#hundreds of thousands have died and all the while he lined his and his mates pockets

[lemonflavouredspatula]

he really just thanked his children when he doesn't even acknowledge how many he has LMAO

#the fastest exit from lockdown #he really is just spouting a load of shit right now isn't he bloody hell #just when i thought he couldn't be more delusional #i mean boasting about us having is truly not the take he thinks it is #he threw money at his mates to develop ppe other companies were willing to give away #he pushed the 'world beating track and trace system' that...didn't work #he pushed care home residents BACK into care homes WITHOUT tests and THOUSANDS died #he broke the rules he'd made by laughing and drinking wine and eating cheese behind our backs #when all of us were terrified to breathe near a relative just incase we were the catalyst #he laughed whilst saying 'let the bodies pile high' #hundreds of thousands have died and all the while he lined his and his mates pockets #so sure‚ maybe we came out of lockdown the quickest #but by percentage of population‚ we also buried the most bodies #put that in your pipe and smoke it you sleezy‚ mop haired slimeball #uk politics

[phantom-ellie]

Let Me Solo Him!: Volume I: Stede Bonnet's Precious Little Life

For Our Flag Means Death: Stede Bonnet returns to the Revenge only to discover that in order to win Ed's love, he must defeat all seven of Ed's pirate ex-boyfriends.

A Scott Pilgrim adaptation.

Rating: Mature, contains language and violence equal to what was seen in the original show, but no more than that.

There are a hundred different thoughts running through Stede Bonnet’s head as he comes upon his crew marooned on a tiny island.

There are five-hundred thoughts running through his head as he pulls a waterlogged Lucius out of the sea into his overloaded dinghy. There are a thousand thoughts running through his head as his crew lures and overpowers a fishing trawler. There are a million thoughts as they, somehow, catch up with the Revenge a week later. A billion thoughts as he (more deftly now) climbs the ladder leading to his home.

There are a trillion thoughts running through Stede Bonnet’s head when he sees the Dread Pirate Blackbeard.

The thoughts are as follows:

ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU

Stede knows that he is a loser. He knows that he is merely adequate. He knows that there’s a strong chance he’ll get a sword in the gut, a shot in the face. Rejected. Banished. Or worse, ignored.

But at this moment, he has a trillion other things on his mind.

So he gazes at Blackbeard, the love of his life, in those soft eyes (anyone else would say his eyes are hard right now, but Stede is prone to delusion). He thinks those trillions of thoughts with all his might. He opens his mouth to make his speech. To apologize. To make excuses. To beg to be heard out.

What comes out is this:

“I love you, Ed. Oh fuck, do I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’m back, and I. I just had to tell you how much. How much I love you. Because I do. Love you. A lot. That’s how much. For the record.”

Stede grimaces a bit and tilts his head down in embarrassment, because that was not as eloquent as he intended it to be.

Blackbeard doesn’t move or say a word, so Stede looks at the floor and adds, “You can stab me in the face now.”

Stede Bonnet. 47 years old. Rating: Adequate.

And while there are a million ways this scene could go in a million other universes, this is how it goes in this one:

Blackbeard, Dread Pirate and terror to all, strides up to Stede Bonnet, wraps his arms around him, and kisses him like he’s gulping from a keg.

Edward Teach. Dread Pirate Blackbeard. 45 years old. Rating: The One.

Stede grunts and Ed sighs and mutters, “oh fuck” as he takes breaths in between kissing, and it only ends when Lucius swats Stede on the back of his legs to get him to move away from the goddamn ladder so the rest of them can board.

“Okay! We get it! I don’t want to be on the fucking water anymore, move already!” he hisses.

Stede and Ed shuffle a bit over and keep going with their makeout sesh, and the rest of the crew comes home.

Yep, it’s that easy. Reunion achieved. No problem.

“How’s that for a face stabbing, hunk?” Ed smiles and gropes Stede on the ass. Stede jumps.

“Ed! It’s the nicest face stabbing I’ve ever had.” Stede pulls away and smiles at his love with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I fucking love you too, by the way, you fuck.” Another kiss, and Ed grabs at Stede’s shirt in order to pull him closer, though that’s physically impossible.

Stede giggles. His cheeks are covered in kohl. “Glad to hear it, because I’m all yours.”

And time stops for them as they have their big moment. On the periphery they hear some vague groans, maybe some yelling and arguing, but nobody is able to burst their bubble, not now.

No one, not even-

“-you fucking fucks coming back here to fuck with… to make him… aaaaugh!”

Izzy Hands. Loser First Mate. 52 years old. Rating: Angry/Fecker.

Ed and Stede completely tune out Izzy’s ranting. Unfortunately, the rest of the crew must deal with it. They line up to form a wall in front of their disgustingly sappy cappies (with the exception of Olu and Jim, who are having their own face-stabbing competition off to the side). Fang and Ivan (who have quickly decided where their bread is buttered) hold Izzy by the collar as he waves his limbs around and spits.

“Oh, calm down, Jizzy!” Lucius taunts. “You’re the antagonist. You never win. Can’t you just let love overcome all, just this once?”

Lucius Spriggs. Scribe/Gay Life Coach. 28 years old. Rating: 6.5 but carries self like a 9.

“You’ve ruined Blackbeard,’ Izzy spits.

“Yeah, so the fuck what? You don’t have to be such a dick about it!”

Eventually Frenchie taps Olu on the shoulder to ask him to tap Stede on the shoulder so they can work out what is happening next.

Upon the interruption, Stede sighs, grabs Ed’s hand, and turns to address the crew.

“I’m in love with this man!” Stede yells, squeezing Ed’s hand as a flock of spooked seagulls take off from the ship in shock.

“Yeah, we can fuckin’ tell!” Jim yells back while Roach and Frenchie trade off dog whistling in the background.

Ed pipes up. “We’re gonna be co-captains now, and if you don’t want to be on this crew, you can take the fuckin’ dinghy and go! Got it?”

“Wait. Is it really that simple?” asks Black Pete.

“Yes!” Ed and Stede bellow back.

“We’re not going to talk it through?” asks the Swede.

Stede bits his lower lip. “Well, we didn’t say that! It’s just…” Stede looks at Ed, and then back at the crew, “It’s been a long journey, all right? And some of us need to… go lie down. In our quarters. For hopefully several hours. And maybe the rest of the night.”

“Fuck yeah we do,” Ed adds.

“What do we do with the feral one?” Roach points a knife at Izzy, who angrily jerks his face back.

Ed laughs. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about Iz. He won’t interfere in my new relationship. Right, Iz?” He raises his eyebrows and gives his first mate a pointed look.

There’s a momentary pause as everyone holds their breath.

Izzy sighs. “No. No point now. Probably won’t last the week anyway.” The crew cheers.

Ivan frowns. “You mean because of the c-?”

“Stuff it, Ivan,” Izzy hisses back. “And fuckin’ let me go. I have a job to do. As do all of you lot.”

The crew of the Revenge groans.

“What, we can’t have a homecoming party?” Frenchie asks.

“No! This is a ship, not a tavern! Get to work!”

At this point the crew remembers that Ed threw out all their party gear anyway, so there’s no point in trying. They get to work (or their sad approximation of what they think work maybe looks like) and things return to normal surprisingly fast.

Suspiciously fast.

But Stede isn’t thinking about that yet, not with his back shoved against the door to the captain’s quarters and Ed’s head shoved up his shirt as he nibbles at Stede’s nipples. It’s very distracting. So distracting that it takes Stede about four minutes to notice something off about the room.

“Ed. Ed!”

“Mmmhpph?”

“Did you redecorate!?”

Ed pulls his head out from under Stede’s billowy shirt and looks around.

“Um… yeah… you could say… that. I… well, you know, I’m Blackbeard. Gotta maintain the… you know. Image. Or whatever. And stuff.”

Stede grimaces. “Well, it definitely fits the vibe. But it’s also uncomfortable? Where did you store my things? We can bring some of it out at least.”

Ed scratches the back of his head. “Well, you see, storage space isn’t really a thing out here.”

Stede laughs. “Don’t I know it, I had to stuff my pillows with tea bags instead of feathers on my fishing boat.”

“Yeah… that’s… Well, it’s just that… we decided to store your things in… the ocean?”

Stede scrunches up his face. “The ocean? Ed, my books are made of paper. They couldn’t last in the ocean!”

“That was kind of the point,” Ed replies through clenched teeth.

Stede puts his hands on his hips. “You are going to have to do a lot of nipple-licking to make up for this one, Mister!”

“Well, that isn’t much of a punishment, I’m happy to- wait. What the fuck, Stede?”

And that’s the point where Ed remembers how mad he is at Stede Bonnet.

By the time they’re done talking it through, Stede is the one with his teeth on Ed’s nipples. And it’s at that point he has a revelation and sits up.

“Ed.”

“Stede?”

“This was too easy, wasn’t it? Why did Izzy give in so quickly?”

Ed crosses his arms behind his head. “Oh, don’t worry about that, mate.”

Stede draws his mouth into a line. “He must be plotting something.”

“Seriously, it’s fine. He’s fine.”

“How do you know?”

Ed chuckles. “Izzy doesn’t break up my relationships.”

“Ed, he tried to kill me several times! He sold us out to the English!”

“Pfft, we weren’t in a relationship then. Different now.”

“Why is it different?”

Ed blows a raspberry. “It’s not a big deal, man, come back down here and give me a damn apology hickey.”

Stede does go back down there to give Ed an apology hickey. He mutters something into Ed’s neck.

“What’s that, love?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do for story time.”

Ed starts laughing. He fucking loves this fucker, so fucking much.

At story time, Stede takes his position on the capstan with a stack of parchment. He’s decided to tell the story of his life back in Barbados, and of course one needs illustrations.

Ed is glad he’s already seen them, because he has a separate task to complete tonight. He heads to the wheel to find Izzy.

“Captain,” Izzy says through clenched teeth.

“Iz,” Ed replies, “You have to promise to be good.”

Izzy turns to Ed and glares. “Of course I’ll be good. I’m always good!”

Ed moves in front of Izzy’s line of sight and leans forward. “No, really. This time, be good. Seriously.”

Izzy sputters. “When have I not been good about this, Edward?”

“I don’t know, Iz, every fucking time? You promise to be good?”

“Yes, I’ll be fucking good, you twat.” Izzy sighs. “Enjoy the time you have with that shithead, he isn’t going to last like the others.”

Ed steps forward threateningly. “This isn’t being good.”

“I’m good! I’ll fucking be good! I promise.” Izzy shakes his head. “Have you even told him yet?”

Ed shuffles nervously. “I’ll get around to it.”

“Well, I’m not gonna do it. This is on you.”

Ed has nothing to say to that, so heads back down to story time as Stede holds up a crude sketch of his former home.

“And this is where it all happened,” he says with a smile.

“Oooh,” the crew replies.

He’s so soft. He’s so gentle. Ed is terrified he won’t make it. He has to tell him.

---

Dearest Mary,

I don’t know if I will ever be able to send this letter, but I hope that you will one day read this. We need to set up a reliable method of communication! I was thinking seagulls. Consider it. Anyway, I have met back up with Ed, the love of my life. He loves me as well! I predict nothing but smooth sailing in the future for us.

Your friend, “Steve Bucket”

“Steve Bucket?” Ed asks, looking at the letter over Stede’s shoulder.

“They’ll never know it was me.”

“Whatever you say.” Ed looks around the empty captain’s quarters. “You think we could light a fire or something? It’s fucking freezing in here.”

“Oh, I can help with that!” Stede perks up. “Look what I brought over!” He holds up a sack.

“What is it, mate?”

“The tea! I kept it in this pillowcase.” Stede dumps the contents onto the table. There are hundreds of small bags. “I can make us some, if you want.”

“Uh… what flavors do you have?”

“Let’s see, there’s Blueberry, Raspberry, Ginseng, Sleepytime, Green Tea, Green Tea with Lemon, Green Tea with Lemon and Honey, Vanilla Almond, White Truffle…”

Ed watches Stede sort out the various baggies. He needs to tell him. He really needs to tell him. Stede is so adorable, and he has to know, if he’ll only stop being so fucking-

“...Decaf Vanilla Walnut, and Earl Grey!” Stede takes a deep breath and gives Ed a toothy grin.

Fuck. Ed’s heart can’t take it.

“You got any pot in those baggies?”

“What? Ed, you don’t put a pot in tea, you put tea in a pot!”

Ed shakes his head. “Nevermind. Maybe we can… turn in for the day? I saved some of your blankets.” They both look at the bed, then back at each other.

“Ah, the bed.” Stede says to fill the silence.

“Yep,” Ed replies.

“Should we… I mean, since we’re in love…”

Ed smirks. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Right.” Stede gets up and starts scooping the bags back into the pillowcase and sets it at the head of the bed. “There we go.” They take off their boots in awkward silence.

Ed smirks and slides under the covers, and Stede follows him with some hesitation.

“Fuck, Stede! Why are your feet so cold?”

“I’m sorry! I’ve been rowing! On the ocean! For days!”

“Is that why your biceps are so big now? They’re like fucking meerkats.”

“What is a meerkat?”

“You wanna have sex?”

“Edward!”

“Just kiddin’ man. We can cuddle.”

“Just… stay still and let me hold you.”

Ed sniffs. Nobody has ever offered to hold him before.

He’ll tell him tomorrow. Probably.

---

Warm, comfortable, and content.

That’s how Stede feels when he awakes with Ed’s face buried in his neck. He sighs happily. He didn’t realize it could feel like this. He stares out at the dark cabin and starts planning The Redecoration™. He understands that Ed has his own tastes, but come on. It’s so dark. There are shadows everywhere, so many shadows.

One of the shadows is moving.

It’s the shadow of a man, tall and slender, and Stede knows he should be panicking, but he doesn’t feel afraid. He still has Ed in his arms. Smooth sailing, dammit.

He still doesn’t feel any fear when the shadow starts whispering to him.

“You.” The shadowy man points at Stede’s face.

Hasn’t anyone taught him that it’s rude to point?!

“Who are you? Get out of my cabin! We’re busy.” Stede glares at the intruder.

“It has come to my attention that we’ll be fighting soon…” the shadow chuckles.

“Is that some kind of… weird threat? What is your deal, mate?”

“Consider this fair warning…” The shadow backs away into a corner.

“Ugh, whatever!” Stede just can’t be bothered with this right now.

Wait, why can’t he be bothered? Why is he so brave, all of a sudden? Is this some kind of…

Stede opens his eyes. Morning light shines through the window beside him, and his bed is otherwise empty.

“Ed?” he asks out at the room, and climbs out of bed, rubbing his eyes.

“Over here, love! I made breakfast!”

“You did?”

“No! Roach made breakfast.”

A shitty little table with some shitty little chairs has been brought over from the other vessel. Stede sits down excitedly as Ed comes out of the bathroom.

“Wow! You made breakfast!”

“I told you, I had Roach make it.”

Stede waves his hand away, “It was your idea, so you deserve all of the credit.”

They tuck in, giggling about nothing and making plans, only interrupted by the arrival of Buttons.

“Olivia has brought ye something, Cap’n.” He hands Stede what looks to be a crude bit of cloth.

Stede unfolds the cloth. “It’s a… flag?”

Pirate flag with a dagger, skull, and heart on it.

Stede looks up at Buttons. “What does the flag mean?”

“A bad omen, methinks. Sum’n meant te harm ye.”

Stede scrunches up his face. “People want to harm me all of the time! Who cares?”

Ed looks up at Buttons. “That’s Charles Vane’s flag.” Buttons just stares back at him with those wide, creepy eyes.

“Well someone should tell this ‘Charles Vane’ that his flag is shit and derivative! I mean, a skull? A knife? Where’s the oomph?” Stede tosses it onto his empty plate and stands. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment thinking of even better insults for this flag, and I need Lucius to write them down.” He leaves the room.

Ed sighs and picks at his plate. Here we fucking go.

Stede confidently strides towards the deck, searching for Lucius.

“You’re making a mistake,” Izzy’s graveling voice comes out from behind him.

Stede sighs and turns around. “Oh, what is it this time, Iggy? Don’t you need to be doing whatever a first mate does?”

Izzy narrows his eyes. “How do you still not…? You know what, no, no distractions. You shouldn’t be with Edward, Bonnet. It’s a mistake.”

“Hah!” Stede pumps his fist. “I knew you didn’t accept our relationship! That’s the Iggy we all know and love!”

Izzy’s mouth pops open on its own, and he has to use his hand to push it closed.

“L-love… what?”

Stede waves his hand. “Oh, you know, it’s your thing. Your bit. Your entire personality is defined by Edward and my relationship with him. You know?”

“I-” Izzy stops to think. “N-no it isn’t.”

Stede holds out his hands. “It’s okay, Izzy! You’re the antagonist, like Lucius said, and when you antagonize me it just reinforces that I am the protagonist. You see? You’re doing me a real favor here, mate!”

“You’re the p- No you fuckin’ aren’t. Edward is-”

“You antagonize him too! It’s great! Now what were we… oh yeah! I’m not going to leave Edward, Izzy, no matter what you do!” Stede gives Izzy an obnoxious toothy grin.

“Look, you insufferable asshole, if you want to be in a relationship with Ed you have to-”

“I know exactly what I need to do, Izzy.” Stede winks at him.

Izzy looks skeptical. “Y-you do?”

“Yup! I’ve read several books on the matter! With pictures.” Stede strides away confidently.

“Fuckin… I need to forget the last ten minutes of my life,” Izzy turns around to go raid the ale stash.

“Buttons, how did you get up here?” Stede looks around and then back at his bosun, who somehow made it on deck before Stede did.

“I have my ways, cap’n.” If his ways are, ‘walking right past Stede, who never notices anything around him when he’s busy talking about himself,’ he doesn’t share it.

Stede joins him. “Any news?”

“Aye,” Buttons hands over the telescope. “The Ranger, I’m thinkin’.”

Stede can see a ship through the telescope. “The Ranger. Should I know what one? Is it dangerous?” When Stede doesn’t hear an answer, he puts the scope down and looks over at Buttons, who has been holding his shoulders up in a shrug the entire time.

“Right.” Stede hands the telescope back. “Well, keep me posted.”

Meanwhile, having brought over all of the rum, the crew of the Revenge is getting toasted.

“If I’m just going to be a background character, I might as well be a drunk background character,” says the Swede, leaning against Wee John, who burps.

“It’s not that bad man,” says Frenchie, “Especially when you’re the comic relief! You’re practically immortal.”

“Yeah, but the Captain gets different outfits. Why don’t we get different outfits?” The Swede takes another swig of rum.

“Blackbeard threw all of his clothes out, remember? Now we all have one outfit,” Olu says, flipping the ‘It has been ___ days since Olu prevented a mutiny’ sign back to zero.

“Yeah! Equality!” Roach clinks his rum bottle against Jim’s, who scowls and pulls away at the contact.

Black Pete sighs. “I think Izzy is copying my style, babe.”

Lucius looks him up and down. “That’s a nice thought, babe, you should definitely confront him about that.”

“I… totally will, I’ll confront him so hard, only, only later.” Pete lays down on his back, bottle still in hand. “Have to finish my drink first, you know. Only fair.”

“Cheers!” The crew drunkenly raise their bottles, and within the hour they are completely plastered.

That’s how Charles Vane finds them after his dinghy reaches the ship.

“What the fuck?” He asks out loud, stepping over Wee John’s arm and barely missing Frenchie’s head. “Which one of you is Stede Bonnet?”

Charles Vane. Pirate ex boyfriend #1. 34 years old. Rating: Bad posture, smells like beef.

“Oh, hi! That would be me!” Stede walks out of the captain’s quarters with Ed trailing behind him. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Yeah, I’ve fucking heard of you.” Vane draws his sword and smirks. “Consider our fight… begun!”

“Wait, what?”

Vane charges at Stede, who flails around wildly.

“Stede! Here,” Ed holds out his sword, which Stede grabs without a thought.

“Thanks dear! It’s just… what?” He blocks Vane’s attack. “Who the hell are you?”

“You fucking know who I am! You’ve obviously prepared for this fight!” Vane retorts, thrusting his sword at Stede, who somehow manages to avoid his attacks.

“I really- Really now, can’t we just talk- Seriously, this is my only shirt! Ed!”

“Sorry love, you have to take this one,” Ed says sheepishly. “I believe in you, man!”

“Ed! We’ll talk about this later!” Stede says with a scowl, running to use the capstan as a barrier between him and his assailant. “Seriously, man, who the hell are you?”

Vane scrunches up his nose while going in for the attack. “Seriously? I’m Charles Vane!”

“Who the fuck is Charles Vane?” Stede yelps as he swings his sword like a baseball bat, knocking into Vane’s and sending it flying over the railing into the ocean.

Vane stomps his foot furiously. “Charles Vane? Blackbeard’s pirate ex-boyfriend?”

Instead of pressing the attack, Stede puts his hands on his hips. “Ed’s ex-pirate boyfriend?”

Vane holds up his hands in frustration. “No! Not ex-pirate boyfriend! I’m still a pirate! I’m his ex-boyfriend.”

“Cap’n!” calls Buttons from the wheel. “I think this is the guy who means ye harm!”

“Thanks, Buttons!”

“And what kind of pirate outfit is that anyway?” Charles holds out a hand towards Stede. “Are you some kind of fop?”

Stede narrows his eyes and flings his own sword overboard. “Fops are in this year!”

“What the fuck, Stede? That was mine!” Ed yells from the other side of the deck.

“Sorry honey buns!” Stede rushes Charles and they grab each other’s palms, pushing against each other angrily.

“Ed! Is this guy really your ex?” Stede spits out.

Charles smiles. He is missing several teeth. “You’ve got a massive pair of arms there, man. Seriously, you’re fucking strong. Absolutely ginormous guns.”

