s up with him recently?”

At this, those still conscious turn to look at Hansol, softly snoring.

You’ve been wondering the exact same thing.

From then, time passed… so much faster than you could ever imagine.

A week went by without so much as a peep from any cult, not a single dark cloak in sight.

You continued to live a quiet life, visiting stores and taking walks on the roads despite everything you’d ever gone through. As the days passed, living hell turned into an oddly quiet vacation, one in which you all enjoyed without a s

Even though Vernon was acting strange, he wasn’t wrong when he said that this place was safe. You all went out for the first time, just to look around. At first, it was terrifying and you kept feeling the need to hide yourself. Over time, though, things got better. You fell into a nearly normal routine.

One morning, the chirping of the birds awake you. This is the first time in a long while that you’ve woken up to such a pretty sound. Stretching, you wash your hair and brush your teeth. After throwing on clean clothes, you run into the kitchen to look for Jihoon.

Last night, Seungcheol decided that we have to pay Uncle back in any way we can. We decided to help out around the house. Since Jihoon never chose a job to do, you decided to drag him along with your chores.

Since you couldn’t find him in the living room or kitchen, you decide to knock on the door to his room.

“Come in.”

Upon entering, you find Jihoon lounging on his bed, playing around with a small, wooden brain puzzle.

“What are you doing? Get up, we have to go.” You complain, dragging him to a stand.

“What? Where are we going?”

“Well, mostly everyone else is already doing something. The only chores left are grocery shopping and laundry. Which do you wanna do?”

Walking towards the bathroom, Jihoon waves his hand towards you, “I’m fine with either. I’ll get ready, you decide.”

“Hm, okay!”

- Do laundry with Woozi.

- Go grocery shopping with Woozi.

( Vote now on instagram.com/ificould_au. You have 24 hours. )

2 notes · View notes

thedistantstorm · 5 years

Text

Keep On Rising (Until The Sky Knows Your Name) 13

A story about how an orphaned Amanda Holliday comes to belong in the Last Safe City and the family she finds along the way.

(Or, the story of how Commander Zavala finds himself responsible for one Amanda Holliday.)

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12

This time: Zavala asks for another favor. Eva takes matters into her own hands.

Zavala is pacing. In the years that she has known him, Karena has never seen him anxious. It doesn’t have the humbling behind-the-scenes kind of appeal, or make him seem less of the immovable person that he’s always been, to see him this way now. Perhaps that’s because Zavala has always had this approachable, human aspect to him despite his stoic exterior. Now, in this light, she realizes that he holds himself together well. That he places his concerns for others before his own well-being.

Right now, she is the one who has to fight for him. He’d insisted they do this the right way, no matter how desperately he wanted to throw his weight around. It would only create serious drama, for them - Karena, the orphanage, and Zavala - as well as for Amanda, the innocent bystander caught in the middle of it all.

“I’m telling you,” She says, clipped into her comm, “Grace. Listen to me. I have an adopter. I have someone who will take the girl. I never even knew you’d been assigned to her. This is hardly fair to anyone, most of all her.”

The Commander turns back from the front window of the orphanage, his eyes narrowing on her features as the response comes. “Look. It’s almost always a twenty-one day window. You had more time than that, and the psychiatrist called me. That’s what they’re bound to do by civil law. As of yesterday at ten hundred hours, I became her guardian. She’s handicapped, therefore she comes to me. Honestly, you should have seen that coming, Karena. You’ve been doing this longer than me.”

The kindly matron scoffs. “I was with her prospective adopter, he was filling out the paperwork. I had planned to have this sorted, Grace. You should have waited for handoff. I can’t imagine it went over well with Amanda.”

“Yes, well, teary goodbyes would have gone over about as well as her little tantrum.” Grace’s voice is stern, not at all sweet like her nickname of Gracie. It’s for the best, as Karena never used it. “She thought the Tower’s hospital was the best this City had to offer. It’s sad, what these impoverished ones think.”

Karena looks over at Zavala, standing ramrod straight, watching the glow of the comms device underlight the woman’s face. He hides it well, but she sees the tic of his jaw in fury. “Her prospective adopter is military. The girl is likely terrified she won’t see him.”