“Thanks. I did a lot of rowing, for like, three days.”

“Wow.” They release each other’s hands and start punching instead.

Ed calls out from the door to his quarters. “So like, anyway, about 20 years ago, Charles and I were together on Hornigold’s ship!”

Stede grunts as he bitch-slaps Charles across the eyes. “That’s nice, darling! Maybe you can give the exposition later?”

“I’m bored, man!”

“You could help!”

“I can’t! I really can’t! Anyway, Charles was my first real boyfriend!”

“Until he dumped me!” Charles growls, grabbing Stede by the shirt and slamming him against the capstan.

“Fuck! Ow! Why?” Stede lands another punch on the side of Charles’s face.

Ed cups his mouth in his hands and shouts. “We’d been dating for a whole week! I had ADHD! I moved the fuck on, man!”

Stede gets his hands around Charles’s throat and attempts to crush his windpipe. “Edward Abernathy Teach, if you expect this relationship to last only a week, you have a lot to learn.” He groans and hunches over as Charles knees him in the crotch. “Nnngh… Fuck off, I want to use that later!”

“Uh… boss?” Roach tug’s at Stede’s sleeve.

“Little busy, Roach!” Stede headbutts Charles and follows it with a right hook to the jaw.

“I think you’re gonna need some… help?”

Stede looks up and loses his grip on Charles as more pirates scramble over the ladder onto the deck of the Revenge.

Stede looks over at his love. “Ed! Did you seriously date all these guys?”

“No!” Ed squints at a few of them. “I’m pretty sure… no, that was just a handy. No, no other exes here!”

“Don’t worry Captain, we’ve got your back.” Stede turns around as his crew drunkenly staggers to their feet. Stede smiles and returns his gaze to Charles, who is now back with his own crew.

Stede raises his fist in encouragement. “Crew of the Revenge! You have my permission to choose your mark and fuck them up!”

“Aaaaaaaah!” The two crews run at each other screaming at the top of their lungs. Roach dodges a club and lands his cleaver in his enemy’s crotch. Black Pete gets in a slap fight while Lucius jumps on the enemy pirate’s back and tries to jam his wooden finger in his eye. A pirate raises his fist to take on Buttons, but takes one look at the sharp teeth aiming for his throat before he launches himself overboard.

Izzy stands off to the side with his arms crossed next to Ed, whose face flashes between expressions of excitement and nerves.

Stede has his eyes on only one man.

Pirate Ex-boyfriend #1.

CHARLES: You’d give up now, if you’d half a brain.

Charles punches his fist into his own hand threateningly.

STEDE: I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint, Vane.

Stede mimes slitting his own throat before pointing at the enemy.

CHARLES: I’m Blackbeard’s true love, you’re just an imposter!

He runs at Stede, fists at the ready.

Stede huffs.

STEDE: You don’t stand a chance, with that dogshit posture!

“Wait, what?” Charles stops and looks down at his body. “What’s wrong with my posture? I thought it was fine.”

Stede holds out a hand. “You’re always sticking one shoulder up, it’ll fuck up your spine!”

Charles crosses his arms. “Ed doesn’t care about that sort of thing.”

STEDE: Of all Ed doesn’t care about, you are the king!

CHARLES: Ouch?

And with that Stede launches himself into the hair and brings both of his fists down on Charles’s head, hard.

Charles sinks to his knees and looks up at Stede in horror.

“This is impossible! You’re the world’s worst pirate!”

Stede smiles and shows his right bicep. “Take a look at this gun, and weep as I fire it.”

And with that he winds his arm around and smashes Charles on the jaw so hard he flies back three feet and lands with a thud.

Stede wipes his hands off with a smug smile.

“Stede!” Ed looks around at the mess before him. “Stede! Steeeeeede!”

“What?” Stede looks around, too. “Oh, bother. Crew of The Ranger, would you be so kind as to pick up after yourselves as you exit? It’s awfully unbecoming out here at the moment.” He grimaces at the blood pooling around Charles Vane.

“Yeah, no problem,” one of the pirates hoists Vane up on his shoulders. “We’re gettin’ to be old hats at this, hahaha!”

“Stede! I can’t! Stede.” Ed holds out his hands and Stede walks into them, pulling Ed in for a kiss.

“Darling,” Stede whispers into Ed’s ear. “Sugar. Honey. Sweet cheeks. What in the ever-loving hell was that?” He steps back and puts his hands on his hips.

“Oh, uh.” Ed refuses to meet his eyes. “It’s, uh. Just. You know.”

“You’re going to have to be a bit clearer, because I really don’t know.”

Izzy sighs and steps forward. “It’s the curse of Blackbeard, you idiot.” He pushes past the captains to start yelling at the crews of the Ranger and the Revenge to clean everything up, already.

Stede frowns and looks at Ed. “A… curse? Are you really cursed?”

Ed gives Stede the biggest doe-eyes he can muster. “Yeeeeah. I should have mentioned that at some point. Probably.”

“What kind of curse?”

Ed sighs. “Oh. You know. Set sail in the Bermuda Triangle one too many times and anything can happen. All kinds of curses.”

Stede crosses his arms. “And the curse of Blackbeard?”

“Yftafughtmepirtexbofins.”

“Come again?”

“You have to defeat my pirate ex-boyfriends!” Ed practically shouts.

Stede frowns again and holds out his arms. “Why?”

Ed shrugs. “I don’t know, man, I don’t make the rules! But if we’re going to really be together, you have to defeat everyone who came before you.”

“Everyone? Really?”

Ed nods, doing his best approximation of a pout.

Stede crosses his arms. “And how many is that? I mean, knowing you, it’s probably… hundreds.” He looks dejected.

“Oh, no, mate. It’s nothing like that. I mean, if it was just people I bent over a barrel, sure,” Ed clears his throat, “but boyfriends? I’ve only had…” Ed counts on his fingers, momentarily distracted by Vane being hauled over the side of the ship onto the dinghy like a sack of potatoes. “Well, after that guy, I think you’ve got six. More.”

“Seven? I have to defeat seven guys?”

“More or less.”

“Hey, tontos!” Jim yells from the deck where they had been sitting. “That is my quest! The Siete Gallos! You can’t copy my quest!”

Jim Jimenez. ??? What is their job? How old are they? Rating: I really need to have more bonding time with the crew, don't I.

“Hey, Jim, it’s okay! More than one person on this ship can have a quest to defeat seven guys.” Olu gives Stede a thumbs-up. “Besides, you’ve offed what, two of them? You’re already ahead! You could, I don’t know, race?”

Stede smiles and rubs his hand together. “Friendly competition, eh? Stede and Jim, the quest for Revenge!”

Jim shrugs. “Yeah, all right. I guess. But I’m gonna win.”

“That’s the spirit!” Stede replies. “I think I have a good chance to beat you, though! Nobody approaches a challenge with as much spunk as I do.”

“Oh my god.” Lucius leans over the edge of the ship as if he’s preparing to hurl.

Ed claps Stede on the back. “I’m sure you’ll do great, man. It’s really not a big deal. You clobbered ol’ Charlie there, that’s for sure.”

Stede’s ears turn pink and he looks sheepish. “Thanks.”

“It was pretty hot.”

Stede lifts a finger to one of his curls and twirls it. “You think so?”

“Yeah, mate. These guns aren’t just for show, are they?” He squeezes Stede’s arm.

“No, and that’s not the only heat I’m packing, either,” Stede smiles goofily at Ed as he makes for the Captain’s quarters.

The bottom of Ed’s brain drops out. “R-really?” He begins to follow.

“Nope! Apparently I have great legs, too! Buttons was just telling me the other day, he said they’re like a bird’s legs, and that’s a good…” The couple descends into their shared quarters, nipples at the ready for another licking.

Ignacio awakens to the sound of shuffling in the shack behind him. He rubs his eyes. The sun hasn’t yet risen in New Providence.

“Eh? Why are you up so early, jefe?” In response, a shirt comes flying out the door and onto Ignacio’s head.

“Get dressed.” His boss’s rough voice sounds from the shack. “I have something I need to do.”

Ignacio pulls the shirt on, covering his rooster tattoo. The biggest regret of his life. He’s done with them, the Gallos, and has been for a long time now. He’s going clean, going straight. He’s hitched his wagon to an important man.

El jefe exits the shack and throws a rucksack over his shoulder. His eyes peer out at the ocean. He waits.

“If Blackbeard thinks that my brothers were bad… he won’t be prepared for the worst.”

Ignacio looks around. “Who are you talking to, boss?”

“No one. I just like being foreboding, I told you.” El jefe walks towards the port without another glance behind him.

The Revenge is in the harbor, and a quest for vengeance is upon them both.

#ellie lmsh #ellie golden age #ofmd crack #stede bonnet #cross posted on ao3 #ofmd fanfic #our flag means death fanfic #scott pilgrim #stede x ed #gentlebeard #blackbonnet #rating: mature

[wickedpact]

Idea for a JoexNicky fic!! (anon here)- piggybacking off the other anon's nicky's mom idea, what if for an anniversary present, Joe sketches a portrait of Nicky's mother? (obviously she'd look like a beautiful warm goddess of kindness) Like maybe he has a dream of one of Nicky's most vivid memories ;-; I would literally die

so uh. this bloomed wildly out of my control

this ficlet is 5k words long so dont open that read more unless youre willing to commit to it

warnings: brief discussions of violence, extremely brief mention of sex, me not knowing how the FUCK one becomes a priest in Ye Olde 1000′s, and probably a criminal lack of historical accuracy as well as a criminal lack of the accented o in ‘nicolo’

yeehaw.

  It starts with one of Andromache’s sparring sessions, and of course by ‘sparring’ session Nicolo means a session in which Andromache was in a piss poor mood for no obvious reason, and decided to take it out on the rest of them.

 These sessions tend to start with Andromache coming hurtling into their camp with a dark expression on her face, and end with Yusuf and Nicolo sprawled on the ground, bruised and exhausted, while Andromache and Quynh beat the ever-loving hell out of each other nearby. (Yusuf has been convinced for a long time that it's some sort of mating ritual; Nicolo... doubts it.)

This time around, they are at some point after Nicolo has given up, and some point before Yusuf has joined him; Nicolo lies on the sand, starfished, while Quynh and Yusuf attempt to tag team Andromache with an abundance of vigor and middling results. Nicolo cranes his neck to watch the spectacle, catching a glimpse of Andromache flipping Quynh straight over her shoulder before twisting around and kicking Yusuf dangerously close to the groin. Yusuf stumbles, and Andromache grabs him by the shoulder, shoving his considerable weight off of his feet and towards Nicolo’s resting spot.

Yusuf, stumbling, manages to not trip over Nicolo by inches, and falls face-first onto the ground beside him with a groan. Meanwhile, Quynh has recovered and charges at Andy again, beginning their age-old dance yet again.

Yusuf grumbles at Nicolo’s side and peels himself off the ground, leveraging onto a knee. Nicolo drops his head back down to look at him, smiling when he swipes a hand across his beard to dislodge the sand accumulating there. Having been roasting under the midday sun and the excursion of the fight for hours now, Yusuf is layered in sweat and breathing heavily but evenly, chest and shoulders heaving slowly with each breath. Nicolo’s mouth goes crooked watching him.

“She doesn’t attack still targets,” he advises, amused, lying still atop the sand.

“Like a lioness!” Yusuf agrees with a zest Nicolo lost about thirteen minutes ago. He pulls himself onto both knees and balances on them, wavering in a way that makes Nicolo want to give him a steadying hand. “Hm.” Yusuf braces a hand on his thigh, face scrunching up in consideration. “No. I don’t think so.”

And then he plops, face first, back to the sand. Nicolo gives him an encouraging pat on the back with his knuckles.

“Are you two giving up?” Andromache calls over. Nicolo cranes his head up again to see that Quynh is on the ground yet again, slowly stumbling to her feet, and Andromache stands with her back to her, facing them. Her hands are on her hips.

“Yes. Thank you for checking in!” Nicolo confirms, lifting a hand to give her a thumbs up. Andromache responds to the sass with a raised eyebrow before whirling around and punching Quynh in the stomach before the younger immortal could sneak up on her.

Quynh goes down for the-- who knows how many times now, and Nicolo drops his head. He squints up at the wavering blue lines of the sky until Andromache’s white robes cross his vision, casting a shadow over his and Yusuf’s resting forms.

“Get up,” Andromache insists, nudging Nicolo with her boot. “I’m not done with you two yet.”

“You can’t make us,” Yusuf grumbles into the sand.

“You bet I can’t?” Andromache threatens, more a tease than a promise. When neither of them reply, she rolls her eyes and says, with a less than gentle kick to Yusuf’s side, “You babies are so soft.”

Yusuf hisses, rolling away from Andromache’s boot, into Nicolo’s side. “Son of a whore, Andromache, knock it off,” he grouches, dropping his shoulder atop Nicolo’s. Nicolo grunts with the weight of it. “Or daughter of a whore, that is,” he corrects himself, then adds thoughtfully, “No offense to your mother, if she were a woman of the night. What did your mother do, Andromache?”

Andromache laughs at Yusuf’s meandering insult-- a posturing bluster of a laugh that makes Nicolo blink, wondering if Yusuf’s actually offended her somehow. If so this would be the first time; Nicolo has always known Andromache to be thicker skinned than a mule.

But then she says, “I don’t remember my mother. Who knows,” and turns and heads back over to Quynh, who’s only just recovered from before. They resume sparring, Nicolo watching them with mild confusion.

Nicolo turns to look at Yusuf, wondering if he’d caught onto Andromache’s discomfort, but when Nicolo catches his eye, he just shrugs his shoulder against the sand and says, “Well, that’s a line that’ll end an argument every time, eh?”

~

Later on, Nicolo is still considering it, sprawled in front of the fire --that Quynh had constructed a couple hours prior-- with Yusuf, Nicolo slouched against his chest and bracketed by his bent knees. Andromache and Quynh are arguing over the linen tent a little ways off, and Nicolo watches Andromache carefully, the lines on her face and the muscles in her arms, the working parts of her that have existed on this earth for thousands of years. The things her hands have done; the things her eyes have seen.

The things her heart has forgotten.

“You are thinking very loudly over there,” Yusuf says from somewhere over Nicolo’s head. Nicolo shifts his eyes from Andromache and Qyunh, to the fire, to his and Yusuf’s legs stretched out before it. He tilts his head back, the top of his head against Yusuf’s sternum, but all he can see from that angle is Yusuf’s beard, so he drops his head back down with a little amused huff.

“Andromache is very old,” Nicolo says slowly.

“Ah, yes,” Yusuf agrees, amiable. “Also: water is very wet, and the desert is very hot.”

“S’cold at night,” Nicolo grumbles, just to be contrary, and is rewarded by Yusuf slipping his arms under Nicolo’s, bundling him closer to his chest and notching his chin over his head.

“What’s wrong, Nico?”

Nicolo requires no further prompting, not from Yusuf at least. The words come tumbling out of his mouth, one at a time. “She doesn’t remember her mother.”

There’s little more that needs to be said there. The immortal life is one that comes with many downsides, and the nature of it is that sometimes one discovers these downsides centuries later than expected. This isn’t the first time an unexpected side-effect of their unending lives has been thrust upon him and Yusuf, and likely won’t be the last.

Nicolo had never really thought he might one day forget his mother.

 Yusuf hums thoughtfully in response, a non-answer that does little to soothe Nicolo. “That she doesn’t,” he adds after a moment. “What was your mother like?”

“I don’t--” Nicolo starts, and then, with an odd curiosity, realizes he’s having difficulty continuing. “I... didn’t know her very long. I was given to the church… very young. I don’t remember much of what she was like, other than that she was my mother.”

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Well…” 

Nicolo remembers little of his life before the clergy. Two brothers. A sister. His father’s stern brow, and the calluses on his mother’s hand as she took his little fingers in hers, leading him down the dirt paths back in Genova. Her smile, silhouetted by the heady red glow of the afternoon sun. 

“Brown hair,” Nicolo eventually answers. “Dark eyebrows. High cheekbones, too, and… and kind eyes.”

“What I’m hearing is you took after her very strongly.”

Nicolo smiles. “I do remember being told something of the sort before.”

“Her eyes?” Joe rests one of his palms flat against Nicolo’s stomach.

“Green, I’m pretty sure.”

“So you took after her very strongly, then,” Joe concludes.

Nicolo looks down, fiddling with the fingers of Joe’s free hand. “She used to take me to the shore. We’d gather seashells together.”

That he remembers well, plucking seashells and bits of coral out from dried seafoam after the tide had gone out near the end of the day, one arm bundling conch and clam shells against his chest, the other prying washed-up shells from the still wet sand. The sun would be low, but not low enough that they would feel the need to rush, and it would cast their shadows in long, blue lines across the beach. Time was an endless thing there, where the sun glowed red and bright, and there was always another conch shell wedged in the damp earth to dig up.

“She sounds lovely,” Yusuf hums. Nicolo pauses, tracing Yusuf’s index finger with his own. Yusuf almost never talks about his family. They have known each other for nearly three hundred years now, and yet Nicolo could store all the things he knows of Yusuf's family in a basket. Over the years he’s been able to piece together that both of Yusuf’s parents were dead before the Crusades began. And that they both died when Yusuf was fairly young. Beyond that… he knows little.

“Yusuf…” Nicolo starts, uncertain and fidgeting. “What about your mother?”

“My mother?” Yusuf repeats, as if Nicolo has somehow strung together two incomprehensible words. 

“Yes.” When a pause stretches between them, Nicolo sighs and laces his fingers between Yusuf’s. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“No, no,” Yusuf insists before Nicolo can change the topic. He returns Nicolo’s grip on his hands, smoothing his thumb over the knuckle of Nicolo’s pointer finger. “I want to. My mother…” He sighs. “She was very anxious. Always fretting. She was a weaver; she liked making rugs.”

Yusuf’s thumb stills over Nicolo’s knuckle. Nicolo tilts his head. “Your prayer mat. Did she--?

“Yeah, she made it.” Yusuf pauses again. “Weaving calmed her down when she was nervous. My father and I, we would travel often-- business, you know. Trade deals and things. Mother always worried when we were gone.”

They both pause when Quynh yells something particularly loud at Andromache, breaking the moment for a split second. Andromache hollers something back, and the two women break out into abrupt laughter.

“Are you worried you’ll forget her?” Nicolo asks when they've settled again. “Your mother?”

“No,” Yusuf replies, though he trails off halfway through the word. “In part, I suppose… but there are many things I’d like to forget, I think.”

Nicolo peels himself out of Yusuf’s arms in response to that, twisting around to look at his companion. Yusuf’s brows are pressed together, the tilt of his mouth sad. Nicolo places a hand to his chest, fingers against Yusuf’s collar. “Yusuf?”

Yusuf sucks the inside of his cheek, looking far away before directing a sad smile at Nicolo. “She came with us, once. On a trip. Of course the one time Father allowed her to come was the time that it went wrong.” At Nicolo’s questioning look, Yusuf elaborates, “Bandits.”

“Yusuf...”

“I hadn’t really known how to fight, then, so it didn’t… really matter, either way-- but I got knocked out in the fight, and by the time I woke up again, it was all over.” With a slow breath, Yusuf looks down at their interwoven fingers. “I would like to forget some things. Not her, but…” 

It takes Yusuf a long moment to continue. He looks up, towards the stars, lips pursed with thought, before eventually ducking his head again. Nicolo waits quietly.

“It is hard to remember them,” Yusuf says eventually, to their hands, “without remembering them in death. I had to bury them both.”

With a soft noise, Nicolo reaches forward and pulls Yusuf into a hug, arms wrapping about his shoulders; Yusuf responds in chorus and reaches for Nicolo back, his embrace tight enough to grind bone.

Nicolo rubs a hand up and down Yusuf’s back, his face tucked into Nicolo’s shoulder. Perturbed, Nicolo can’t imagine it- the comforting memory of his own mother, crossed and tainted by violence so cruelly. To lose her was enough. To lose the comfort of remembering her as well would be harrowing.

Yusuf pulls away first after some time, eyes red but dry, mouth turned down. Nicolo reaches up and thumbs at the crease between his brows, which quirks Yusuf’s lips ever so slightly.

“How old were you?” Nicolo asks.

Yusuf reaches up and takes Nicolo’s hand from his face, wrapping his fingers around his. “Twenty one.”

“A child.”

“Hardly, Nico,” Yusuf snorts softly. Nicolo disagrees, but he’s not going to start an argument over it. Not now.

With a sigh, Yusuf leans back against the rock formation behind them, wrapping an arm around Nicolo and tugging him sideways against his chest. Nicolo rests his head against Yusuf's shoulder.

“It’s not that I wish to forget her. Or my father. But I… would rather fondly remember the idea of them, the fragments, then remember them perfectly in death. That might make me selfish.”

“It does not,” Nicolo replies sternly. “It makes perfect sense to feel that way, Yusuf.” And then, “I’m sorry.” Yusuf only hums in response. It is, admittedly, a frail sentiment, so Nicolo adds, “I love you. In case you’ve forgotten.”

This earns him a huff against the top of his head. “I love you too,” Yusuf responds, and they fall into an easy silence.

After a few minutes, and with a great sigh, Yusuf tilts his head so that his cheek presses against Nicolo’s hair. “Nicolo…” he mumbles, hesitant, “I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but... I think we’re sleeping under the stars tonight.”

Nicolo lifts his head and twists around to find the half-assembled and frankly pathetic looking tent swaying off in the distance alone, with both Andromache and Quynh nowhere in sight.

“The consolidated wisdom of millenia,” Nicolo grumbles, dropping his head back against Yusuf. “And they still can’t assemble a tent.”

Yusuf laughs; Nicolo is by far more warmed by that than any comfort the damned tent could have offered.

~

Quynh has the little joke of hers whenever they go drinking. She’ll tell Yusuf, giggling into her tankard, “I miss when you didn’t drink!”

This is a joke because Yusuf gave up his abstinence of alcohol only a few months after he and Nicolo had met Quynh and Andromache, nearly two hundred years ago now, and when he’d announced his decision to do so to the two warrior women, they’d both admitted they didn’t even realize that he didn’t drink in the first place. 

Nearly two hundred years later, Quynh continues to make this joke. Nicolo has yet to find it funny, but Yusuf laughs every time.

“It’s our anniversary, Quynh, you must be nice to us!” Yusuf insists in response to said joke. He is, as Andromache might say, drunk off his ass, swaying happily in his seat at the musty bar they’ve settled in for the night to celebrate. Despite how loudly he’s speaking, Nicolo can barely hear him over the clatter and bustle and chatter of the other, varyingly drunk, patrons at the bar.

“Three hundred years is nothing, Yusuf. You’re still babies,” Andromache replies, equally smashed yet bearing it more stoically, pitched against Quynh’s shoulder. One of her hands is still curled loosely around her tankard, unwilling to give it up just yet, probably.

Nicolo leans back against his rickety chair. “Do you two remember when you only knew each other for three hundred years?”

In response to this, Andromache pulls back from Quynh’s shoulder, propping herself up on the edge of a table with her free hand. She tilts her head, staring silently at Quynh with a quirked mouth, and Quynh stares back, eyebrows raised high. Nicolo’s gaze flicks between the two warrior women, eyeing them both, studying the emotion in their eyes and their mouths and their brows. 

For nearly an entire minute they say nothing. They have no need to. The charged gaze between them could write entire epics; legions of words pass between them and neither woman even opens her mouth.

Nicolo finds himself slightly jealous. He wonders if he and Yusuf will ever hit a point such as this, where they could communicate without words, know each other so well that even a twitch of the brow or a press of lips could mean so much-- that words become irrelevant. Become small and useless compared to the years of their bond.

“It was a time,” Quynh answers at last, smiling a far away smile.

“That’s different,” Yusuf interrupts, slurring slightly and grinning widely. “because, this isn’t about how long you two have known each other, but how long I’ve known Nicolo,” here, he gestures broadly at Nicolo, sitting at his side, “and when you two will have known Nicolo for three hundred years, and-- and want to celebrate, I will not laugh at your paltry few years spent with him, in comparison to my many centuries! And you may-- may thank me for my generosity and kindness-- then.”

Quynh snorts. “That was very poetic of you, Yusuf.”

“Thank you.” Yusuf places a calloused hand atop Nicolo’s head. “I love him very much,” he states, very sincerely, if a little slurred.

Andromache, as always, seems to feel a compulsion to try and ruin the moment. Their Andromache, old and wise as she is, is a great many things: an elegant warrior, a stern protector, and a graceful leader-- however, a kind drunk she is not.  “You know, you’ll get tired of each other eventually,” she points out, gesturing between the two of them. Yusuf rolls his eyes, his hand slipping from Nicolo’s head. “Quynh and I usually separate every couple hundred years for a time. It’s normal.”

“Bah,” Yusuf grumbles. “Andromache, you do not have a romantic bone in your body.”

“I do!” Andromache insists. Quynh sends her a sharp look that she doesn’t see because she’s too busy waving her hand widely. “I have been with, and wooed, and have been wooed by-- by more men and women than you’ve ever even set eyes on.”

Yusuf copies Andromache’s grand gesture, cheery and mocking. “That, what you’ve just described, is the opposite of romance, boss.”

“Whatever,” Andromache concedes with middling grace. “I’m happy for you two, either way.”

“Thank you,” Nicolo says, so that Yusuf won't say anything else. “Another round?”

~

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Yusuf says to Nicolo an hour or so later, as Nicolo is trying to haul the damned drunk up the stairs without sending them both sprawling down to their temporary deaths.

Funnily enough, around the time Yusuf began drinking, Nicolo stopped-- not out of any particular thoughts on alcohol itself, but because someone had to remain sober in order to drag Yusuf’s drunken ass back to their room at the end of the night, and the responsibility fell to Nicolo for all of the obvious reasons, and also because he was happy to do it.

“Who?” Nicolo asks, steadying a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder when he sways at the top dangerously.

“Andromache,” Yusuf replies. Nicolo’s not sure what exactly Yusuf thinks she was wrong about-- they’d discussed many topics at the bar downstairs-- but he might succeed in having this conversation more so if Andromache and Quynh weren’t standing no less than five feet away, hovering just inside their room’s open door down the hall, stripping down to their tunics and trousers.

Probably standing by in case Nicolo and Yusuf took an unfortunate tumble down the stairs. Nicolo is warmed by their concern, but Yusuf is too busy being drunkenly confused by Andromache’s presence after she calls over an “about what?” to think of such things.

“Where did you come from?” Yusuf asks Andromache, only going half willingly when Nicolo rolls his eyes and drags him down the hall.

“Thank you, good night,” Nicolo tells the two women as they pass their door and head down the hall to theirs, floorboards creaking under their boots.

“Have a nice anniversary, infants!” Andromach calls after they manage to stumble to their door, sticking her head out of theirs.

Nicolo fiddles with the key the barkeep gave him, trying desperately to ignore Yusuf when he yells back, “Us infants will try not to fuck so loud you can hear it all the way down there!” probably scarring some of the tenants.

“I bet you can’t!” Andromache responds, gleeful, and ducks back inside to slam the door shut.

“Is that a fucking challenge?” Yusuf asks the empty hallway, going easily when Nicolo drags him inside.

It’s a humble room, but the presence of four walls and a floor makes it good enough for Nicolo, and the bed is only an added bonus. He leaves Yusuf to his own devices as he lights the lantern set in the corner, double checking that their bags --that they’d tossed in the room earlier-- haven’t been stolen. He nudges the bags with a toe as he unlatches his longsword from his belt, propping the sheath up carefully by the little table with the lantern.

Yusuf is being oddly quiet; Nicolo turns to find the love of his life lying starfished on the little bed, peering up at the wood ceiling as if the secrets of the universe are engraved on it.

“I am so tired, Nicolo,” Yusuf mumbles, mournful. “Why did you make me go up all those stairs?”

“I am infamously known to be cruel and unfair,” Nicolo replies dryly, crossing over and sitting next to Yusuf. He unbuckles the straps around Yusuf’s shoulders that keep his scimitar attached to his back while Yusuf lies still. When the task is done, he looks up to find Yusuf staring at him, brows drawn together. “Lean up,” Nicolo orders softly, and Yusuf complies without complaint, shifting his shoulders off the bed just enough that Nicolo can pull his sheath off.

He stands to go retrieve his own sword, so that both can be placed at their bedside, within reach, shucking off his boots as he goes.

“Can you grab my bag for me?” Yusuf asks from the bed while Nicolo is doing so, so Nicolo does, balancing the two sheathed swords under one arm and holding Yusuf’s rucksack in the other.

He drops the bag at Yusuf's side and sits beside it, setting both swords at his feet, on the left side of the bed. Usually Yusuf’s scimitar goes on the other side, but Nicolo does not trust him with access to a sharp object in this state.

Yusuf sits up to shuffle through his bag. “I got you something,” he tells Nicolo when he straightens. Nicolo frowns at him.

“You got me something?” he repeats. 

“Yeah.” Yusuf pulls out his sketchbook, though he doesn't grab his bag of charcoals.

But I didn’t get you anything, is something Nicolo almost wants to say, but honestly, three hundred years into a relationship, you stop keeping track of how many gifts have been exchanged and when. Especially when their finances are so intertwined. Nicolo and Yusuf simply buy each other things whenever the urge arises, and they’re both such men that these gifts are usually just practical items: new boots, a thicker cloak, and so on.

But now Yusuf passes Nicolo his sketchbook, turning back to the bag to buckle it closed again.

“A sketchbook,” Nicolo muses with a smile, rubbing a thumb over the bound leather cover. “You shouldn't have.”

“Oh, stop,” Yusuf grumbles, snatching the book back once his bag is closed. He shoves it off the bed with a mildly worrying clank and sits in its vacated spot, next to Nicolo. “Your jokes will make you look a fool when you are crying tears of gratitude on me.” 

Nicolo smiles. Yusuf’s thigh, pressed against Nicolo’s, is warm, and his shoulder knocks against Nicolo’s with such familiarity Nicolo wonders if he could identify Yusuf from that alone; without sight, without hearing. He thinks he could, given the opportunity.

Yusuf flips through his sketchbook quickly, scanning past images of landscapes and crowded marketplaces and Nicolo’s own smiling face until he stops at a certain page, angling the book away so that Nicolo cannot see. He peers sideways at him, suspicious or maybe anticipatory.

“Do you expect me to start the tears of gratitude now, or…?” Nicolo asks, grinning at Yusuf’s unamused stare before Yusuf shoves the book into Nicolo’s open hands.

Nicolo doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, at first. Not that he doesn’t recognize the image; he does, he just doesn’t... understand.

“How…?” Nicolo asks, trailing off in wonder. He lifts a hand to touch the image, then snatches his hand away, afraid he’ll smear it.

It’s his mother.

He doesn’t understand how Yusuf could do this; drawing his mother is one thing, but the accuracy of the drawing to Nicolo’s memory is astounding. The line of her cheekbones and the crinkles of her crows feet, the shape of her eyes set by happiness. The drift of hair over her shoulder is a little longer than his mother had it, and a little straighter, but other than that it is an almost perfect recreation. Down to the curl of her mouth, the small flash of teeth. Nicolo can practically hear her in the image, her eyebrows raised and surprised joy flashing in her eyes, as she says, “That’s a big one, Nicolo, good job!”

“How did you do this?” Nicolo asks, voice small.

“Do you remember when you told me what she looked like?” Yusuf asks. “When we were talking about Andromache’s mother?”

“Yes, I remember,” Nicolo replies, frustrated. “I told you she had brown hair and green eyes. Yusuf, how did you--” He peels his eyes off of the drawing that sends him straight to his childhood. “You even got her smile right.”

Yusuf presses his lips together in a fond little smirk. “I will tell you, but you must agree not to share my secret.”

“Yusuf.”

Yusuf scoots that much closer, tucking a hand under Nicolo’s jaw, thumb smoothing over his cheek. “I know how she smiles because I know how you smile. Because she’s your mother. And she lives in you, even if she’s been dead three hundred years. Even if you forget her to some small degree, she will stay with you. Here--” Yusuf touches the corner of Nicolo’s mouth. “And here--” His pointer swipes over Nicolo’s cheekbone. “And here.” He presses a thumb under Nicolo’s eye, and it comes away wet. He makes a small noise. “I was kidding about the tears of gratitude, Nico.”

The sketchbook almost falls off of Nicolo’s thighs in his urgency to pull Yusuf into a hug.

Yusuf returns the embrace with a huffing little laugh, arms wrapping around Nicolo’s waist and hauling him in close, the sketchbook folding closed between the press of their bodies, the beat of their hearts against each other.

“Thank you, Yusuf,” Nicolo murmurs into the crook of Yusuf’s neck, endlessly sincere. His fingers hook into Yusuf’s tunic, over his back, already pulled tight by the muscles there.

“Happy anniversary,” Yusuf responds cheerily. “To three hundred years, eh?”

“And three hundred more,” Nicolo reminds him.

“Fuck, Nicolo.” Yusuf leans back, hands lingering at his waist. He catches Nicolo’s eyes, his brows pulled together. “To three thousand more; Andromache doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Nicolo frowns, recalling Yusuf saying something of the sort in the hall. “What did she say?”

“What did she say?” Yusuf repeats thoughtfully. “I don’t remember-- some nonsense about us getting tired of each other.”

“Oh.” Nicolo does remember that. “I don’t think she meant it like that, Yusuf. And after all, she is rather the authority on how the relationships of immortals work.”

“The authority!” Yusuf repeats, mocking. “When Andromache kills a man with her bare hands and comes out the other side of the experience loving him, I will give her credence to the idea that she’s an authority over our relationship.”

“I didn’t say she was an authority over us. Just that she may understand better.”

“What, do you think she’s right?” Yusuf’s brow furrows, voice lowering. “That we shall grow tired of each other?”

“No,” Nicolo immediately insists, his desire to assure Yusuf strong and instinctual. He lets his hand slide to his shoulder, gripping there. “At least,” he admits on second thought, “I’ve never once felt anything to give me the impression that I will. But it may happen, Yusuf.”

To be completely honest, Nicolo can’t imagine such a thing. He’s woken up every morning for the past three hundred years of his life at Yusuf’s side, and he can’t even begin to understand what kind of drastic shift in his heart would inspire him to grow tired or restless of doing so. Of Yusuf’s hands, of his voice, of his glittering eyes and his loud, joyful laugh-- and the way he furrows his brow when he’s thoughtful, like he’s doing at Nicolo right now.

“Because Andromache says so? I think not,” Yusuf argues. “Andromache is wise, but she’s known us barely more than a hundred years. Her experience does not allow her to see to your heart, or to mine. I will love you forever, Nicolo.”

“Forever is a long time, Yusuf,” Nicolo responds, smiling.

“Well, I will,” Yusuf insists. “When we are twice as old as Andromache is today, and the memories of our childhoods, and our warring, and even our three hundred year anniversary will be nothing but dust, I will remember loving you with certainty-- and that will be because I’ll have done it every day of my life.”

Yusuf shrugs and presses closer, bowing his forehead to Nicolo’s. “And if we forget every bad time and every good time with it,” he murmurs, looking down, “I will not care; it will all wash away in the sands of time eventually, but I have no intent to be separated from you. I won't let memory or time or violence take you from me. I don’t care what Andromache says. The only thing that will end us is your word, Nicolo.”

Amused, Nicolo lets out a throaty little huh. “You will be waiting a long time for that, Yusuf. Maybe even forever.”

Yusuf grins at that, eyes flicking up, and Nicolo has that split second thought he always has --you’re hiding dimples under all that beard-- before Yusuf tilts his head up and kisses him, leaning forward with all the drunken weight of his body.

Nicolo catches Yusuf’s jaw in his hand, shoulders bunching up as he shifts so that Yusuf doesn't topple them both; tilts his head and grips Yusuf’s shoulder and kisses him back.

It is not, admittedly, their best kiss. But Nicolo’s found over the years that a kiss with Yusuf is a kiss with Yusuf, which is to say no matter how much their teeth clack or their mouths miss their mark, it is still Yusuf, so none of them are actually bad.

And Nicolo is distracted. Yusuf is one to spew pretty words whenever the mood takes him, but his aptitude for the spoken word even in the worst --or most drunken-- of times always catches Nicolo off guard; even three hundred years into their relationship.

Every day of my life, Yusuf had said, and Nicolo finds himself giddy and weightless at the idea. Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks to himself, unable to fight off a smile as Yusuf pulls him in closer, a hand at his neck. Every day.

~

It is a fair while later --after Nicolo has pried Yusuf’s boots off, after the lantern light was blown out, and after they are both under the admittedly threadbare blanket-- that Nicolo lies propped up on his elbows on his side of the bed, admiring the drawing of his mother by moonlight. Yusuf lies on his back beside Nicolo, either asleep or drifting, arm thrown over his eyes and mouth pulled into a frown.

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” Yusuf asks groggily after some time, revealing himself to be awake. “Or must I compete with my own drawing for your attention?”

“You made a mistake giving me this,” Nicolo replies, closing the sketchbook and leaning over to set it carefully on the floor. “I will do nothing but admire it for eternity.”

With a huff, he settles under the blanket, facing Yusuf, crossing his arms to his chest. Yusuf responds with only a smile, and after the silence stretches for a moment, Nicolo adds, “I wish I could give you such peace in regards to your own mother.”

Yusuf drops the arm from his face, squinting sideways at Nicolo. “Pfft. You have already brought me more peace than any other living being on this earth. Give making me the happiest man alive a rest for a few minutes, Nicolo; you’ll give yourself a complex.” He rolls onto his side. “But also roll over. What are you doing lying all the way over there, anyways?”

“Giving myself a complex, apparently,” Nicolo grumbles, doing as he’s told and shuffling onto his side. Yusuf throws an arm over him from behind, snuggling forward and pulling Nicolo back in unison until they are pressed against each other, shoulders to thighs. 

“I am being truthful,” Yusuf murmurs after a moment, low and intimate and close, tired words slurring into each other. He yawns before butting his forehead gently against the back of Nicolo’s neck. “My mother-- I have many good memories of her, and some bad. I would like to forget some and cherish others, but in the end I will likely lose all or most of ‘em, as Andromache has. That’s just the truth of it all.” He yawns again, shifting his grip on Nicolo. “I could draw her if I wish, but I don’t know if even a thousand drawings will ease her memory. And losing memories is a simple trade-off of the life we live, even if we didn’t choose it. I may not keep my memories, but as long as I can keep you, I am at peace with it all.”

Nicolo considers that, tucking his own hands into his sides. As much as their immortality was not a choice-- it was nothing either Nicolo or Yusuf asked for or even really wanted, three hundred years ago, but it was gifted to them anyway. They didn’t ask for each other either, and yet Yusuf was given to Nicolo and vice versa in the same breath that their immortality was thrust upon them.

But of course, unlike the immortality, and unlike all the other positives and negative consequences that came with it, they did choose each other. They chose to put down their weapons. They chose to stay at each other’s side. They’ve chosen that every single day of the last three hundred years. Hopefully they will do so for the next three hundred -- thousand-- years.

He will lose his memories eventually, one day, one way or another. It is like Yusuf said: it is a simple trade-off of the life they live. 

But if it had been a choice-- well. Even the innocent comfort of his mother’s memory, of those late afternoons picking seashells-- those memories are not nothing to him, but if it ever came between keeping them and keeping Yusuf… the choice is obvious.

But there is no choice. The memories will fade one day whether he wants them to or not, whether Yusuf draws a thousand portraits of his mother or not.

Yusuf will not fade. Yusuf will be here. Yusuf has been here, for three hundred years.

Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks, and smiles.

“You know,” he says quietly into the dark room. “You are a very wise man, Yusuf.”

“Don’t tell Quynh and Andromache,” Yusuf mumbles into Nicolo’s nape. “It will ruin my image.”

Nicolo snorts, smiles, and, eventually, falls asleep in Yusuf’s arms.

#Anonymous #joe x nicky

[the-fiction-witch]

Black and Red P5

REAL LIFE VAMPIRE COUPLE: TBS X READER RATING: FLIRTY

When I woke up I groaned a little turning over to check the time it's only eleven still I got back late last night. I sat up having a stretch and I noticed something, My bed was empty. I looked across the room and saw Thomas sat on my sofa with a blanket watching tv with a bowl of popcorn on his lap, I smiled going over sneaking up on him a little

"Comfy?" I asked

"ahh! fucking! Christ woman! don't sneak up on me like that"

"I thought you were a vampire? with all the super senses and what not?"

"I'm a vampire. Not physic."

"What are you doing?"

"Catching up, I have missed a lot" He said "What the hell has happened since I've been gone?"

"Lots."

"So many new countries"

"Yep"

"I missed so much," He says as he watched the screen and I had a bit of a giggle as I noticed he was watching twilight just as he was sparkling "I have never been so offended in my life"

"Yeah, that's universally hated"

"Good.... good, What is a vampire movie that's well-liked?"

"There aren't any. They're all terrible, You'd Like Tim burton though. That's kinda his vibe"

"Is it? good. Also what is cardor and can I have some?"

"what?"

"cardor? It was on the tv"

"Carte D'or? it's ice ceam thomas"

"Ohh..... can we get some?"

"I thought you drank blood?"

"I do."

"And eat like meat?"

"I do"

"So why do you want ice cream?"

"am I not allowed to want ice cream?" he asks "I'm pretty sure perfum is for vampires... it looked like it"

"No that's just perfume Thomas it's how they advertise. You can't really sell  a smell via tv without getting creative"

"But why where they all like nuzzling each others necks and looking like they were gonna bite or fuck each other?"

"Maybe you just saw a particularly gothic ad"

"Maybe, either that Or I just saw it like that. It has been many hundreds of years... Not surprised I'm a little horny. seriously DO NOT take a black light to that mausoleum... you will not like what you discover."

"Why?"

"I've been sealed away in that thing for hundreds of years, on my own.... intermittently sleeping. and eating. what do you think I've been doing?"

"You're disgusting" I sighed going for a bath

"What? I drink human blood and eat flesh, that your fine with but jerking off is where you draw the line?"

"Do not jerk off In my house you disgusting monster" I yelled

"..... Where was that an hour ago?"

"DO not jerk off in my house or so help me I am sealing you back in that mausoleum and welding the fucking door shut" I warned him heading into the bathroom running my hot steamy bath with a nice bath bomb starting to wash my skin and he came and leant on the door frame making me jump a little

"Maybe I should mate with you. You're as whiney as a wife" He sighed "And you already have the aesthetic"

"shut up Thomas" I sighed

"whoa.... Holy... I am HOT!" he yelled excitedly I was a little confused looking over at him as he stood eagerly over my sink staring at himself in my mirror

"What?" I laughed

"what? I've not seen myself before. vampires don't have reflections not sure why I do now?"

"People stopped using mercury in mirrors it's just glass"

"Oh. so I have a reflection now?" He said, "I definitely need to shave."

"I don't mind it" I shrug

"don't you? the first person to tell me that in a thousand years" He laughs

"Question?" I asked as he was still inspecting himself in the mirror

"Yes?"

"Why are you in here?"

"This is where the mirror is?"

"There is a mirror on my vanity thomas. you do not need to be here"

"why not?"