“That’s strange, the only thing she’d say to the psychiatrist is that she refuses to be adopted. So I’m not sure who your mystery adopter is, but clearly-”

“She’s just saying that. We hadn’t told her yet. You know the amount of red tape there is.”

“I do. But you know our rules. I don’t make them. You’d have to talk to the governor of the orphanage. It’s not to me to bend them for you.”

“Oh bullshit,” Karena curses. “You and I both know that’s just a money-grab. Her prospective parent cannot tithe to New Monarchy. It’s a conflict of interest.”

“Well then they cannot be considered.”

“Just look over the application I sent you, Grace. I’m certain you’d change your mind.”

“You know I can’t.” She almost sounds remorseful, but it fades quickly. “This is the way it works. You know how it is. They’d strip me of my job in an instant. You need to remember how things work around here. It’s why you never made it out of that crummy little home.”

“I assure you,” Karena states firmly, looking over at Zavala and then back to the woman on the comms device, “That the location in which we do our work does not matter when the quality of care we provide comes not from physical resources but from the effort we put into raising our children. I have never thought it ethical to force prospective parents to pay for the opportunity. I’d rather they put their money into raising the child.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. If your prospective adopter changes their mind about New Monarchy, have them apply for the program. There’s only a four month wait for consideration to enter our foster-to-adopt program. I’m certain they’d match him with the right child.”

“Oh, you-”

The comms click and fall silent, the light on the screen fading.

“That bitch,” Karena swears, pushing the machine aside. “That wretched bitch.”

“I can talk to the Speaker,” Zavala finally says, after a few moments of even pacing through the small room. “Just as a temporary-”

“Absolutely not,” Shiori interjects, shimmering into the room, cones pointed in a serious pose. “You know you cannot sign up for New Monarchy. He would tell you the same. The Vanguard has a history of remaining neutral and supporting each faction equally. It would be a disaster.”

“Then what do I do, Shiori?”

Karena clasps her hands over her heart. The tone of his voice is heartbreaking, it’s clear he truly does not know how to proceed.

“You can’t jump on the New Monarchy bandwagon.” She shifts around, making sure to stay in his line of sight. “Zavala, it’s literally the thing Hideo has been waiting for. He’d capitalize on this.”

“I don’t think he’s that heartless.”

“Do you want to find out?” Shiori asks.

“I don’t care.”

Shiori waits him out, sees the clench of his fists, the heavier breaths. “Yes, you do. You know this could very well cause a faction war, if you’re not careful.”

“What about Amanda? I can’t imagine she’s faring well. They won’t even let non-backers volunteer.”

“Then we’ll get someone to back them,” The Ghost relents. “Just, sit, okay? You’re going to pace a hole in the floor.”

He drops into the chair across from the matron’s desk with a sigh. “Who do we ask?”

“Chin up, Guardian. We’ll figure it out.” Shiori turns to Karena. “You, too. I have an idea.”

In all her years, Eva has done plenty of outlandish things. Taken certain risks - in influencing fashion and in life in general. Most of them had paid off, been worth it. She'd been asked by plenty for help, and always given what she could give - maybe even more than, if she's honest.

But, this, she thinks, looking at Zavala, his glittering gaze dead serious and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes far more pronounced in his exhaustion, is not something she should have to agree to.

Not because she does not want to. He is not a man who asks for things for himself - this might be the most selfish thing he's ever asked for. He should not have to ask her for this.

And he knows it.

He tells her as much. But he is not above rules, he cannot act around them. He will not, even if he holds himself personally accountable for the very negative impact it has on the child.

His child, he very softly admits to her.

He will do it right, and he'll pay her. She simply has to help him get her back via the correct channels, he'll compensate her for her troubles, and for whatever funds New Monarchy demands of her.

She isn't interested in that and tells him call as much. She has never shied away from telling him the truth. "This is quite literally the most ridiculous series of hoops the factions have ever had you jump through."

"It can't be like this," He agrees. "I'm working on a proposal to change things." And, softer, "It's madness."

"It is, my friend." Zavala sighs at that. Eva does not like seeing him so hopeless. "But I'll do it."

For a moment, Eva thinks he's going to hug her, he looks so relieved. When he doesn't, she hugs him, anyway. He hugs her back and she wonders for a brief moment if perhaps there isn't something she could do to expedite the process.