"This is my bathroom. I am... In a bath"

"Ohh relax, vampire women, run around half-naked all the time. Unmarried ones ran through the forests naked when I was younger"

"So what times have changed get out of my bathroom!" I told him

"Fine, you look beautiful though my littlw wiccan"

"Out!" I ordered, and he did go I finished my bath and got wrapped up in my robe going out to see im still at my vanity looking at himself "That's how narsisius died you know" I told him

"Ohh please, the tales around his death were greatly exaggerated to make that point," He says

"Move," I told him so he moved over till there was enough space for me to sit too, so I sighed sitting beside him and starting to do my makeup and hair for the day

"Goth girl" He smirked

"what?" "Goth girl" He smirked looking at my make up

"Shut up, I like it."

"you are so committed to it aren't you? this lipstick literally says coven on it"

"I like the colour, and it smells like vanilla"

"sure you do" He smirked

"How do you know about how he died?" I asked

"who?"

"Narsisius"

"Oh. he was my dad's friend's son I think. hard to remember it was so long ago now" "wasn't that like.... way way back?"

"I did say I have been gone a while"

"Not that long"

"Vampires have been around a long time my little Wiccan." "Ohh shut up, please stop calling me that" "Why? it's cute. it suits you"

"How long exactly?" I asked ignoring him

"I have no idea. the calendar keeps changing. Every time I come back for a while the whole system different." he sighed "But I remember him, used to go to the river a lot. but not to stare at himself" "Then to do what?"

"He was a colossal fucking perv" He laughs "He used to go down and watch the girls bathe on a Thursday afternoon"

"And you know this? How?" I smirked as I blended my makeup

"I was two hundred leave me alone"

"No, I won't" "I was a teenager leave me be"

"two hundred is teen by your standards?"

"Yeah?"

"so... when you were two hundred?"

"I was mentally like, fourteen if that. But I looked about six. Yeah I had problems with that. Late bloomer my mum said, My dad, said I was too much like my mother" He laughs "But he used to go down the river watch the girls and uhhh... you know with himself."

"so how did he die?"

"He got obsessed with it. he'd be down there twice a day, the practically pitched a tent and moved down the river just so he could be pervy and jerk off all the time"

"so?"

"so, you live off a diet of forest berries and you jerk off sixteen times a day it's gonna kill you after a while"

"Hu. fair enough" I shrug "Are all that kinda people vampires?" "Most of them, I'm not sure how you guys never figured that out, human or blood sacrifices, living forever, never aging, amazing powers, mating with humans make half human half other."

"You have a point there"

#tbs #tbs smut #tbs sex #tbs smutty #TBS Imagine #tbs fanfiction #tbs fanfic #tbs imagines #thomas #thomas sangster #thomas brodie sangster #thomassangster #thomasbrodiesangster #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster i #thomas brodie sangster smut #thomas brodie sangster s #thomas smut #thomas sangster smut #thomas sangster imagine #thomas sangster x reader #thomas sangser imagine

[pageswithoutaplot]

Rhysand is a terrible ruler.

And here’s why.

So Rhysand-and Feyre- are the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. Now the Night Court can technically be split into 3 territories: Velaris, the Court of Nightmares, and Illyria.

Velaris: Now we know that for centuries Velaris has been hidden from the rest of Prythian and by extension-its turmoils and wars. Feyre herself remarked how untouched by tragedy the city is when Rhysand brought her there for the first time. When Rhysand allowed Keir entrance to Velaris as part of their deal, it’s mentioned to Mor that he spoke with the city’s council to ensure Keir wouldn’t be welcome indicating that while he may be the Lord of Velaris, he does not rule it alone. This can be further witnessed in A Court of Frost and Starlight as throughout the book Feyre and Rhys mention that there is still a lot of work to be done, but don’t mention exactly what or what are their plans. The only thing that we’ve seen them do as rulers in Velaris is Feyre doing paperwork. That’s it. You’re an all-powerful fae who has continuously mentioned how rich they are and how many people are suffering in your city (Feyre: Many people in Velaris still don’t have homes-ACOFAS) but you don’t do anything about it? Even if the council is taking care of it you have a responsibility-and the resources as you’ve so kindly reminded us a thousand times- to oversee the care of your city- And I don’t mean during sky sex. This is concerning the one territory of his he perhaps enjoys and loves the most.

The Court of Nightmares: Horrible people. Terrible. Mor’s abusers live there and thrive, Amarantha modeled her court after it, weakness isn’t allowed only calculating cruelty-basically, it’s a shitty place. It was a shitty place when Mor’s shitty family ruled and it’s a shitty place when Rhysand’s father became High Lord and it remained shitty when Rhysand came into power. And Rhysand did nothing to change that. Time and again in the series his mask has been mentioned. He’s a different person when he visits the Hewn city because he has to be. When he takes Feyre there for the first time she has to be different too. All the members of the Inner Circle have to be, they have to wear their masks-but do they? Rhysand is 500 years. Remove the 50 years under Amarantha’s rule, around let’s say 80 years for growing up, the duration of the war and until Tamlin killed his dad. That still leaves over 300 years of him ruling the Court of Nightmares. 300 years of possible change, of implementing reforms, of teaching them and the next generation to be better. But he doesn’t. He plays the rule of Cruel High Lord and exerts his power over everyone when he visits the court. And notice I say visits specifically. Rhysand doesn’t live there so he can’t possibly oversee everything’s that happening, in fact when he has to visit- because he is still its ruler- he treats it more like a nuisance. Because it is to him. Its much more easier to not care when you’re not faced with the cruelty that you’ve ended up fostering, you can just choose to ignore. Mor’s situation is not unique. There’s a very high chance other females-without all of her power, whatever her power is, and her High Lord cousin- have suffered the same fate and nothing was done. Even after he takes his mask off and makes it known that Feyre is High Lady, there’s still no change or even effort to change. They don’t do anything to try and better the situation or the court itself, they just make their announcements, do whatever they have to do, and then leave. Their power is there but they don’t use it except for dick-sizing contests, because its obvious that they don’t care. And why should they right? It’s a shitty court with shitty people; except when you’re the ruler of that court you have a responsibility to care like it or not, its your job.

Illyria: Here we see it happen again. They have the power, but they don’t use it-not even for dick-sizing contests. For hundreds of hundreds of years Illyria has a been a cesspool for inequality. If you’re a bastard then you’re on your own until you inevitably die and if you’re a women (female) well you’ll wish you were dead. To an Illyrian, their wings are everything and when females get their wings clipped it’s not just their freedom that gets taken away, its their very identity. Then on its be a laundress or a seamstress or a housewife and that’s basically it. But even then they’re still vulnerable and prey to the males as we can see with Azriel’s mother (only allowed to see her son for one hour, has to work all other times, can’t leave the house.) And while Cassian doesn’t go into detail about how his mother died, we know it’s because of the males at their camp. The only reason Rhysand’s mother was spared is because when she was about to get her own wings clipped, the mating bond snapped into place between her and his father and he misted everyone around them. When they wed, her position became seriously elevated so no male could touch her without threat of death hanging above their head. So far in Rhysand’s rule, we only see one of his proclamation put into place: to ban clippings. I say only one because his ruling over Illyrian females’ training is basically null if him and Cassian have to argue about it with Devlon and the other warlords all the time. Rhysand isn’t at the camps all the time so he has no way of making sure they follow his orders-and they obviously don’t. In ACOFAS it’s mentioned that the girls haven’t trained in a while and Devlon only states that they’re busy with chores. It’s such a blatant disregard for orders and authority, it’s disrespect-and Rhysand and Cassian allow it. Sure they argue with him, but what’s the point? You’re literally the High Lord and General Commander why are you even arguing with someone who has a lower station that you. You have no problem using-and abusing- your power for a multitude of reasons (getting in Tarquin and Cresseida’s heads and manipulating them, manipulating Feyre into accepting your deal by breaking her arm further, shattering Keir’s bones when he insulted Feyre...) but this is where you draw the line? At trying to create gender equality and give the females their freedom back? Rhysand, again, has had over 300 years worth of time and chances to make things right. He’s such an advocate for equality but he doesn’t put the work- or any work- behind his claims. Even Cassian is not blameless, in his want for acceptance from his fellow Illyrians he either consciously or subconsciously forgets that his rank is higher than all of theirs and when it comes to issues like the girls training, he shouldn’t have to argue, certainly not over 300 years after Rhysand first made the decision that girls should be allowed to train. Its mentioned several times that the Illyrians are stubborn people, hard headed, don’t do well with change-but Rhysand is the High Lord. He has no problem making the Court of Nightmares bow to him so there’s no reason why he should be so pliant in front of the Illyrians. He said once “Would you have me disband the largest army in Prythian?” (Or something to that effect, I can’t remember the exact words, only the sentiment) so its shown he’s aware and that he cares about the army existing, obviously I mean they were about to face another war, but what is especially bothering is that we haven’t gotten any sort of declaration like that towards the Illyrian females. Does he acknowledge their plight, I remember that yes he does, but he doesn’t do anything about it. Nothing real and tangible. Making the Illyrian girls train for an hour or two every week doesn’t even begin to undo hundreds of years of inequality and when after 300 years, you’re still being fought on it and refuse to put any of your own actual weight behind it to make sure it happens, its not even a start. Equality is even about more than just making sure they train a couple of times and it needs more than that-he’s really reducing it and their plight to that one act that he can’t even do right and reducing the females to nothing more than soldiers. 

He has three territories in his court and the one only that is doing relatively well is the one that his ancestors made sure would be a place of peace and has a council formed for its needs. That’s kind of sus. 

#a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #a court of silver flames #court of thorns and roses #court of dreams #rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre #nesta archeron #cassian #Azriel #acotar #acofas #acomaf #acowar #acosf #ic #Inner Circle #velaris #illyrian #character analysis #sjm #sarah j maas #acosf spoilers #acosf spoiler #a court of silver flames spoilers #anti rhysand #anti acosf

[jimmymcgools]

Can you do a directors cut for they pay me a golden treasure?

hi! this has been in my ask box for like two weeks! i'm so sorry! my brain broke and i forgot how to think about things!

i'm glad you asked for this one, thank you so much 🙏 i'd had the first ~500 words of this sitting in a google doc for so long -- i was originally thinking of posting after i finished slip and fall season. but then my brain did that thing where i wanted everything to be exactly perfect and i kept working and overworking the first few paragraphs until way too much gluten had formed in the dough and it was chewy and terrible.

but then i took a step back and just tried to write a thing that captured all the little interesting ideas i wanted to include, and that helped me get the ball rolling.

commentary below! 💖

Two points of pressure weigh down his shoulders, as heavy as the bags of cash had been—heavier, even. It feels like he has two hands locked on either side of his neck. He can feel the man who owns the hands standing behind him, and he can hear the echo of the word wife.

this idea was one of the first things that made me want to write this oneshot -- linking this physical sensation of carrying the bags with this metaphorical way he feels lalo's control over him.

He swallows. His mouth is tacky with a sugary layer of Gatorade.

i wanted the whole thing to hopefully be SUPER sensory and way deep in jimmy's head. and this is the kinda shit that takes me longer than it should to remember. sometimes i have to just sit and think through every part of my body as if i'm in that situation and see if anything good leaps out.

He’s just standing there outside the apartment and his arms are so heavy and his shoulders are so heavy and his head is so heavy he feels as if he’s going to fall right through the ground, as if he’s going to plummet into the earth before she can even open the door.

this is one of the sentences that previously died to being overworked. i kept changing it and changing it until eventually i looked back at my very first version, which was more brainstormy note than intended prose, and i thought it was better than anything else i'd managed. so i used that!

There’s a bang and his eyes snap open. The door is widening to a square of light and his hands are in front of his chest, curling into balls.

this part is a reverse of the previous example, though! here i kept an earlier version for a while, something that started like "The door opens with a bang etc etc" and then i realised it DID need more work, it needed to be more in jimmy's head and not tell the reader exactly what was happening in the first three words.

A square of light—sand and sky and space blankets—and then she’s there, silhouetted against the white, and he takes— —one step, then the next, then the next— —through the bright doorway.

fuckin' love an em dash, mate

His legs, having delivered him here, to this final glowing space, give up.

another one of the ideas i was very excited about for this one-shot was comparing kim to the golden glowstick he holds that night in the desert! i always think about it when i watch that scene!

here's my first shot at making the comparison -- this final glowing space. for a while i wanted to include the memory of him holding that glowstick right here, so that people might link it with him holding her in the entryway, but it didn't work with the pace.

Her voice sounds like it’s coming down a long phone line, traveling through thousands and thousands of copper-lined miles. Crackling and cracking.

i'm a self indulgent lil shit so i put some references to my other fic in here. hopefully if youve read acb, this specific description makes you think of baby kim and jimmy talking softly on the phone at night.

Kim’s fingers are razors in his hair, crushing his head close against her shoulder.

another metaphor from early acb used here, which in itself is a reference to a song by the national, of course. all my fics are just a bunch of national songs stacked inside a trenchcoat

As soon as his chest touches hers, he’s clawing with tight fists at her back, holding her faster and faster, like he’s scrabbling for purchase over screaming dirt

i loved the idea of drawing all these parallels between the desert experience and his experience here. it makes me think of the split-screen opening. jimmy's dry tongue sticking to his mouth is like him trying to say the first part of kim's name. the way he hugs her is like the way he scrambles towards the esteem.

it's all entwined forever now.

From down the long crackling line, she says his name again. Jimmy. He almost can’t hear it. Jimmy.

god, i'm such a writing nerd and i love thinking about writing so much and it's like -- what does not having his name in speech marks add here? in my head it adds so much. is it real, is she really saying it? is he just thinking it? yet he says he almost can't hear it. somehow not having the speech marks also makes it feel far away to me. intangible. if she's really saying it, it doesn't feel real anymore.

i love writing!!!!

“Hey,” Kim says, her voice quiet, her eyes locked on his. The dry skin on his lips stretches with his smile. “Hey.”

would die for these two softly exchanging "hey"s.

It’s good to be close because he knows there’s something horrible trapped between their chests. Something he can feel running warmly down his white and unblemished t-shirt.

jimmy brushing his hand over the spot as they sit together on the sofa.

Like he’s something that might burn her, or something that might break. Or both—like he’s fragile and electrified.

i kind of want to do more with this duality at some point. i think they both feel this about the other. that they could burn them or be burned by them.

He wants her to cradle his cheeks the same way she always does, or stroke her thumbs over his mouth, or curl her fingers around his ears, but she doesn’t. She just holds him in her fingertips. Like water in her hands, he thinks.

more of that wild self-indulgency, but god i couldnt resist linking this moment with the first time they makeout in acb:

"Then she pulls back, breathing heavily, looking down at him. She frames his face with her hands. Gasping for breath, staring up at Kim from between her palms, Jimmy feels like she’s the only thing holding him together. Like he’s water in her hands."

the only thing holding him together.

the ", he thinks." i added in the one-shot makes me feel like jimmy's making the link too, not just me as the writer.

The apartment smells of smoke. Another thing he’s dragged with him over the threshold from the desert: one hundred thousand dollars in cash and the word wife and the smell of dust burning beneath a high sun.

of course, it smells of smoke because kim's been smoking inside, but jimmy doesn't know that

Boxers picked up and then put down in almost the same spot on the bathroom floor.

this moment always gets me. these actors are incredible. there's so much goddamn emotion in one little action.

In his hand now, the ache of a yellow glowstick. The edges of his fingers are made red with it, and his skin and bones and all the gaps between the different parts of himself are marked out with the light. He’s awake, and the yellow stick is fragile in his grasp. Glowing through the cold and the dark. Burning a ghost on his retinas. His suit jacket is thin above him, a loose sheet. The desert is loud with lizards and wind and tires wheeling over dirt roads. The glowstick is golden.

and now finally i get to this glowstick moment. i'm really proud of how i executed this paragraph. it's the writing nerd in me again. i love what the present tense does to it. to me, it makes it feel eternal, ongoing. this is how i felt okay about not setting up the glowstick thing earlier. this paragraph makes me feel like jimmy's been thinking about this the entire time.

all the gaps between the different parts of himself are marked out with the light

also the thought of like... jimmy sitting awake in the desert thinking about the jimmy vs saul of it all.

Burning a ghost on his retinas.

"Did I dream it or did I have $1,600,000 on my desk in cash? When I close my eyes, I can still see it. It's burned into my retinas like I was staring into the sun."

Kim’s face is warm against his spine. Her heartbeat seems to pulse through his skin.

more of my stolen acb lines, this from the final chapter:

"He can feel her breathing, her knees pressed up close behind his, her chest against his back. Her heartbeat seems to pulse through his skin. If he didn’t know better, he’d feel like the Sandias, like a line of protection between her and the world."

When he closes his eyes, he’s walking, he’s still walking.

returning to the first sentence here gave it all a terrifying feeling to me. like -- does jimmy feel like this moment of getting home is the dream? this looping dream?

thank you so much to everyone who read this one-shot, by the way! i was super nervous about tackling canon times, and everyone's messages have been so reassuring. i really appreciate it 💖

#asks #anon #directors commentary #that got SO long

[winter-is-lost]

TRANSFORMERS : MTMTE

Rodimus x Cybertronian! Reader

Y/n = Your name

Y/f/c = Your frame colour

Warnings : I'm honestly gonna stop adding these 'warnings' cause trust me even I have absolutely no idea how it's gonna turn out. But I hope I can do well and hopefully, it turns out good. :)

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

《 Reader's P.O.V.》

Betrayed...Tired..Exhausted...No. All this felt like an understatement.

..I was done..

My autobot badge, that I once wore with such pride and joy had long since lost it's shine, now rundown and broken, covered with my energon. One could only imagine how it still managed to hold on to me. Then again, I wasn't in a good shape either now, was I? No. I had managed to snag a ship and barely escaped.. My ship crashlanded on some random planet. I didn't care which as long as it was away from there.

Pulling myself out of the wreckage of my ship I proceeded to make my way towards an urban inhabited area. I struggled to maintain my balance, stumbling here and there before my body eventually gives up making me fall like an asteroid. I place my hands near me, trying to push myself off the ground.

A futile attempt...

..What's the use anyway..It's not like I have any place to go to...any one to return to..what does it matter..

I lay there on the ground. Bright red warning signs flashing infront of my sight. It was happening...Is this how I was gonna go...

I laid there for God knows how long before I heard the sounds of pedesteps rushing in my direction before coming to a stop near me.

I felt someone placing a servo on my shoulder plate and shaking it gently, as if in fear of causing any further harm to my already damaged body.

"-eed a doctor. You los-"...barely being able to listen, I somehow managed to catch a glimpse of the bot...Orange..with..with glasses.

"-be ok. Just..just hang in ther-"

That was the last thing I could make out before my optics offlined...

===============================

{ years later }

"-so, I think it would be a nice experience for us to go." Rung turned away from his datapads to look up at me with a soft smile gracing his faceplates.

We were both preparing for the journey we were to take part in. Rung informed me yesterday of a mech designated Broadi..no wait - Daud..no,no..YEAH! Rung informed me yesterday of a mech by the designation Rodimus who had proposed a journey across space in order to find the Knights of Cybertron.

Unsurprisingly, Rung wanted to leave on this journey too. Of course, not because of finding the Knights or anything, but because of his love for space ships and the journeys they bring.

I mean, it was pretty obvious to me as I was placing his models of the ark ships into a box so it would be easier to carry while he was making sure he handled all the data and knowledge of his clients properly before leaving.

"Yeah, you're right. It does seem like it's gonna be fun, so why not." I reply as I place another one of the models into the box.

It was kinda true. I was actually going along because of him.

You see, after the war has just barely ended mostly everyone knows how to fight. Then, there's Rung. Now, I don't mean to sound like I'm berating him but he just...he can't fight..he doesn't even have the build most average mechs have. On top of that, he's kind-hearted and a gentlemech, which is nice but makes it all the more easier for someone to harm him.

People are willing to use others for their own benefit, to achieve their goals, even the ones you know for the longest of time, trust me, I'd know...and that's where I come in. I make sure to keep him out of harm's way to the best of my abilities, he's someone that I care for and respect like a..a..what was the organic term for it...a brother, yup, like a brother. The universe needs more good people like him.

Besides...he did save me all those years back, so God forbid if I let anything happen to him. Of course, he doesn't know that..or maybe he does but just pretends that he doesn't, but let me tell you, aside from physical *ahem violent* confrontations, he can handle himself just fine - the guy's been aboard all the Ark ships, that's gotta mean something right.

===============================

"NEXT!"

Finally. After standing in the long line of passengers waiting to board the Lost Light for what seemed like a thousand cycles. It was finally our turn. Rung and I made our way towards the 'Head of Security' for one final inspection before being allowed aboard the ship. Since I was Rung's assisstant, sort of, I remember this guy, he was Rung's client for a couple of centuries. His name was..Red Alert, I think.

"ONE HUNDRED MILLION! That's an impressive serial code,..Er.." Red Alert looks up at Rung with a suprised expression plastered across his face plates. I clench my dentas together in an attempt to hold my laughter.

After everything and everyone was on board and with our ship Quantum jumping God knows where.

Everyone was called by Rodimus, the ship's captain for a debriefing about the current events. I didn't hear much because I don't know why but there was something about this guy...something familiar...weird because I don't remember seeing him before.

The longer I looked at him, that feeling of familiarity turned into a slight feeling of unknown dread settling itself into my fuel tanks.

The debriefing was done and everyone around me was leaving to handle the task at hand, just as I was going to leave as well, I ended up making eye contact with Rodimus.

That feeling of dread and slight anger mixed with some sadness came back to me as I stood there frozen in my spot. I could tell he felt something too just by the way his optics widened and his jaw hung open. As if something unexpected had happened. As if someone you had once lost to the realm of death had come back...

I saw his mouth move slightly, as if trying to whisper out a name. MY name..?..

"..Y/n." I was brought back from my trance when I felt a servo touch my shoulder. Looking down at the owner of the hand, I was quite relieved to see Rung looking back up at me with concern evident across his faceplates. "What's wrong Y/n?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," I give a small smile to reassure him. I decided not to worry him about something like this, afterall, it could just be a side effect from that faulty quantum leap.

《 Rodimus' P.O.V. 》

There had a been a breach in the hull caused by the sudden quantum leap. We had 40 crew mates drifting across space that we had to save. We NEEDED to save. No way am I gonna leave MY crew behind.....Not this time.

After giving everyone a brief idea of what had happened and what needed to be done. I was preparing to leave for the mission - gathering back the 40 lost crew members, when my optics landed on a familiar Y/f/c bot. Is that...No. It can't be. Nope. Not real. She/he isn't real...is she/he?

She/he turned her/his helm in my direction and our optics met....it was her/him...But how..I..I thought she/he had...I thought she/he had died when our team was attacked back on Ki-Aleta...

But she/he was here, right here, on my ship, right in front of me...

I wanted to call out to her/him, but before I could I noticed a slightly smaller mech with an orange frame and slim built approach her/him. Their interactions reminded me of how we used to be like this back in the day. She/he was always there to lighten up the entire team even at the darkest times, no matter how tough or impossible a mission would seem, she/he never gave up. She/he always had our backs..My back. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel something more for her/him. I thought I had lost her/him back on Ki-Aleta. She's/he's here..I need to talk to her/him..

As I look back to see her/him and the orange mech making their way back to their quarters, I push back my thoughts of her/him and attempt to focus on current mission.

===============================

{ A time skip to when the Lost Lighters found a sparkeater aboard the ship, brought to you by Rung's adorable noodle arms }

===============================

《 Reader's P.O.V. 》

As I was sitting on the edge of the bridge in the Oil reservoir I couldn't help but let my thoughts run back to that Rodimus guy and this dreadful feeling of familiarity. He did remind me of someone though... Someone I'd rather forget about. His optics, I had a feeling like I'd seen them before, but I hadn't even met this guy...right?..

Though I was getting kinda suspicious of him being someone from my past. The similarity between the names. The way he had addressed the crew, the way he spoke, even his colour scheme was similar...so similar to an old friend..one that I was close to, one that I loved, one that I trusted....all just to see him leave me behind admist the enemy and the dead bodies of our team mates.

I had hoped that he would return, he might have just gone to get help. How silly...

I was brought out of my thoughts when I heard the sound of emergency sirens going off. As I made my way out of the ship's oil reservoir, a voice on the hallway's comm informed everyone of a little inconvenience that had occured and advised everyone to find a room and lock themselves in for a short while...for safety reasons...

Just turning around the corner and witnessing the dead body of a crew member I sadly did not remember the name of, was enough to convince me that this was more than just a 'little inconvenience'. Approaching the dead body I did what any rational bot would do,

I poked it.

I flipped the dead body over and instantly wished I hadn't. This guy wasn't just plain old dead, he was completely sliced up. His brain module had been torn out, his chasis was ripped apart...But what horrified me the most was his damaged spark chamber. It was as if..as if something had clawed it's way through.

I nearly jumped when I heard the sound of the elevator door opening in the distance, followed by the sounds of rushing pedesteps. Leaning from behind the corner I saw Rung running down the hall with a blue bot, Skids as I remember, seconds later a Sparkeater running after them.

Wait..

.

.

A SPARKEATER?!

I moved out into the hallway and saw an elevator with the door ripped open. Inside there was a yellow and blue bot with a briefcase strapped to his arm looking back up at me from his place near the far back corner of the elevator, obviously terrified. Suddenly it hit me, there was a sparkeater on the loose...right now after Rung...

I turned around and tore down the hallway to where I saw them going. The Engine room, that's where I found them.

My eyes landed on the Sparkeater as it was rushing towards..towards..RUNG who was being held in place by Rodimus?!

Infuriated was an understatement. I was beyond that. HOW DARE HE?!

"NOOOO!!" I dashed towards them but before I could reach I felt someone stop me and hold me back in place as I continued to kick and move out of there grasp.

I had to do something. I wasn't gonna let anything happen to Rung. I couldn't.

Not only had he saved me, he was my closest friend. I couldn't just sit back and watch him die, I couldn't just not do anything. I couldn't LEAVE MY FRIEND.

Then I saw it, admist it all, the resemblance, the similarity. It was him..It was him all along...Hot Rod...and he was still ready to give up someone else to save himself.

I glared at Rodimus as he held Rung in place despite hearing him protest. HOW CAN HE DO THAT TO A CREW MATE?!

I kicked myself free from my captor but ended up getting hit behind the helm by someone. The last thing I saw before blacking out was Rung being shoved to the side.

===============================

When my optics onlined I came to realize that I was laying on a metal berth probably in the medical bay.

Slowly getting up I placed a servo behind my helm where I was hit.

"You're up early."

I snapped my helm towards the source of the sound, clearly not expecting anyone to be there before.

When my optics landed on the all-too-familiar flame design. "You..." I glared at him.I clenched my servos and through gritted dentae I tried to control my anger. "Where is he .?.."

"..I'm righ-"

"Not YOU. Where is RUNG!?" The scowl on my face probably showed him that I was not in the mood to joke around.

*sigh* "He's fine. He's in his

habsuite."

I nodded my helm slightly in acknowledgement.

He managed a small smile, "Your

new friend was quite stubborn.

He refused to leave and wanted

to stay in case you woke up.

Ratchet sent him to his habsuite."

My 'new friend'.?...

"Yup, he's like that. Doesn't like leaving his friends behind." I remarked, putting a subtle emphasis on 'leaving' and 'friends'.

His smile faltered as he turned his gaze away from me before he stared at me again, this time there was a sad look in his optics which almost made me soften before I remembered all he had done both to me as Hot Rod and to Rung as Rodimus and I hardened my glare further.

"I..I'm sorry Y/n. I kno-"

"What for? Letting others die? Prioritizing a stupid oracle over the lives of our friends? Abandoning us just to save yourself? Leaving me behind in Ki-Aleta between the enemy fires and the dead bodies of our fallen team mates?" Speaking those words it came back to me, all the pain, the hopelessness, the anger, the sadness..the betrayal...

"For all of them Y/n. I'm sorry.

I regret leaving you like that

but I had to do it."

I let out a dry chuckle at that,"Of course you had to."

"I was under strict orders Y/n.

Orders the rest of you didn't

know about."

"So?.. I thought we were a team. Do you realize if only you had informed us of these 'strict orders' before, we would have gone there better prepared. GIZMO AND DOWNLOAD WOULD STILL BE ALIVE!" I felt my voice waver at the mention of our long dead team mates.

"Y/n-"

"SAVE IT HOT ROD! Even when you had a chance, you chose to save yourself. When you left us..left ME behind, Rod, I was in denial. I still believed like a fool that you would come back. You'd be there. You wouldn't just abandon us like that. I kept hoping that you'll be back.....but I could only keep hoping so much. One day I realizd you weren't coming back. That was the day I realized we were all just acceptable losses to you, just collateral damage.."

I placed a servo across my optics to hide the Lubricants threatening to leave them, "..And to think I loved you..Trusted you with my life.."

"Y/n..Look, I know what I did was

wrong, but like I said, I was under

the strictest of orders.." He paused,

probably to see if I would interrupt

him or not, before speaking again, "I should've told all of you. I thought if I did then it would complicate the mission too much. But now, seeing how things turned out for all of us, it would have been better if I had."

"Rod..sto-"

"I went back."

I removed the servo covering my optics and looked at him. Instead of anger, there was slight shock mixed with sadness in them as I processed what he just said.."Huh..?.."

"I went back for you. All of you. I couldn't find anyone except Dealer. I thought you had died Y/n and it was my fault. I spent so many sleepless nights wondering all the different ways I could have saved you, all the different 'what ifs'. I was frustrated and angry at myself for letting you suffer that fate."

He reached his servo out for mine, holding it gently, softly as if I would break.

"I know..It's not much use saying sorry now. Nothing I say can ever excuse my actions, but please Y/n. Give me a chance. A chance to make up for all of it. I finally found you after so many eons, after I thought I lost you forever. Even though I know you hate me, just give me one chance to rebuild our trust and all that we had. Just one more chance to make things right. Hmm?"

"Rod.." I looked up at him. I saw the sincerity in his optics. No matter how much I tried, even after all that happened, I still couldn't hate him, my anger was slowly fading, giving way to sadness. The sight of our servos clasped together, drowned me in nostalgia.

"..I could never hate you..*sigh* It may take a while for us to go back to the way we used to be. Rod..I may be able to forgive with time but..but it's gonna be hard to forget.." He gave my servo a small reassuring squeeze. "But I'm willing to take a chance and start over."

I looked at him and saw relief mixed with happiness in his optics.

"I'll never abandon you..never again."

A small but genuine smile spread across my faceplates as I felt my spark warm up. The feelings for him, I had once buried within me started to resurface, slow yet steady.

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Aightttttt peeps so that was it with this one-shot. I hope you had fun reading this (I know it was kinda long and maybbbbe sort of all over the place, sooooo thank youuuuu for bearing all that.)

I'm open to all advices and suggestions, so please feel free to speak your mind on how I can improve.

Have a good day everyone~

#transformers #transformers+headcanons #optimus prime #rodimus #lost light #red alert #mtmte rung #transformers idw #idw tf #tf idw #mtmte drift #mtmte cyclonus #mtmte brainstorm #mtmte rodimus

[ghafahey]

@mdzswomen Appreciation Week 2: Day 5 — Repentance

Rated:

 G

Pairing:

Lan Yi/Baoshan Sanren

for you: repentance.

Lan Yi sits and waits, her knees cold and her mind a thousand leagues away with the one she loves, even after centuries.

i.

It’s so cold all around her that sometimes she forgets who she was, who she is, who she may never be again.

In the darkest nights, when all around her there’s nothing but a deep pit of emptiness, all she remembers is a pair of dark eyes and a mouth set in a determined line and the silent call to please stay, stay stay stay.

ii.

There’s Lan set into every single frame of his bones. Lan Yi can tell from far away before he even enters the cave she’s been stuck in for centuries. There’s a deep sense of duty, a commitment to justice, a grief that seems too old for his young body. The other one, laughter and smiles and teasing stitched into his skin, is so different that she can’t help but chuckle to herself when he falls into ice-cold water, emerging spluttering and soaked to the bone. But then, her great-great-great-great-something takes off his headband – the sacred headband no one is supposed to touch, well unless… - and binds their wrists together so they can approach her guqin. It makes her falter for a moment, her mind recalling, trying to reach out to someone – far away and still breathing and missing from her like a limb. She doesn’t think they realize the full extent of their fate which has been intertwined so irrevocably now.

  iii.

“Don’t you think,” Baoshan Sanren says, the comb halting on a particularly stubborn knot in the long dark waves of Lan Yi’s hair. Fingers brush her shoulders, clad in pale blue robes, shuddering from the touch. “It’s a bit ridiculous to need a piece of cloth to practice self-restraint.”

Lan Yi raises one eyebrow at her friend in the mirror.

(Friend seems, she muses, too little a word. Not nearly enough, not even right in her mind, no less on her tongue. There’s another, one dripping with a meaning that leaves her lungs empty when she thinks of it and so, she hasn’t dared to voice it just yet.)

(One day, she promises herself, she’ll look Baoshan Sanren in the eyes and tell her, drenched in all the heaviness of her heart. She’ll tell her: “You’re the one I was looking for before I even knew. You’re the one my soul recognized upon our first meeting, down in the forest so close to midnight, your mouth smiling around some fruit and my own tipping up involuntarily. You’re the one I know will understand my every word and doing because I would understand yours too.”)

(But not tonight.)

“I mean, simply, that if that is all it takes for you to practice restraint… does that not in itself deem you weak.”

The knot loosens. Lan Yi turns, eyebrows still raised, and mouth curled in amusement. Their shoulders knock and Baoshan grins down at her, her eyes two pools of mystery it could take a lifetime and more to decode. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them; growing smaller each time, Lan Yi notices, they’re together at night before both retiring to their respective beds.

“Maybe I am,” she muses, her voice a teasing whisper through heavy nighttime air.

Baoshan's eyes flicker, just for a moment, and her mouth twists as if there’s something else to say, something else to do. The moment passes. There’s still a handful of distance between them.

“Personally…,” she rises from where she's been sitting behind Lan Yi, stretching until the joints of her bones crack with a loud pop. “I would like to see you unrestrained.”

 iv.

It’s still cold. Not unbearably so. Not after centuries. But the ice has never been the problem. The problem is hundreds, thousands of leagues away, on a mountain, hidden by green and secret passageways and shrouded in mystery. Still alive, still breathing, still warm from the blood in her bones while Lan Yi herself is a shred of who she once was. Her power fades each day, drains and leaves her more and more a shell unable to reach out towards the mortal realm.

The problem is: there are so many things left unsaid.

The problem is: she had the chance to make a different choice but was too blinded by ambition to listen.

The problem is: the day Lan Yi went against her soul’s mate she left part of herself with her and never got it back. Until then, how will she find peace? Until then, does she even want to?

The problem is, the problem always has been: Baoshan’s laughter and the crinkles that come out around her eyes and her head thrown back in joy and the image of it branded like fire into Lan Yi’s mind.

  v.

He sits and reads and stares, frost between his brows, at the wall.

“We could carve him from stone and put him in a courtyard. He has the face for it.”

Sometimes Baoshan visits her. It’s a hallucination, of course, Lan Yi is a smart woman who doesn’t fall for simple tricks of the mind baked in hope and loneliness. She knows it can only be a hallucination because she hasn’t had the courage to seek her out herself. She makes excuses for preserving energy, for guarding the Yin Iron – yet she knows the familiar feeling of dread and shame pooling in her stomach.

Still, it’s nice to see Baoshan perched on the ice altar next to her guqin, much like the boy one of her disciples gave life to years ago now. In contrast to Wei Ying, no one scolds her for so carelessly sitting down next to the powerful heirloom. In fact, the sight is welcome. She looks exactly like the day Lan Yi last saw her, not a single wrinkle around her eyes or a grey hair in the waterfall of black flowing down her back. Maybe she hasn’t aged after all or maybe Lan Yi’s imagination just doesn’t like to be realistic.

“He is in mourning,” Lan Yi replies gently.

It’s a feeling she knows too intimately herself. But while the boy – a man now, not the young soul who stumbled into this cave years ago and bound himself without thinking, now hardened by war and loss and heartbreak – mourns for the love he lost to death, Lan Yi mourns for the love she lost to life.

“Tell me,” Baoshan says from her place at the altar, not taking her eyes off Lan Wangji and the stiff set of his shoulders while Lan Yi can’t seem to take her eyes off her. “Do those descendants of yours truly think sitting in an ice cave for unbelievable amounts of time will cure one of love?”

Lan Yi had gotten a glimpse of said descendant once, a man set in his principles and beliefs and pride dripping off his mustache. She’s also heard the story that the very same mustache once got shaved off by one of Baoshan Sanren’s disciples, the mother of the man being mourned in these halls. It would not surprise her if that man thinks solitary confinement in the hidden cave of a mountain, blood and scars on your back and your heart in shambles, was the cure to heartache and grief.

"They have not gotten much smarter with the centuries, I fear," she replies after a moment and Baoshan Sanren's lips quirk in a smile she misses more than sunshine on her skin and the smell of flowers. Centuries locked in this place seem suddenly bearable at the sight that once greeted her every day - sometimes mischievous, sometimes gentle and sometimes, dare she hope, loving.

"This one though, I think... he'll be fine." And then the smile dies on the hallucination's lips and suddenly, finally, her eyes meet Lan Yi's across the cave, her gaze so intense that for a few short moments she's fool enough to believe Baoshan is truly here. "He won't have to mourn forever."

  vi.

“Lan Yi,” a hand shakes her awake, not too gently. When she blinks her eyes open, morning light greets her first, then Baoshan’s furrowed brows. Her back and neck ache from the position she fell asleep in, her head on the desk between books and scrolls.

“Oh,” she winces when she straightens again, her back making a painful sound. Baoshan’s hand is still on her shoulder, gripping a little too tightly.

“You fell asleep over this again?” She eyes the contents on the table, then huffs out a breath. Her hand falls from Lan Yi’s shoulder and Lan Yi swallows down the sound of disapproval that forms in her throat. “I should have never told you about the Yin Iron.”

It’s not the first time they’re having this argument, not the first time Baoshan has found her in the library at an early hour, not the first time her eyes have clouded with anger and disappointment like that.

Lan Yi rises, shakes out her shoulders as if that could also shake off her friend’s glare and the cold grip around her heart at having disappointed the most important person in her life.

“I am simply researching a bit,” she says but doesn’t meet Baoshan’s eyes. “There has to be a way to neutralize the Yin Iron, to use it for good.”

Her friend is silent, maybe run out of arguments against her because they keep going in an endless cycle of back-and-forth, neither of them ready to budge, to admit they might be wrong. It’s been weighing on them for months now, slowly carving an abyss between them that has never been there before.

When once they would sit together at night, brushing each other’s hair, sharing stories and laughter and wine, now Lan Yi retires to the library instead and avoids Baoshan’s judging eyes and harsh words.

“Even if there is,” Baoshan admits after a moment, her voice lowered and no longer angry. When Lan Yi looks up she finds the other woman moving closer, her eyes pleading even before she reaches out a hand to grip Lan Yi’s elbow. “Have you even spared a thought to what it might cost you?”

She has. Of course, she has though she has pushed it all away to not be distracted from her goal. This has to work, has to go well, and earn her the respect among the other clan leaders she has always deserved. No matter the cost, she is willing to pay it, she thinks. Has to trust in her own abilities and mind to see this through and come out of it victorious and unscathed and a legend for the future generations to marvel at.

So, she raises her chin and stares Baoshan down. “I am willing to pay that price.”

Her friend swallows and as her eyes lower, so does her hand, falling from Lan Yi’s elbow and once again opening up the chasm between them she was trying to bridge with a simple touch. One that had once brought so much comfort.

“I am not.” She turns as if defeated though her words prove the opposite. “So I hope you will forgive me for praying every night that you never find the Yin Iron’s true location.”

 vii.  

Sometimes, when she curls around herself on the ground and lets the rabbits settle next to her as if she had a need for sleep, her mind flicks through memories like pages of a book. It stays on the good parts often enough, on laughter with wine on her lips, on the comfort of arms wrapped around her, on her name whispered against her neck one night when they had gotten too drunk and lost themselves; on the bright eyes of her disciples when she had instructed them, the girls especially, on the respect some had paid her; on days even longer past when she would be surrounded by her mother and father and brothers for dinner.

Most times it makes her relive the bad parts too, death upon death, insults whispered behind her back but just loud enough for her to hear, the sneer of men thinking themselves above her.

And then, Baoshan’s sword raised against her, the one thing she never thought to live through. It still hurts just as much as that night, no matter her intentions. She’s unable to say anything but her mind screams I thought we were bound for life and death. I thought you would never raise your sword against me. I thought we were destined to stand and fight and live side by side.

It was an illusion perhaps, a dream she had crafted of a reality that could never be true just to console herself that maybe, some version of them had gotten to that part they had always dreamed of.

They didn’t in this life.

In her dreams, which aren't dreams at all because she cannot sleep, a hand runs through her hair and a familiar voice whispers her name, followed by apologies she is so eager to return but can't because she has no voice.

When Lan Yi opens her eyes, still tired, her face wet from snow and tears, it’s to the same cold walls as the last thousand days.

  viii.

There is a wedding happening. Something tells her, maybe a whispered prayer or a flow of energy filled with a particular shade of happiness.

“You were right,” she tells Baoshan Sanren's illusion, who has her head in her lap and her dark hair spread out like a fan. Lan Yi cards her hands through it slowly, gently, savoring the moment that seems so real she feels it pricking behind her eyes. “He did not have to mourn forever.”

Baoshan looks up then and raises a hand to the corner of Lan Yi’s mouth, her thumb gliding over it like a kiss she never dared to press there.

“It was supposed to be us.”

  iv.

Her biggest regret, her biggest dream lives thousands of leagues away on a mountain, secluded and centuries-old and Lan Yi hopes selfishly that she has not been forgotten. That maybe Baoshan Sanren too wakes up sometimes and aches for the love they never spoke but knew too well, for the future they could have had if only, if only…

Locked away in an ice cave is as much repentance for playing at power, for not listening, for breaking the seal on an object that once more has caused so many deaths as it is for taking a knife to the thread that connected her to Baoshan and cutting right through it. She's sure she deserves this.

So, Lan Yi sits and waits and fades slowly and thinks that maybe, once she has gone from this world entirely, she’ll be given another chance.

I’ll get it right this time, she promises.

#mdzswomen #lan yi #lan yi x baoshan sanren #the untamed #my writing #oops?

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 65: Broken Spell

Keith enjoys a morning out with Lance... Except for this one, *tiny* problem

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Keith wakes to a bare leg slung over his hip, fingers trailing from his shoulder and down his side, sliding across his waist to form teasing circles low on his abdomen. Lips flutter against the edge of his exposed ear, just a hint of teeth.

“Seriously?”

“What? I spent almost a decaphoeb celibate for you!” The Altean snuggles closer. “And now I find myself with a beautiful man in my arms who, unlike anyone else I’ve ever had, is entirely mine.”

The growl on Lance’s final word has Keith wavering, until he shifts and discovers the discomfort between his legs. He sucks in a breath between his teeth. “I think the fuck not, Lance. What did you do to my vagina?”

“Crude. Also, nothing. Discomfort is normal your first time. But I can fix it, if you like.”