She returns to the Tower North, slowing as she hears the Executor's voice, mellow and smooth. She has heard plenty of praise for him, and certainly a fair bit of criticism, but he has always been cordial to her. She wonders how much of this he knows about. The policies, the reasons… she's certain he's involved. But she's also certain there's a hidden eighth in his Seven Tenants, and that's to keep Commander Zavala on his good side.

It's certainly an outlandish move - Zavala will probably not be thrilled. Eva will take that risk and face the consequences, whatever they are. Waiting on a waitlist for months isn't going to help the issues happening right now. Amanda's well-being is at stake. Eva knows, just from their brief meeting, how fragile she is. It's how these few remaining refugees are, the things they've suffered and seen. Especially the children. They're terribly impressionable.

The Speaker, in his infinite wisdom, steps down from his observatory and bids her good afternoon, as if seeing her decide that action must be taken and trying to find the right method of delivery. He tilts his head to the side. "Is there something on your mind?" He queries.

Eva sighs, looking up into his mask. Her surprised smile melts into a frown. "Well, you see," She admits, just a touch louder than normal, "I've just heard the most terrible thing."

#destiny fanfiction #shipwright september #amanda holliday #commander zavala #eva levante #the speaker #new monarchy #thank the traveler for eva levante #doing the traveler's work #zavala is tower dad #that eighth tenant's a big one

5 notes · View notes

iisabclla-blog · 5 years

Text

queen isabella maria of france ! ﹙ a bed untouched and blankets on the windowseat, immaculate hair and porcelain skin, what have i done, what have i done? an untouched plate and an empty wine glass, books piled up on an unused bedside table, a plate of cherries, if only i had died too a worn bible with a small length of ribbon sewn into the cover, candles burned to quick, crescent-moon shaped cuts on the inside of a soft palm, black kirtle, black shawl, everything black ﹚

hi all !! sorry this is so loooong, i’m big into character development so once i got started i couldn’t stop ! i’m enna, i’m 21 and from pst. my pronouns are she/her !!

i have discord, so hmu if you want to contact me there, and if i’m online, i’m always available thru ims !! i’ve played isabella before a few times and she’s the angry-sad love of my life so i’m thrilled to bring her here !!

feel free to like this to plot. there are connection ideas at the bottom so please take a look and see if anything fits your muse and it might help us brainstorm something fun!

ⅰ. — statistics & appearance.

𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 — isabella maria

𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎 — queen of france

𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 — trastámara of spain

𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 — bella, but only by her favorite lady’s maid and closest friend

𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 — devoted to god

𝚊𝚐𝚎 / 𝚍𝚘𝚋 — twenty seven, born 23rd may

𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 — spanish

𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 — bisexual ; she’s aware of and has acted on her attraction to women in the past. although it is, naturally, a secret, she is not ashamed of her love for other women.

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 — female

𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜 — she/her

𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 — 5′4

𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚘𝚗 — her skin is soft, warm and blemish-free, a necessity in her station. she likes to keep her skin clean of any marks and pale, like a doll. she augments the warmth and softness of her features with sharp, simple jewelry & wardrobe choices, although notably she does not display her wealth through jewelry, and instead chooses simple and elegant designs over heavy and ornate

𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍 — she’s small and well-built, not skinny, but soft and with a certain amount of roundness to her. she has the typical feminine shape and a bit around her tummy, thighs, and arms

𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 — her voice is lovely and her accent is chocolatey, carefully schooled to be soft and convincing; when she’s angry, her voice becomes much louder and less delicate, slipping further into her accent

𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜 — she carries herself like her station, with an air of superiority: her chin is always held high and her neck long, her whole posture ramrod straight; she rarely smiles without coaxing these days, but when she does it’s usually warm and surprised, like she’s forgotten that she knows how to do that

ⅱ. — personality.

tw / miscarriage, depression, mentions of suicide

𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 — as a young girl, isabella was a more naive and patient thing. her family ties were strong, and her loyalty to her father & later her brothers was as unwavering as the moon’s rise and fall. she was raised a perfect princess ; educated, crisp, pious and penitent, faithful to the last and hopeful for the future.

𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 — after having lost all of her children thus far, isabella’s disposition has hardened, and her love and loyalty has started to chip away. she still acts a quiet, faithful and penitent wife, sewing her husband��s shirts and spending an hour or two in the chapel a day. beneath it all, however, is a boiling rage, born of shame, injustice and sadness that she cannot tame.

𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 — were she a more modern woman, she would hunt for sport and retire to a country house. the business of being queen sits heavily on her shoulders. suffering from depression and often times a passive narrative that her life has been wasted and will continue to be wasted, isabella is about as unhappy as any queen has a right to be. she bears it quietly and acts the part of pretty, perfect wife, although nearing closer and closer to her limit.

𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗 — although she was perhaps spoiled and too young when crowned, isabella has become known as a thoughtful, keen-witted and fair queen. remarkably thoughtful, every action and position she takes is well-informed and thought through; she is known for heeding evidence and admitting when she’s wrong. her favorite subjects to learn about are history and economy, and as such she’s done good things for trade and public infrastructure, making her relatively popular with the smaller towns and common people benefiting from her strategic work. she has come to love france, although she does not love governing, and consider its people hers.

𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 — although a haughty and strict mistress, isabella finds herself more and more drawn to common folk. it seems the servants are the only folk that show her empathy within the french borders.

𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 — depending on the person, isabella ranges from curtly polite to quietly warm ; she does not particularly enjoy french court, but she’s always polite and graceful. there can be no rest for her; although her home and a country she’s deeply proud of, france feels not unlike a claw trap closed tight around her ankle.

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜 — choleric, intelligent, bold, vindictive, poised, restless, fierce

𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗 — she no longer believes in god. her prayer is show, her piety is act, and if she did believe, the things she’d pray for would be any manner of blasphemy, treason and regicide.

ⅲ. — brief backstory.

— will be updated and changed with plotting and development; relationships with family and french royalty are purposefully left vague until plotted — tw / miscarriage, depression, mentions of suicide

born the middle princess and good for little but bargaining, isabella was spoiled and coddled by her governess from a young age. education, hope and foolish naïveté let her believe the future was wide and wild, that her betrothal was a thing she could become accustomed to, that her father could do no wrong, and that her brothers were blessed by the sun itself. she was looking forward to a life atop a throne with an endless library, travelling and dancing.. and children. happiness. old age and grandeur.

married life quickly disabused her of these childish notions. though she is its queen, she often feels trapped and cornered by france, by her marriage and her duty, willing her body through hatred and shame to do its damn job and provide one squealing shouting babe so she could point to it and say see, i am worth something, i am a princess of spain and i cannot be made less than i am — but an heir never came, and happiness never followed, and the years have made a bitter, hollow woman of one that was once bright and playful.

though miserable and often times wishing for a grave alongside her buried children, she forces herself to persevere through spite alone; she can think of many worthy things to fall to, but a failed marriage and shame are not worthy things to die over. instead she cultivates the anger over the sadness and tries as hard as she can to put herself back together in the wake of her collection of small tragedies.

her only solace is the repeated hope that one day she will be allowed a child she can keep and hold, the stories and poetry she finds among the pages and pages of the french library, and the art and music that calls france home as much as she has to. she keeps tokens of her lost children, even ones she knew for weeks alone. a small ribbon on her bible for the babe she birthed, and river stones for the ones she did not.

ⅳ. — connection ideas.

platonic —

closest friend, confidant ( future or current )

unlikely friendship ( preferably someone with an opposite personality )

earned trust & loyalty ( put some of that endless loyalty and hero worship she’s capable of to good use )

casual friendships, gossip partners, reading circle

political allies, spanish courtiers who she’s remained friends with, a younger noble/royal she’s vaguely maternal towards

negative —

hatred at first sight ( we all love drama )

enemy of france or spain, enemy of her brother or husband,

someone who’s been cruel to her ( french people who have been cruel to her )

someone who dislikes her backbone, rivals

almost lover turned sour

romantic —

formative young adult love ( can be m/f/nb, royalty or no, idc i just like angst )

forbidden temptation ( can be one-sided )

previous betrothals pre-marraige ( can ofc be negative and/or platonic )

an ex lady’s maid she was lowkey in love with

an ill-advised comfort hookup that she’s now avoiding

#thrones.intro #ⅲ. 𝖎𝖘𝖆𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖆 ♖﹙development.﹚#yikes this is.........long . i'll be around a lil longer if u wanna catch my discord and plot w me !

8 notes · View notes