“Please do. And how would you know that’s normal?”

“Well, I have an ass.”

“Gross.” Keith sighs as Lance’s quintessence slips beneath his skin. He’s come to associate that warmth slithering into his veins and nerves with Lance’s love and affection. It's familiar to him now, bringing him comfort, a sense of home and belonging. Basically, he’s a huge sucker.

“Hm… I’d love to have you in it.”

“Lance!” Keith roles over, discomfort gone, glaring at his mate. Lance raises an eyebrow. “I’ll... think about it. Thace says that I have to check and make sure my dick works anyway.”

“I’d be delighted to help, either way.” The Altean's smile is playful, easy-going.

“I’m sure you would.” Keith sighs. “So that’s the plan then? Have sex all day?”

“Mnh, no. We're going home before your season.”

“Lance, I need to have my season here. And stay two movements after that to see if I’ve conceived-”

“I meant your home, beloved. Your childhood home, remember? We said we’d-”

“Really?! You- Really?!” Keith’s face lights up like a thousand stars.

Lance beams. “Yes, really!"

Keith throws his arms around his mate. He'd never really doubted Lance's word, but that word still means worlds to him. Furry, plumed tail twisting around his ankle, purring loudly in his throat, Keith nuzzles into Lance's neck. He loves this Altean so much, couldn't think of a better place to be than right here.

Okay, maybe he's riding the high of being freshly mated, but he actually doesn't feel that different than before. Maybe a little giddy, but other than that... no more or less full of love. Still just as overflowing.

Laughing, Lance squeezes him tight, fingers running through his long, loose hair. He lets go all to soon- "Let’s go! Get your clothes on!”

Keith leaps up, scrambling for a fresh set of clothes. Lance flops back on the bed, chuckling as his spouse’s eagerness. The Galra pauses, turning back to meet Lance’s soft gaze. “What?”

“I love you,” Lance sighs.

“Well I should hope so, since I just gave myself over to you.” Keith grins, just a little cocky. “I love you, too.”

He pulls his shirt over his head, tucks the hem into the waist of his pants. Lance is still staring at him. “What?”

“Are we really gonna have a baby?”

“So that’s what you’re up to, is it?” Krolia leans in the doorway. Lance shrieks, pulling the blankets up to cover himself. “Making kits?”

“Well, we’re going to try. We’ll see what happens,” Lance squeaks. “Could you, um, let me get dressed?”

“Yeah, seriously, Mom. What the fuck?” Keith snickers, settling his circlet on his head. He hasn’t worn it in a while, but feels like it today. Lance wears his every day.

“Fine.” Krolia turns around, still leaning against the wall. “You do realize, don’t you Altean, just how easy it is for a Galra in season to conceive?”

“Uh… Not really, no. Altean females ovulate every ten movements -two phoebs-, and even then pregnancy is far from assured. It can take decaphoebs to-”

“During season, pregnancy is all but guaranteed, even for intersex people like Keith, though they do have a slightly lower success rate.” Krolia turns back, slow, slim smile on her lips. “So you’d better be damn well sure you want a kit with my son.”

Lance, fully dressed, slips an arm around Keith’s waist. “We have a responsibility to provide my kingdom with an heir. It’s an ugly thing, but it is something that we must take into account.” Keith’s tail twists around Lance’s ankle, squeezing tightly, approval of his honesty and forthright. “That said, I have wanted to be a father since I was a small child myself. I’m more than ready for it, and more than certain. Especially if I’ve got this one by my side!”

Lance beams, pressing their brows together. Keith purrs, soft and sweet in his throat.

“Right. So, we need elk, and supplies, and to meet up with hunters-”

“I want to visit the Sanctorium. I need to get an offering for my father.”

“You’re going back home? It’s almost your season!” Krolia frowns.

“Yes, which is why we’re going now,” Lance argues. “It’s not terribly far, it’ll give me a chance to see some of the wilderness, and we’ll be sure to return within a movement. In the meantime, we’ll send a message to Thace and inform him of our intentions to conceive, and he can begin collaboration with our own castle health care professional, Tavo, and Hunk, who is in charge of providing Keith’s meals. Additionally, I’ll have Adam and Pidge break into Daibazaal’s database and steal Lotor’s medical records. Honerva and Zarkon refused to unseal them for us.”

“Odd.” Krolia cocks her head, counting her coins, passing them to Keith. “Why would they refuse?”

“Not sure. Perhaps his records will tell us something. I intend to ask the man himself, as well.”

"Let me do it," Keith murmurs. "He's my cousin."

"Sure, of course! Do let me know what he says, though."

Krolia eyes them, gaze dark. “The Imperial couple is as morally dubious as Alfor is. Everybody knows that.”

Keith ties the bag of coins to his belt, scooping BleepBloop onto his shoulder. The primate works a hand into Keith’s hair, the other exploring his circlet. “Possibly even worse, though that is debatable.”

“Oh. Remind me to tell you about that later,” Lance mutters, suddenly looking nervous. “But for now, to the square! I want to see this 'Sactomium' you talked of.”

Arms linked, Keith leads Lance through the crowded streets, attention completely on each other save one moment where Lance murmurs something to Krolia, and she heads off with a nod, and something shiny in her hand...

The Sanctorium is a large structure, much like a den, but much larger, surrounded by gardens, vines creeping up the sides. Druids in long robes and masks walk among the vegetation, taking clippings and peeling bark from trees. Windchimes made of metal, wood, glass, and stone sing from tree branches and metal stands. There are Galra praying, meditating, simply walking about the grounds. Some converse with Druids, perhaps seeking spiritual council or advice on different rituals.

“So what are we here for?” Lance asks, gazing up at the structure. It’s clearly treated with respect. The stone is cared for and polished, painted with intricate designs, stained glass in the windows.

“Herbs. And a few different crystals. I need to make an offering spell for my father. For both a reunion and a goodbye.” Keith passes BleepBloop over to his mate, leading the way into the Sanctorium.

Inside is just as fascinating as the outside. There are shelves, arranged in a spiral shape, a single aisle through the middle to a desk, a Druid standing just behind. The shelves are lined with… stuff. Some, Lance can tell, are herbs, seeds, bits of stone and crystal. Some are definitely pieces of animals, like feet, claws, teeth, tails, and feathers. Others are… presumably one or possibly more of those things, but Lance can’t really tell.

“Hey, what do you think about this?” Keith holds up a clawed foot of some kind, only for BleepBloop to snatch and start munching on it. The Galra rolls his eyes at his uncooperative pet.

Lance shrugs. “I… Know nothing at all about your religion, either your magyks or your gods.”

“The basics are as follows,” Keith says, wandering through the aisles, grabbing seemingly random objects. “Different stuff does different stuff and only the druids know all of the stuff. And we have gods. There are hundreds of them, and everyone picks one or two to observe.”

“So who do you observe?” Lance leans over to inspect a box of he knows from his studies are shards of volcanic glass.

“Trija.” Keith continues selecting, measuring, gathering different objects, setting them all in a clay jar.

“Trija?” Lance’s brow furrows, a bit of forgotten knowledge tickling at his mind.

“She’s a star. A small one. She was our first empress, who supposedly married a sorceress and joined her in the stars when they both died.”

“I see… Why did you pick Trija?”

Keith pauses, fingers hovering over a box of dried fruits. Or maybe they were some kind of dead animal? He shakes himself, sets one of the dried… things in his jar.

“It was the only star I remembered. My father, he tried to teach me about the stars. I was really little, only six when he died, and I was a… precocious child-”

“Sassy. Opinionated. Stubborn. An adorable pain in the ass, no doubt.”

“Heh, yeah. Pretty much. But the one that managed to stick with me, no matter how unwilling a pupil I was, was Trija, because of the story. I held onto that, all those years. I was little, and alone, and I couldn’t sleep hardly at all. So I’d sit on top of the den, or in a tree, and I’d stare at her for hours, and it made everything just a little bit better. It made me feel less alone.”

“Keith…”

Keith’s fingers stop trailing over jars of herbs, turning to look at his mate, only for the Altean to latch onto him like a sucker eel, squeezing him tight. “I’m sorry. It was Altea’s fault you went through all that. My people took your father from you. I’m so sorry, Keith.”

“It’s not your fault,” Keith mutters, voice surprisingly thin. “Don’t apologize for them.”

“I promise I’ll ruin our childrens’ childhoods by spoiling them, not killing their parents.”

“Well, I am one of their parents, so…” Keith noses into Lance’s neck. “Let me buy this, and then we can-”

Keith’s eyes find Krolia, leaning in the entryway, glaring at Lance with absolute loathing. Something inside him breaks a little bit. She’d promised- Well, no, she hadn’t promised, but she’d agreed to give Lance a chance, to give him the opportunity to prove himself. And yet here she is, his mother, staring at his mate like she wants nothing more than to eviscerate him.

Something in Keith hardens, even as he squeezes Lance harder so he won’t pull back and see. He feels betrayed. It must reach his eyes, because Krolia falters in her glare, blinking at him in alarm.

Keith meets her gaze, stares her down as he rubs his cheek against Lance’s skin. Petty? Totally. Possessive? Oh, yeah. Necessary? Absolutely. He hates it, but yesterday, he would have chosen Lance, and today, it wouldn't be a choice at all.

“Come on, beloved.” Lance rubs his back, soothing circles. “Let’s get the stuff for your offering, and then get you home.” The prince draws back, lacing their hands together. “I want to meet Akira of house Kogane. I want to thank him for saving you.”

“Of course you do,” Keith murmurs, smiling, hand slipping up to link their arms. “I don’t remember him very well, but Dad would have liked you. He was the fun-loving, mischievous type. I think… That’s how I remember him, anyway.”

“If he made you, he must have been. You certainly didn’t get it from Krolia.”

“Yeah…” Keith grimaces, paying the druid behind the desk for his stuff. “You’ve no idea.”

“I mean… I’ve shared a room with her. For about a varga. I think I’ve at least some idea.”

Keith laughs. He just wants to enjoy Lance’s company, riding the high of their freshly consummated bond.

“But you know… Your mother has had a hard life, and one far from painless. It might just be taking her a while to remember how to do those things.”

“Yeah. I guess. Maybe.” They step together out into the sun. “Maybe she’ll loosen up as time goes on, huh?”

“Lance!” Krolia jogs up, like she just arrived. “I need to speak to you for a moment. Alone.”

“Very well.” Lance lifts their joined hands to indicate a pair of elk, laden with saddlebags, suddenly reminding Keith of his first night in the castle, when Lance gave him a tour of their quarters. “Your mother procured some supplies and elk for us, over there. Do you mind?”

“I guess not…” Keith eyes his mother cautiously. “See you soon?”

“Yes, and then we’ll leave.” Lance kisses his cheek, hurrying after Krolia.

Anxious, Keith heads for the elk, recognizing one of them as Lance’s doe from training, Bruna. He rubs her nose. “Hey, pretty girl. You’re gonna take good care of my dumbass mate for me, right? Assuming my mother doesn’t kill him first?”

Lance comes running up, a bag over his shoulder. “Okay, lets go!”

“What’s in the bag?”

“I’ll tell you later; let’s go!” Lance vaults onto Bruna, turning expectantly to his dazed spouse. “Kee-eeith. Let’s gooo-oooo.”

“R- Right!” Keith mounts his own elk -nameless, because he’s not an enormous dork-, urging him into a walk. “So we’re really leaving, then?”

“Yes, we’re really leaving! I can’t wait to see it! I want to see everything, remember? Remember when I-”

“You’re going to talk the entire way there, aren’t you?”

“Wha- No! No, I’m not! But I just want to mention-”

Keith smiles, shaking his head. His mother’s glare still stings, but it’s hard to be angry when facing off against Lance’s smile. He doesn’t see his mate like this very often -hardly ever-, so he might as well enjoy it while he can.

He does have a question though, one that’s been nagging at him for the better part of a movement now…

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

[radiojamming]

I feel like the low-hanging fruit of a prompt to give you is something around the canonical presence of the Franklin Expedition in TMA lore. Everchase fic?

[GRABS THAT FRUIT AND SCURRIES BACK UP MY TREE WITH IT BEFORE U CAN EVEN BLINK]

also i picked my 3rd favorite franklin expedition boy as the main dude here :3c and this isn’t terror-centric so much as it lines up with MAG 133!

- - -

Tom doesn’t understand what possesses the men he sails with. Some of them have such a want; such a craving and a desire that he cannot fathom, what with his simple daily tasks and basic training. He sees it, sometimes, when he’s tying off ropes or painting or tarring. He sees their hunger, spies it when they look out at where the sea is caked in ice, threatening the end of a cold summer. Out beyond the grey mountains and glaciers, the knife points of broken ice, the strange creatures, the dancing lights that curtain the stars, he knows they see the Northwest Passage. They see it so clearly that they’re blind to what’s in front of them now.

He sees a job. He sees chores and things that years in the Navy have taught him to do. 

Of course, he also wants things. Everyone does. Tom wants to make it through the expedition in one piece, whether it end in the Sandwich Islands or England if they have to turn tail. He wants to collect his double pay, count it out from his hands to his mother’s, and feel safe and warm again before the next set of sails and ropes entices him back to the sea. 

And once, he wanted adventure. He wouldn’t have had the thought to sign onto Erebus if there wasn’t some part of him that craved it. It didn’t capture his senses the way it does for some of the men, but there was a thrill that ran a gauntlet through his heart when he saw something truly strange, like the auroras or the twirled horns of narwhals peeking up through the ice. Sometimes, he would eagerly run down to the orlop after his watch ended and pen out a quick letter to his sisters, his brother, his mother, or his cousins—just hurried observations of the Arctic and how different it was from Gillingham. 

He wanted adventure. The past tense is deliberate and fierce. He wanted, because the only reason it was ever in the present tense at all is now buried under six feet of frozen gravel some two hundred miles north. If he must want something presently, he wants his brother back from the dead.

No, he doesn’t understand the men who seek the Passage like hounds on a scent. What’s the use of wanting something you’re not meant to have?

- - -

They freeze in for the second summer in a row. The sun kisses the horizon, pressing rosy lips to grey shale and pink ice—then draws back up into a powder blue sky to wink above them. 

That’s when people start to disappear.

First, it’s Sir John. He dies in June—or so Tom’s told. He apparently dies in the night, long after the dog watches take place. Captain Crozier tells the men that they’ll be burying Sir John right away, but Commander— no, Captain Fitzjames’ face is fixed peculiarly when the announcement is made. Dreadfully ill, Crozier tells them. He can’t be seen.

It doesn’t make sense. Many of the ABs echo the sentiment, but the mates and lieutenants are quick to quash their concerns. The burial is hasty, committing a simple wooden box to the gravel with only a large stone to mark the grave itself. This strikes Tom as stranger than all the Arctic’s oddest traits combined. His brother, a lowly able-bodied seaman, was afforded more decorum than Sir John Franklin. 

More disappear after that. Fairholme and Osmer apparently die on a hunting expedition. Aylmore, Goddard, and Kinnaird aren’t far behind, disappearing into that sun-soaked horizon with only whispers left behind. 

Reddington makes the oddest display before his disappearance; honestly, he’s the best hint to Tom that something very, very strange is happening. The night before he goes missing, he wakes half the ship up with a maniacal laugh, practically screaming in pure incoherence before Lieutenant Le Vesconte drags him into the Wardroom, presumably to calm him. Le Vesconte opens the door only once to ask for Captain Fitzjames and a glass of brandy before he shuts them both in and the screaming starts again. All Tom can catch is the howl of, “It’s there! It’s there! I’ve seen it!” before Fitzjames arrives.

The next morning, Reddington is gone. Fitzjames says he broke loose and ran off after the second dog watch, presumably having gone mad.

A few days later, Crozier says they’re going to abandon ship and begin a long walk south.

- - -

The craving begins in September, Tom thinks. 

If there even is such thing as September. 

In his mind, it’s The Craving, titled like a book. In this book, he thinks the plot would be about men so far gone in their hunger that all the humanity in them decays to nothing, leaving them crazed husks searching for the impossible. At this point, what with men falling into the stones and dying halfway through the descent, he feels they shouldn’t be like this. They should be tending their wounded and ill, making camp more often. But The Craving is in Crozier’s eyes, dragging them further and further towards… something.

Tom doesn’t think they’re looking for the Passage anymore.

He follows along, as he always has. Ever the seaman, now ever the AB, following orders from a boatswain with lips scarred from his whistle freezing to the flesh and tearing away. 

Then, The Craving gets carnal when their last food stores begin to dwindle. Tom barely notices, watching as if in a dream as the man who used to be Daniel Arthur cracks marrow out of a bone, greedily clawing it out of the hollows with his frostbitten fingers. He eats like an animal, and stops only when they begin to move again. 

Tom doesn’t eat with them. Every time he thinks of it, his mind plays some terrible trick. He thinks of John, entombed in ice and rock, emaciated and torn open like an animal was the one who pried his ribs from his body, and not a surgeon. He thinks of what John’s marrow would taste like, and imagines his brother watching him, eyes unfocused behind the mists of death, jaw unhinged in that silent scream of a corpse—judging him.

Tommy, he thinks John would say. Always stealing off my plate, huh?

He doesn’t eat. When the hunger saws at his stomach with iron teeth, he bites his hands, his lips, the wool from his coat, the copper-tasting metal of his buttons. He swallows snow until he vomits. 

And somehow, impossibly, he lives on.

- - -

There are no days.

No weeks.

No months.

Maybe years, but Tom’s stopped counting.

There are only steps, one after another. There are bloody footprints thousands of miles behind them. They abandoned the sledges back in the snow and gravel, leaving useless cargo and a trail of broken bodies. Men still die, but there seems to be no real reason why they do. Tom should have been dead… ten? Twenty? Fifty years ago? He can’t remember. All he knows is that he’s still walking, following behind Crozier and Fitzjames and a dwindling party of men still dressed for the Arctic weather.

They’re in a desert.

Surely they should have found the Passage by now? Tom thinks this as he sees a lizard scurry up a strange plant, spiked like a well-used pincushion. The sun bites his blistering flesh, scrapes its glowing teeth along the back of his neck. Still, he’s never felt the need to take off his slops. There’s something comforting about the What Was, after all.

Why is he here? He doesn’t Crave the way the others do. They always talk about the Passage. It’s over that hill, surely. It’s along this river. If we just walk over there, it will be within sight. He knows it won’t be. It never is.

So why does he walk?

Because you Want, something tells him. It’s a deep, odd thing set in his soul, prone to ring out when struck like a bell, reminding him that he Must Always Walk.

For what?

For the Wanting, it says. And what do you Want, Thomas Hartnell?

Somewhere beyond a flat-topped mountain the colour of blood and bile, he thinks about that question. What does he Want?

He wants his mother to kiss his forehead and tell him good night. He wants Charlie to take apart their father’s pocket watch and put it back together, just in time to proudly show it to Tom. He wants to hear Mary Ann sing old shanties while she kneads dough on Friday morning. He wants to sit at the base of an apple tree while Betsy throws down the fruit, giggling as she does so.

He wants John to come back from the dead.

He wants to go home.

And Home is over that next mountain, says The Craving. Tom looks up at another blood-red mountain, the winking sun pressing a kiss to the slant of its neck. Don’t you want to see it again? Gillingham? Kent? The River and the Sea?

Of course he does, but it isn’t—

Well, maybe it is.

So Tom Wants, and he Craves, and he Walks.

#tma #the magnus archives #mag 133 #THIS WAS REALLY REALLY FUN

[ramblingqueenfangirl]

Who gave them the right!!!!!????

Freddie Mercury, an immigrant boy from Zanzibar who had arguably one of the best singing voices ever just naturally like it belonged there as much as the blood in his veins. He could write #1 worldwide hits in less than an hour and if he took longer, would write what some in the music business have called the greatest rock song of all time. Had an ear for music that is so finely honed he can hear a song once, sit at a piano and play it and most likely even improve upon it. Who only had piano lessons for just a few years in school as a kid, and sang in the school choir at 7 and never again had any training in music or anything that it entails, yet sang better than the most trained vocalist ever. Who had one of the most exotic, recognizable, and in my opinion, sexiest looks along with the charisma of a thousand stars in one man. He could play genius melodies on a piano and secretly played insanely unique and awesome rhythm guitar. He had the talent of at least ten of the best musicians the world could produce, and was generous and funny, and just an all around good person and could control an audience of hundreds of thousands with absolutely no effort who were all in sync better than the back ups in a Jane Fonda work out video, with merely one finger. Who even though was very particular and perfectionist about his music worked so hard that not one person who ever made music with him left feeling he wasn’t the best. Who didn’t know the meaning of the word moderation and lived a life filled with more fun in just 45 years than most humans that live to be 100. Would give interviews with some of the most perfect answers just off the top of his head that are still quoted by many almost 30 years after his death. Who was the most generous celebrity ever, and was loved by most of his contemporaries even when they wanted to be jealous of him. Who sang opera that he WROTE, with one of the best opera singers that has ever breathed air, and had her in awe of his ability while fighting an unknown, excruciatingly painful, and deadly disease. A pairing that came about from one short interview in the diva’s home country and started a enormous and lasting trend of rock musicians singing opera and trying to copy the success that he created on a whim, and all others have failed to live up to miserably. A man whose instinctual movements to the music that poured out of his very soul from every pore, were so graceful, odd, and completely unplanned and awesome that it made him one of the best entertainers that ever stepped onto a stage. Who found true love even with every single obstacle stacked against it and managed to have a relationship that though not perfect was so beautiful no fairy tale could match it. Who never slept alone a day in his life and even when penniless lived like the greatest star that ever lived. Who even though a small man, who weighed nothing and wasn’t extremely tall, managed to be appealing to both men and women and personified the word sexy. Who never once in his entire life lost the beat of, both a life lived completely fully every day, or the timeless and completely inspired music he created with absolutely no effort. Who was so naturally gifted that it’s hard to believe he was actually human. A man that had a long and successful career but only took one 20 minute performance to become the most legendary performer in more than a century, all while sick with a throat infection which he refused to let stop his performance of some of rock’s hardest songs ever sung. Who when he shared a stage with the most popular and beloved artists ever and with no lights or costumes, made them all look like amateurs. Who 60 percent of 1.6 billion people voted as the most iconic and great live music performance that has ever been. Who many people believe is one of the greatest singers and frontman that did and will ever exist. When he died the grief never stopped or wanrd in intensity. Who set records in music,and then over 25 years later set a movie industry record with over 900 million dollars spent to see a biopic about his life.

Brian May, not only can use his fingers to make sounds on a guitar that a guitar shouldn’t be able to make, but was so determined to learn guitar he and his father built one from left over fireplace parts. As a child, learned and studied astronomy and physics well enough to get his masters in the subjects and later a doctorate. Has the most recognizable hair of any rock and roll musician ever naturally growing from his head, and while attaining all this education, mastered the art of guitar playing at the same time. Who has a singing voice good enough to front his own band but finds the perfect band mates by complete coincidence and become sone of the best guitar players ever and played in one of the biggest rock bands ever and be a genuinely nice and kind person as well. Taught school while his band was still finding their fame and even at 70 is still one of the coolest and most recognizable musicians on the planet. Who plays the same guitar over half a century later that he built with his dad from fireplace parts and which no one can ever completely replicate and is still the most legendary guitar in music history and he still plays all over the world and who no one has ever been able to compete with that cost less than 50 British pounds to construct.

Roger Taylor, with his baby blue eyes and long blonde hair who was too pretty to be a guy and can play drums with the best ever. He can sing in perfect range to be in harmony with his amazingly gifted lead singer while drumming at break neck speed. Who was the one who met Freddie first and introduced him to his band mate and friend Brian May and cemented one of the greatest music destinies ever. Who got more women than Casanova and could play drums and sing perfectly even when still drunk or hungover. Who has a bit of an ego, but is also humble and kind to fans. Who is the soul mate of one of the best singers that rock ever knew. Not only did they understand each other’s souls but their voices complemented each other so well only the angels in heaven could harmonize better. He could lead sing in and did, lead his own band where he played guitar yet another talent he possesses in spades. Who was made to be a rock star from the minute he decide he wanted to be. A man who could with very little time be certified as a dentist and studied biology with remarkable grades finishing his degree even though he knew he didn’t have to.

John Deacon, a man who is the definition of the word winning, in human form. A guy who on the outside seemed regular and average but was actually one of the most extraordinary musicians that ever picked up an instrument. A human disco ball who not only played bass guitar better than probably anyone but did it while dancing and writing some of the biggest selling songs of his legendary band without being able to even sing. A man who found himself near a dumpster one day and took scraps and built a custom made amp that would define the sound of his band, an amp that he himself invented and no one has been able to exactly duplicate even now. A man who got married young to the only woman he wanted and then had six children while touring and playing with one of the biggest most popular bands in history. Who can do math so well,he did, and still does, the financial business of the multimillion dollar business that his band became. A man so amazing he just left the entire music industry forever without one regret after losing the lead singer, best friend and surrogate big brother from a heart breaking disease because it just wasn’t worth it without him. A man who’s baselines are so epic and well played that his skill is hard for anyone to imitate. He was told as a prank by his fellow band mate he would need a double bass for a song and went home and learned how to play it in a matter of hours. Played not only the bass guitar with unbelievable skill and precision but any instrument. He wrote some of the most famous songs in rock that are universally loved even now more than 25 years later. He had so much integrity that even after doing the lion’s share of the writing of a song insisted his band mate who would sing the songs, take writing credits even when that singer didn’t really want to. Who was the very definition of loyalty to a lost friend who he saw as irreplaceable and refused to continue playing music without him while the others carried on. He seemed quiet, shy and unassuming but when he wanted to do something didn’t care what ANYONE thought including his band mates even during one recording session for an album picked up his stuff and went to Bali with his family on a whim leaving only a small note behind. Who came up with one of the most recognizable bass lines ever in an impromptu jam session with another artist, went out for pizza with his band mates and completely forgot said bass line then when reminded made the bass line so legendary it’s immediately recognizable from the first four notes. He wrote a song that Michael Jackson the king of pop pestered the other members to release it as a single when they were completely against it and after the single debuted became one of the best selling singles of his multi million album selling band. Who has mastered the art of being a hermit yet also being one of the coolest and most extraordinary humans that ever strapped on an instrument. Who has become the best player of hide and seek that ever was and was happy leaving it behind never once looking back.

Every single one of these guys could have been unbelievable and legendary all by themselves, but chose and found three other equally god-like humans to form a band who would become the most prolific band that ever recorded music and has multi-platinum records in every country on 6 continents in the world that are still as popular and relevant today as they were when they started 50 years ago.

WHO GAVE THEM THE RIGHT to be so amazing?!Individually, they could be Greek mythical heroes as accomplished and great as Achilles or Hercules, but when put together were more epic than any Greek mythology could even imagine, and changed the world, and music forever!

Who gave them the right?!!!!

#freddiemercury #queen #johndeacon #rogertaylor #brianmay #jimhutton #gardenlodge

[fanaticwritings]

smoke and mirrors- [prologue]

pairing: tom holland x reader

words: 1k

a/n: i am not writing a summary for this because the prologue is a summary of sorts. this is an idea that has been stuck with me since forever, in fact i started writing something like this for another character but tumblr fucked up and nobody really read it. @keepingupwiththeparkers' beautiful writing made me want to start writing again and if you're reading this, i'd like to say thank you. so much. (p.s: you don't have to read this story!) anyway, i promise that this fic is going to be real good. the idea real appeals to me and I'm gonna try my level best to execute it. it's not your normal ceo x reader; it's full of suspense, heart breaks, a LOT of fluff and a bit of smut. so please give this a read and i hope you stick around! thank you xo

//

The steady hum of the engine died as the black sedan came to a screeching halt. The chauffeur got out as you waited in the backseat, straightening the hem of your dress.

A second later, the door to your right opened and you were instantly blinded by a thousand flashes.

Unfazed, you stepped out of the car with effortless elegance that now came to you naturally.

Still blinded but unbothered, you trudged up the stairs to the hall, heels clicking behind you.

"Who are you wearing today, Ms.Y/N?"

"What is the next big thing for Winchester Corp?"

"Are you seeing Mr. Osterfield?"

"Holland & Co. remains to be your biggest competition even today. Thoughts?"

The paparazzi was as merciless and as invasive as ever. They didn't care about you being one of the youngest woman CEO of Manhattan, your personal life seemed to be of a prime importance.

"Winchester Corp has a lot in store for the public, some of which you will be seeing soon," you answered, flashing a radiant smile at the reporter.

You continued to answer other questions about the company for a while, ignoring personal questions all together.

You were thankful when you reached the top of the stairs and walked into the majestic hall, leaving the swarm of cameras behind you.

The interior of the hall was breathtaking. Large, crystal chandeliers hung from the white ceiling. Mosaic paintings of pictures from what looked like Roman Mythology adorned the walls that surrounded you. You recognized some of the stories, fondly remembering how much mythology had intrigued you when you were a child. Further down the hall, round, decorated tables were set up all around a raised platform. The architecture reminded you of a Roman cathedral which, perhaps, this place was.

There were a lot of people in the hall, some you recognized and most you didn't.

The Manhattan Gala was always like this.

Business tycoons, big shots of the city and some other important people you didn't bother remembering the names of, were the small group of people that were invited to the gala.

"Hello, Miss Y/N," a chaperone called to grab your attention and handed you a card with your name as well as the number of the table that was assigned to you.

You met a couple of business associates on the way to your allocated seat and a blond big shot who's name you failed to recall.

Before long you ran into Rachel Allen, chairman of another large scale company in the market. Her name you knew because she was always up in everyone's business and tired everybody easily.

"Hey, Y/N. Gosh, you look amazing! Is that Krutz you're wearing?" she cooed, giving you a smile that didn't exactly match her zestful tone.

Before you could reply, however, she gasped looking behind you, "Oh. Look who it is."

Ignoring her, curious as to who it could possibly be, you glanced over your shoulder, following her gaze to whoever she was looking at.

Even from across the room, his brown eyes were disarming.

*

Tom Holland was gifted with a natural and charming persona.

He was also sweet and gentle, which made him popular with the ladies. The fact that he was the CEO of a multi-million dollar company was only an added bonus. They flocked to him like birds to prey, almost fighting for attention. But little did they know he had eyes for one woman only.

He held Y/N's gaze for a long second, mouth twitching, before turning to the slightly older woman who was currently shaking his hand.

"Remember that you can always reach out to me," she was saying and Tom really hadn't been following so he only nodded, smiling.

Harrison Osterfield, his closest friend, caught up with him just then and Tom sighed in relief. He did enjoy being around people but only the kind who's names he at least remembered.

"If another person asks me about the shit with Winchester Corp, I'm gonna walk out of here," he blurted to Harrison, who

chuckled lightly, patting his shoulder.

"Mate, you wanted that to happen."

Tom shrugged, rolling his eyes.

They sat down at their table, exchanging plesantaries with those who sat with them.

The host of the evening was soon up on the stage, engaging in light-hearted humor. She then moved onto the performances that were lined up for the event and the crowd cheered.

Before they knew it, two hours had passed. The cultural dances and music had been really worth the while and since the charity gala was for such a good cause, Tom didn't complain much.

The crowd broke apart for dinner, later and once again the socialities resumed.

"I'm going to grab some food with Liz," Harrison informed him, gesturing towards the aisle that lead to the dining area.

"You'll be okay?"

"More than," Tom answered.

He grinned when Harrison shot him a knowing look and left to fetch his girlfriend.

He sat then, at his table, observing the crowd around him. People were shaking hands and laughing their hearts out, so much so, that to an outsider it would've looked like a merry affair. But only they themselves knew that it was all, mostly, a facade.

Events like these were more about expanding your networks and showing off your wealth. Little did they care about building real relationships.

Tom quite hated the atmosphere but certain things he could have no control of. Besides, he had even grown used to this, being in the business for so long.

He glanced around once more, only to catch Y/N looking at him again. She held his stare for a moment and then got up, straightening the long, velvet-black dress that she was wearing. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and said something to the woman next to her.

He watched her make her way through the crowd and disappear behind one of the giant pillars in a far corner of the hall.

He looked at his rolex; 10:45 it told him. He waited a heartbeat before stalking off in the same direction as Y/N. As an afterthought he wondered if he should've waited a little longer. He decided that he didn't care.

The brain does as the heart wills.

He took short, cautious steps but it wasn't long before he had turned left into a dark aisle behind one of the pillars and caught up with her.

She was leaning against the railing of a staircase that lead to god knows where, her gown shimmering slightly in the dark.

"You look quite lovely, Miss L/N," he said, approaching her coolly, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.

*

You watched him get closer, straightening the cuffs of his black tux. All of his hair was gelled to a side except for a tiny unrelenting curl. You smiled to yourself.

"You don't look too bad yourself, Mr. Holland," you said, biting down on your lip as he drew closer.

There wasn't much distance between you two at all, but Tom took his time. Despite being shrouded in complete darkness you could feel his gaze travel down your figure, leaving you with a feeling of being completely bare.

Bastard.

The next thing you knew, you were being pulled towards him; a sharp tug of your arm resulting in you being thrown against his chest.

You couldn't suppress the soft chuckle that burst out of your lips when he buried his face into the nape of you neck, his hands encircling your waist.

"I missed you, darlin," he murmered, his breath warm on your skin.

"I did too," you whispered, throwing your arms around his neck as he drew back.

You stood pressed together for a while, noses brushing against the other's. The noise from the hall didn't quite reach this area, so all you could hear was Tom breathe deeply and his heart beat against your own.

You'd been doing this for two long years now, whole seven hundred and thirty days of it, but it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

And then Tom was kissing you, full and slow, taking his time to drink you in. He pulled you impossibly close, tiny hills forming on your skin at the touch.

Your lips fell into a routine, nipping and sucking at his own. You remembered how sloppy it had been the very first time. But now all of his being, every inch of his skin was etched into your memory. You couldn't get it wrong if you tried.

You felt him push you against the railing, the wood poking you slightly, as he deepened the kiss. It was a welcome pain. His hands squeezed your waist as one of your own fisted his hair.

"My place tonight?" he murmured against your lips when you had to break apart for air.

"Okay," you answered, slightly out of breath.

Being in a relationship when you were owners of giant companies wasn't easy at all. And the fact that your companies were arch rivals didn't help either.

Your relationship was the most private of affairs. Not a soul, bar a few friends, knew about it. To protect yourselves from being mercilessly prodded and judged, you played along with the rumors of you hating each other's guts. But it also meant that you could never be seen together in public, which made things... difficult.

Perhaps it was a part of the reason why you had made it so far. Perhaps it was because the universe willed it to be so.

Because you both thought, even though neither had admitted it, that you had found your soulmate.

It was the most perfect thing.

Until, it wasn't.

//

Tagging:

@lil-writes @captiveties @imaginingthefandoms @fangirlingonrhys @killbillls @borkystank @miklsnvengers @bunnie-kookie @silverreading @skz-in-ncity @estate-euphoric @tragicluver @aestheticgaybish @rororo06 @forever-stuck-in--neverland @sholland4

[want to be tagged? send an ask/ comment below!]

Please leave feedback, I'd be forever grateful!

#tom holland x reader #tom holland oneshot #tom holland reader insert #tom holland imagine #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland series #peter parker x reader #tom holland x you #peter parker fluff #marvel imagine

[sparklyjojos]

CARNIVAL recaps [8/13]

Today’s recap: Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express, or Yaiba having a Very Bad Very Not Good Time.

[tw: a lot of mental illness, suicide, implied csa mention]

--

SIXTEEN

05 Oct 1996 — 11 Oct 1996

TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY

--

[First person narration from Yaiba, here presented in lazy third person.]

It’s the fifth night since Yaiba has left Japan. He stares into the frosty Russian night while the Trans-Siberian Express has a brief stop in Vladivostok. Over nine thousand kilometers more until Moscow.

He walks back inside the train, on the way greeting the two female conductors of his car (Masha and Faina). In his four-person couchette with two bunk beds he rejoins a fellow passenger called Natalia, who’s getting ready to sleep. The boy Yaiba’s travelling with has already fallen asleep on the top bed.

It’s surprisingly easy to move between countries using the new IDID card, probably because everyone is so shaken by the Crime Olympics that any seemingly busy detective wouldn’t be held up at the border longer than necessary. They will make it, he just needs to continue to pretend Amano is his son and make sure to buy only necessary items.

Sitting in the dark compartment, looking at the moving scenery outside, Yaiba has a feeling that no matter what they do, whether they’re sleeping or awake, moving or not, the ever-changing world mercilessly carries them into the future. He can’t sleep, ends up just lying motionlessly in his blue polka dot pajamas and staring into the darkness. After a while he decides to make his favorite hot cocoa and read instead.

He’s reminded of that time three years ago when Hikimiya, a detective novel fan, borrowed him an anthology that had a Russian-themed story in it. Around that time Yaiba was busy with a case surrounding murders in the north of Russia, so it seemed oddly fitting. Things have changed so much since that time. JDC blew up, Ajiro went missing, Suzukaze Unomaru sunk with a ship… everyone kept dying. It just seemed so random that Yaiba was still alive. This terrifying randomness of fate he couldn’t deal with.

Before Yaiba fled hospital, he’d gotten a call from Hyouma, who announced that he was quitting JDC and wanted to start a new life wandering around America. Hard to blame him; JDC without Ajiro, without Juku around, and with Dokuson in charge didn’t feel like JDC at all.

As if that wasn’t enough change for the worse, everyone around Yaiba read Cosmic and Joker. Everyone learned about what he would rather keep secret about his childhood. Everyone asked questions. He told them that the books were fictional and nobody should worry about the literary version of the events too much, but they didn’t seem to believe him. Yaiba could feel the door to madness opening within him.

Everyone now knew about what that woman had done to him. About how their child was declared to be a serial killer—when Yaiba first heard about that event a few years ago, he couldn’t help but think that the hereditary psychiatric problems that plagued his family had reared its head once more.

But even Cosmic and Joker didn’t know the truth that only Yaiba knew—the truth about his younger brother Amato’s suicide many years ago.

The truth being that Yaiba was the one to kill him.

Amano looks a lot like Amato did at that time. Yaiba doesn’t regret kidnapping him. They are so similar. In a way, Amano is that already non-existing person. What is Yaiba going to do now? Kill Amano—Amato, kill him again to escape his curse? Perhaps. After all, he has already broken down inside

--

[There’s a switch to second person, still from Yaiba, and again I’m just writing in third.]

When he wakes up in the morning, Natalia has already gone off somewhere. The white-haired boy on the bed above his own, Amato, is busy with his gameboy. Walking down the train aisle Yaiba hears a few Russians mention the killer Amur Tiger, but judging from the laughter they’re just making a joke. The two conductors are chatting in their room. Yaiba feels like everyone is observing him suspiciously. He gets tea and goes back to their compartment to give it to Amato, who as a recently hospitalized child can’t really handle a lot of solid food. Amato has four months to live, maybe less. Yaiba wonders if it’s possible to show him the northern lights before his death.

On the next stop they stand aside as the electric train engine is switched out for a diesel, which Amato compares to Galaxy Express 999, the flying space train. Yaiba realizes they are being observed from afar by another passenger, who after being spotted quickly boards the train again.

Later Yaiba meets a few travel mates from the neighboring compartment: a young couple of Pyotr and Shaina, and a strong guy with sideburns called Ivan. Yaiba thinks they’re looking at Amato’s white hair strangely, so he quickly explains that “his son” is ill. While everyone is having a nice conversation, a few cans get loose from the couple’s baggage, which they regard with laughter as their “super secret stuff”. It’s clearly a joke, considering the cans seem to have plain corned beef inside.

--

When Yaiba is sitting in the dining car later, that passenger who seemed to be observing them earlier introduces comes up and introduces himself as Drexel Uryakov. Uryakov turns out to be a fellow A-rank detective, who knows very well who Yaiba is and what he’s doing here, but has more pressing matters to attend to—namely the cases of the Amur Tiger and Pogrom. He asks Yaiba for help with the investigation.

The Amur Tiger is a serial killer whose hundreds of victims all had their heads cut off, and who is most infamous for disguising a bunch of corpses as mannequins in Moscow’s GUM. Pogrom similarly likes to decapitate his victims, but specifically targets the detectives of DOLL’s Russian branch and steals their IDID cards from the scene. (Uryakov makes an interesting comment on how these nicknames alone shape people’s understanding: an Amur Tiger brings to mind a mindless animal, while Pogrom has Connotations and implies a much scarier enemy that is a cruel human—or perhaps, an unfeeling beast wearing the mask of a human.)

Uryakov thinks these two cases are connected. He managed to get a hold of secret KGB files which show the Amur Tiger murders go back to at least the times of Ivan the Terrible, but the public never learned about it before now. All of Pogrom’s victims were detectives who tried to shed more light on the Amur Tiger. Uryakov himself is also pursuing the Amur Tiger, and revealed a few case details to his twin brother Aleksandr, a private detective. Aleksandr attempted to stealthily investigate on his own and was murdered for his curiosity. But before his death, he managed to tell what he had discovered to Drexel...

--

In the afternoon, the train has to temporarily stop in Khabarovsk because of something unprecised happening to the west. Pyotr claims he heard that the overhead line supports had been knocked over in places too strategic to be a random event, and on a stretch of over three thousand kilometers of tracks to boot. It can’t be the Billion Killer, they still have two days until Saturday.

Yaiba uses the break to call Hikimiya and ask him to confirm Uryakov’s story by checking his entry in DOLL’s database. There is indeed a Drexel Uryakov registered, and he did have a private detective brother who died in the Amur Tiger case two weeks ago. Drexel hasn’t been in contact with the Russian DOLL branch at all in those two weeks, but he does work alone a lot, so it’s expected (kinda like Hyouma wanders off a lot).

After confirming that, Hikimiya asks what on earth Yaiba is even thinking, grabbing a child and running away. Yaiba isn’t really pursued by the police, who think this is JDC’s own problem to fix (and there’s no definite proof it was him who kidnapped the boy), but it’s just a matter of time until he gets caught during a search. Hikimiya asks him to please give himself up before that so he doesn’t get into even more trouble.

Nemu has already boarded the Trans-Siberian Express going the other direction, so that she will be able to catch him halfway. Maybe that power outage that bought Yaiba some time was a godsend after all. Nemu may be kind, but she always gets spirited when facing criminals, so Yaiba would hate to meet her when being one. Then again, he prefers that to meeting someone like Jounosuke. He can deal with Nemu’s harshness, but wouldn’t be able to keep a hold of himself if Jounosuke looked at him with that compassionate smile and kindness.

Yaiba knew all along that any escape would be impossible in the long term—but perhaps it was this awareness of entrapment that paradoxically made him want to run.

--

Since the train won’t move until morning, Yaiba is invited to hit the town with Pyotr and the rest. Uryakov warns him that it might not be the best idea—what if Pyotr is Pogrom?—but it’s not like anyone else here knows that Yaiba is a detective, he’s not pursuing the Amur Tiger, and besides, Pyotr is only as suspicious as Uryakov himself.

Yaiba asks if Uryakov’s brother also had a mark on his cheek. Uryakov jokes about it (“what, are you implying we switched?”) then shares his own surprising suspicion: he thinks Yaiba is actually being manipulated by the boy he’s with. He questions Yaiba’s motive for the kidnapping—did he want a kid this badly or what?—but the answer “he’s my dead brother” is enough to end the conversation.

Yaiba takes Amato to the nearest town with the others. They ask him where he’s travelling, so he says that he and Amato are going to Murmansk to see the northern lights, but since it’s too early in the year for that, they’re going to go see Moscow first. Pyotr jokes that Yaiba’s tone makes it sound like a suicide trip. Amato gets a little pale.

When they get back to their empty compartment, Amato asks if he’s going to be killed under the northern lights in Murmansk. Yaiba replies that they probably won’t make it to Murmansk, as his coworkers are too smart to just let him go.

“Then you could kill them too,” Amato says. “Just like you killed me. It’s fine if everyone else dies.”

“You will never let me go, will you? I was young, didn’t know anything…”

“You can’t change the past. No one can change it, even if they may forget about it. Don’t deny my existence.”

“Please forgive me, I’m just so tired…”

“Then die and come here already. The world of the dead is nice. If you kill yourself, I’ll forgive you.”

“Amato, please, stop talking.”

“You will never escape from me.”

Darkness envelops him.

--

[Narration swaps to third person.]

That same evening, Yaiba and the others drink vodka in the neighboring compartment. The Russians tend to forget his first name and call him Somanovich instead of Somahito. After a few drinks Yaiba admits that he’s quite weak-headed nowadays, but he spent his teenage years drinking a lot as a means of distracting himself after his brother’s suicide. He was the one to discover the body.

His brother used to say that they were inescapably fated to commit suicide. He repeated it no matter how many times Yaiba scolded him for saying things like that, no matter how much he argued that it’s perfectly possible to avoid the curse of one’s bloodline. Yaiba loved him, but he too had a point of snapping and one day yelled, “If you want to die so much, then go ahead and die! Do as you wish. But I would never do a stupid thing like that.” Later that day he found Amato dead in the bathroom. To Yaiba, it was clear who caused this death, and guilt drove him to drink. He would probably end up the same way as his brother. On the other hand, the events made him feel drawn to study the darkness in people’s hearts, and that caused him to become a detective, which gave his life new meaning… but that's all in the past now.

--

Yaiba wakes up with a hangover in his own compartment. Someone’s knocking at the door and Amato is asking him from the upper bed to open it already. Yaiba complies and unlocks the door, briefly wondering why the floor has a dark stain on it. The one knocking is completely pale Pyotr, who informs him that the two conductors have been murdered—while the bodies are nowhere to be found, their room is covered in blood, and the red stains lead to Yaiba’s compartment door. Yaiba notices that Natalia is not with them, but Pyotr informs him that she just switched compartments last night, since she didn’t like being unable to lock the door for the sake of her companions.

They call over Uryakov from another car to help with investigation. There’s a lot of blood in the compartment and on the train aisle floor, but the outside of the compartment door is clean, so Uryakov believes the victims were attacked inside. However, Yaiba was in no shape to attack anyone, and the only other person inside was a child. When Yaiba woke up, the door had been locked from the inside, so nobody could budge them unless they had the master key belonging to the conductors. It’s possible that obtaining that key was the motive for murder. It’s also very possible that the murderer actually wanted to kill Yaiba, but the conductors walked in during the act and had to be taken care of. Uryakov suspects Pyotr, but Yaiba thinks he’s innocent.

Natalia shows up and claims that Yaiba is the murderer. Earlier she heard the conductors arguing with someone, then a sound like something fell over and was being dragged towards the conductor room. When she worked up the courage to check that room, she saw two headless bodies and sprinted back to her compartment, afraid of coming out until now.

Uryakov listens to her testimony and has her return to her room. He doesn’t believe Yaiba did it, but they only have an hour left to solve the case before they arrive at the next station and will potentially be in big trouble.

They investigate. The conductor room toilet is unusually unlocked. One of the empty compartments is locked, but Uryakov doesn’t think the bodies are in there (probably were thrown out the train window instead). In a baggage storage under Yaiba’s bed they find a bloodied axe.

Yaiba remembers what Uryakov told him about the Amur Tiger. The motive for the murders is obtaining human heads, retrieving brain tissue and selling it as a delicacy on the black market, camouflaged as ordinary canned food. Considering the scope of the entire scheme, it has to be the work of an organization that Pogrom must be related to as well. The vital clue that Aleksandr Uryakov told his brother before death was that Pogrom was likely Pyotr, and so Drexel decided to tail the man.

Yaiba thinks it’s strange. If Pyotr was Pogrom, why would he try to kill Yaiba instead of the more immediate threat that was Uryakov, and why would he fail? If those corned beef cans contained human brain tissue, why would Pyotr want to murder someone right there in their train car, considering the police would probably look through the passengers’ belongings? And why was the door closed?

They make a rough timeline of events.

00:00 — Natalia asks to switch compartments. The conductors help her move baggage.

00:30 — Pyotr and Amato drag passed out Yaiba to his compartment, meeting both conductors on the way. One of the conductors returns to their room. Natalia explains the switch to Amato. The boy locks the door to Yaiba’s compartment from the inside and goes to sleep. Pyotr goes back to his own bed.

04:25 — The train gets moving again and leaves Khabarovsk.

05:00 — Natalia hears the suspicious noises. Around ten minutes later she discovers the two bodies and hides in her compartment.

05:30 — Pyotr sees the bloody scene (but no bodies) and knocks on Yaiba’s door.

Uryakov thinks that the murderer waited until one conductor was using the bathroom, killed the other one, snatched the master key, attempted to kill Yaiba, but was discovered by the other conductor and had to kill her too. Yaiba points out that it would be weird to not just kill both women first to be safe. Maybe the suspect they’re searching for is in fact one of the conductors? But then who killed her in turn?

Yaiba theorizes that maybe the murderer wasn’t targeting him at all, but the two women—after all, the Amur Tiger just wants some random heads. He attacked them in their room, got the master key, and then arranged things to look like they were killed in Yaiba’s compartment to pin the guilt on him. This could mean that the murderer was traveling in the same car… or just wanted them to think that way. It could even be someone from outside—it would be impossible not to get one’s clothes stained with this much blood flying around, yet none of the passengers they talked to seemed to have changed their clothing since yesterday. The fact that the murder occured after the train resumed movement also seems quite suspicious, almost as if done intentionally to make them think the culprit was still on the train.

Uryakov adds that the murderer has to be someone who knew that Yaiba wouldn’t wake up anytime soon and that Natalia had moved to another compartment. Aside from Amato and Natalia herself, this only leaves Pyotr as the suspect.

Yaiba notices that Uryakov really wants to pin the guilt on Pyotr, but he thinks he has already found another solution. The real murderer was someone from outside who cooperated with Natalia to create an alibi for himself. First the real murderer killed the conductors at night and left the train, then in the morning Natalia pushed the bodies outside.

They approach the next station quickly, so Uryakov promises to take care of the rest.

--

Natalia admits her guilt and reveals that Pyotr, Shaina and Ivan were all in on it. Ivan told Natalia he was with the Amur Tiger group and threatened her into compliance. Then he left the train at night in Khabarovsk, bought an axe, checked in a local hotel, then claiming he forgot something returned to the train, killed both conductors and took their heads with him. Natalia took care of the bodies later.

Thankfully the police seems satisfied with this and the train continues on its way. Yaiba evaded being searched, but he doesn’t have a lot of time before his and Nemu’s trains stop at the same station. He’s not sure what to do now, so he passes the time talking with Uryakov.

Yaiba notices that despite the case being over, something still doesn’t fit into his reasoning. If Ivan really was the murderer, why would he buy a murder weapon in a store, considering how easy it would be to track it back to him? Revealing himself as part of the Amur Tiger to another person and trying to put the blame on an A-detective seemed too risky. Yaiba thinks it’s more probable that the real murderer actually forced Natalia to accuse Ivan.

And when you take all the circumstances into account, the only person who can be the murderer—who traveled outside their car, and who knew that Yaiba would be drinking—is actually Uryakov.

Uryakov asks why Yaiba covered for him in front of the police. Yaiba answers that he’s not in a position to be getting himself involved into cases, and besides, it’s only a matter of time until the truth is discovered. Uryakov can’t escape anymore.

The deciding evidence was Amato’s testimony. The boy actually told Yaiba that he had been only pretending to be asleep at night, so he saw Uryakov entering their compartment and killing a conductor who walked in on him. The intended target really was Yaiba. The motive is easy to guess: Uryakov himself is Pogrom. He was the one to kill his own brother.

Uryakov admits to everything, but adds that no matter how good of a detective Yaiba is, he has one weakness: he cannot put his thinking to reason out his own problems. And because Uryakov knows that they’re both going to die on this train anyway, he may as well tell him the truth about the boy he’s traveling with.

“That boy over there is Amano, not Amato. Wake up, Somanovich—no, Yaiba Somahito! That ‘Amato’ only exists within you!”

Yaiba slowly stands up and looks at the boy on the top bed. An unfamiliar face looks back at him. It’s not his brother Amato at all.

Yaiba runs out of the compartment and realizes that the train seems to be climbing a steep hill that shouldn’t be there, and that the hour is almost 1 PM on a Saturday—and then the train shots out of the broken tracks and starts falling straight towards Lake Baikal.

--

[>>>NEXT PART>>>]

#sparkly reads carnival #maijo and jdc stuff

[naomixhill]

Naomi’s Story

My childhood was idyllic and surrounded in opulence in the wealthiest municipality of Rhode Island on the western side of Narragansett Bay. Goombahs ran the village, misguided judgment and organized corruption ran rampant in our leadership from the police, to the mayor, to the school board, but no one talked much about that. Instead, we focused on our waterfront properties, Italian fine dining restaurants, and seemingly perfect lives while the men took care of business. I grew up with wops and old money, and nothing in between. 

In 2005, my father’s firm went bankrupt, and with it, went half our assets tied up in privately held stock. My father’s dream was to be a New York financial services man, a true business man, and he worked on that from the cornfields of Indiana. All throughout his early years, he worked two factory jobs to pay his college tuition in hopes to be somewhere better than he was. To provide for his mother, the immigrant from Wales, and to to be a force of stability for his young, first family. He never got to New York, but I was determined that I would live out that dream. So by fifth grade, when everyone else wanted to be a vet or a doctor or a teacher, I said I wanted to be an investment banking analyst for Goldman Sachs.  We had to move from Rhode Island to the midwest after the demise of the company. My father took his second family, my mother and I, back to Indiana. He wanted something easier than what New England was, something cheaper, something nicer, something familiar. But, I was different. I was the embodiment of New England: I spoke with a thick accent, my hair was curly and big, and my values were different. The cornfield kids couldn’t quite understand me. I went from being the most popular schoolyard kid with tons of wop friends and hanging out with their daddies, the barones, the bagmen, the consigliere's, the dons, to trying to integrate myself with the children of farmers and working to middle class professionals.  And so, beginning in fifth grade, I was different. When I sat down at the lunch table, the other children took their lunches to another spot; at recess, I would go to swing, and the others would go to the slides. And I tried to be like the others, I wanted to fit in. I began speech therapy, I dressed in their clothes, I read their books and watched their television shows, but it wasn’t enough even back in those days. My entire early adolescence was hallmarked by rejection and desperately wanting to be liked, to even be marginally accepted.  I went to five different schools from 2005 - 2009, all with similar results. My parents finally sent me to a Catholic school in downtown Indianapolis off 56th street. There, I met a group of black poets that finally gave me the acceptance and friendship that I had craved for years. It was my first taste of normalcy in almost five years. And I met a boy, Robbie, who I took home. I realized that day that the world is not as colorblind as I am. My father told me that it was the saddest day of his life since his mother died. And later that year, as I continued to be involved in poetry groups and cultural clubs, I competed in a statewide poetry slam. I won the state award for my poem and my parents threw away the trophy. So, who was I supposed to be? Everything started to get confusing as every turn I made seemed to be the wrong choice and my victories were detriments.  And amid all of this, the recession was happening and worsened. Company consolidations and closures caused my family to relocate again, this time to Ohio. The village reminded me of Rhode Island a bit; on the far east side, this small, cozy village had a median household income of $187,00 with only a couple thousand residents. The high school looked like the University of Pennsylvania, and all of the homes were brick, big, and beautiful. And so I set out again to be a new version of myself: the blonde, straight haired, Coach-wearing, Abercrombie-wearing girl. Would they like me as a sophomore?  No, they didn’t. Because as much as I tried, most of the kids had known each other for years and there wasn’t space for me. So I did as I had done in the year prior: I found the black poets, the people who seemed to get me and understand my struggle. Meanwhile, I joined track, of which I was one of two whites, there, too. Within a month into the school year, I was typecast with all sorts of derogatory terms. But it didn’t matter to me, yet, and I was happy with my friend group, and met another boy, J. And there were never two people closer.  J was a state champion track star who wrote poetry and attended our school half of the day, and attended a trade school for the remainder of the day. We bonded as he helped me condition and train, and we passed a poetry journal back and forth. Though my friend Rayvon told me, “he’s trouble,” it didn’t stop me. I was used to being marginalized, and almost empathized with the fact that  J was too.  Still, I wanted to fit in and be liked. So when Rayvon set me up with her friend, I went along with it. Then, on September 4, 2009, we went to Micah’s birthday party, hosted in a multi-million dollar home in our village in the basement. J and I were both in relationships with other people, mostly on the recommendations of other people, but it didn’t stop him from kissing me. In front of everyone. And in five seconds, I lost everyone in my life.  And so, not knowing where to turn, I called J the following Monday. We met at the local coffee shop. I had an exam the following day, so he suggested that we studied at his house. I agreed. And as soon as we walked into his home, and closed the front door, it was no sooner that I was in a forced grip. I laughed at first, thinking my poetry-loving friend was teasing, but he wasn’t. Fear sunk in. He dragged me upstairs, as I was kicking and screaming, undressed me, and shoved himself into me. I was fifteen and a virgin.  The next day, people at school laughed at me. They called me the slut who slept with J. “Slut.” “Whore.” And again, I was a marginalized and lonely outcast just two months into a new school. Shouldn’t I have been used to it? People laughed at me and gossiped about me and no one knew anything. After this, things got fuzzy for me. I hardly remember the next two years much at all. I hung around a lot of shady people and did things that I wish I could take back, what little I remember, but deep down I knew I didn’t really deserve much better. A lot of people put their hands on me back then.  Going into my senior year, J made the news. He murdered his long time girlfriend right there in one of our quaint village homes in the foyer. I remember watching the live local news stream in a trance, not quite sure if what I was seeing had any base in reality but it did. And J called me that night after not speaking to me in two years. I didn’t pick up. By the end of the night, he was shot dead in the Walgreen’s parking lot and they extracted his girlfriend’s body out of the trunk of his car.  I went to the memorial in his family’s home, the same one that I had been to all of those years prior. His mother looked at me, and said to me, “It’s you. You’re the girl.” She took me upstairs to his bedroom where photos of me and our shared poetry and letters were scattered across his desk. What the fuck do you do with that, even now, after all this time has passed? The rest of the night remains a blur.  I only really remember one thing about my senior year: Briyana, the new girl from the nearby Catholic school. She took to me right away, and I took to her right back. And despite desperately needing a friend, I told her to keep her distance from me; I told her that to say I was unpopular was an understatement, and her reputation would be tarnished in being seen with me. So she did stay away. And I remember almost nothing else, just small clips of getting suspended, of shooting up PCP, of smoking weed in the girls locker room, of getting by in school with high remarks because it still wasn’t that challenging to me.  So then I went to the community college the next year. I crossed paths with Briyana again by chance. Our boyfriends were suite mates, and we became best friends. We were all a family that year. We helped each other and took care of each other. But we were also wild and reckless and young. Tyga’s Molly played on the background frequently as the bunch of them snorted lines and partied into the night. I was the only one that did ever end up graduating in that bunch. And through a series of unfortunate events, everything fell apart. And I absolutely had to go this time. And go far.  So Binghamton, NY happened. And I recreated myself again. This time, I was going to be an Air Force ROTC gal studying financial engineering and statistics. It had to work, I needed it to work. And again, I had wonderful suite mates and people that talked like how I used to, and more than anything, I was so proud of what I was accomplishing away from the disaster that the midwest had been for me. But as suddenly as I felt safe, it was over... again... Several months into the school year, my Air Force paperwork was rejected by HQ. Prior drug use, self-injury scars, you name it and I had it. And perhaps for the first time, but not the last time, I totally destructed. I threw up everyday, my veins bulged, I was dizzy and disoriented and often forgot where I was or who I was. So, hence, a medical withdrawal. But with my autoimmune symptoms and underlying medical issues, I had to see a specialist. And with a sick twist of irony, that specialist was in Columbus, Ohio.  After a multi-month stint of being on bed rest and racking up over $150,000 in medical bills, I enrolled at Ohio State. And as I was sitting in a Slavic Film class on a Tuesday, I saw Briyana going into the nearby classroom in McPhearson Hall. And just like that, we reconnected again as if no time had passed. I was still sick in those days and hardly a hundred pounds, so Briyana became a caregiver to me of sorts. And we were inseparable.  Not soon after we reconnected, we moved in together in off-campus housing in Columbus’s Chinatown. She worked for Bob Evans and I worked for an insurance company, and we both attended classes full time. This was around the time that Obama passed all sorts of labor laws, one of which required employers to give certain benefits should their employees work a minimum number of hours. Briyana’s hours were cut by over half about a month prior to our next tuition statement coming due.  I told her about a site my friend Trina used, Seeking Arrangement. “You just go on dates with lonely men and they pay you.” If only it was that easy. I thought it was that easy. She signed up and when the day came to meet this guy, she couldn’t do it. So I went in her place. And I found out quickly that it had nothing to do with going on dates at all. But by this point, sneaking into college exams for Briyana was nothing really. I was willing to commit any conceivable sin for the person who nursed me back to health and I felt gave me my entire life back and more.  As I learned, three grand has a fucking high price tag. At nineteen years old, I was in way above my head. Blackmail. Guns. Threats. So I kept doing it, and I was so used it - just trying to survive. And then, amid all of this, Briyana met Jo. And everything I did is reduced to a kind favor but it’s all now in the past. One day, I came home from visiting my parents and our entire apartment was empty, right down to the missing bed, kitchen table, and shower curtain.  What did I have left? I was still enrolled at the Fisher College of Business and a part of a financial club on campus and investment banking program. The president of the club, C, had roofied me and assaulted me in months prior but that was semantics? This is the same one that threw me down a flight of stairs on my birthday, but why not? In hindsight, it was stupid of me to ever think his red hair could be a symbol for warmth instead of the fiery hell that he was. But still, I remember thinking that we could create something beautiful out of our individual brokenness. It’s still a sore point for me even now when I reminiscence on this and recall that he had dozens of me.  He knew about what happened with Briyana, and everything that it entailed to be her loyal friend. When we would fight, he would hold it all over my head and taunt me. Our relationship ended in the Sexual Violence Office at Ohio State and his degree was nearly revoked. I was ready to fight fire with fire. No one was going to blackmail me anymore. And then again, the void.  But I was so busy at work and trying to manage a full school load, I didn’t have any more energy or time to devote to interpersonal relationships. Until I met C. And there were so many red flags: twice divorced, three children, a war veteran, and a current prop fund owner based out of Manhattan. What could go wrong except everything?  C and I were engaged in three months. We met while he was traveling the midwest for work at a local bar near the college campus. At first, he was everything I ever wanted: an Italian, handsome man with incredible work ethic, passion for life, and wit. He was so sharp and so alluring, you could see peoples’ eyes watching him in restaurants, bars, and as we walked in the Short North. And he understood my pain well and had his own. We married and I moved back home to the northeast. We lived in Philadelphia and New Jersey. It was all great until it wasn’t. I can’t speak on it yet, but it was three long years of maximum verbal and physical abuse, resulting in me returning to Ohio in an effort to escape.  And then, now divorced and as frail as I could have been, I met, D. There was entire year, 2018, where I couldn’t leave my apartment without panic attacks, wasn’t working much, and wasn’t really going to school. I just existed. I finally joined a small insurance company that spring, and the following spring, as I was re-acclimating to society and, truly, life again, D came into my life. April 25, 2019.  And D gave me a lightness in my life that I never had before. And he made me laugh sincerely. He listened to me, and understood me, and respected me for all I was in the past, all I presently was, and all I hoped to be. He gave me my twenties back and let me, for the first time, be young and carefree. He would take me to beautiful places, like Maumee Bay in Toledo and state parks, and I took him to all my favorite secret spots around the city of Columbus. We would go to coffee cafes and parade High Street and laugh on the weekends like I had never laughed. I told him things I had never told anyone. And when we would make love, it felt like he was kissing and running his fingers across my soul.  And I realized by May of 2019, I never knew true love until I knew him. And it felt like everything that happened in my life had to happen in order to be there in that moment with him. Perhaps inappropriate, perhaps premature, but I knew I wanted to marry him. I knew I wanted a life with him for as long as my days on earth.  But as my feelings continued to strengthen and I felt with full certainty that I would spend my life with D, his feelings faded. I was too much. Being with me hurt. It wasn’t easy. And so as I thought we were building an empire, he was setting the house on fire to watch it burn. And I knew by the winter that he could never really love me. As much as I wanted him to, as much as I loved him, I couldn’t overcome that to love back was a choice and it wasn’t one he could make.  So February of 2020 happened. It will remain the hardest month of my life, perhaps until now. 

This was not cathartic or meaningful in any way. 

#autobiography #me #bpd #intj

[ominouslyqueer]

Grail had never been as proud as she was when the Council had named her captain of her own ship, making her the youngest captain in the history of the fleet with a mere ten moons under her belt. The pride had mingled with the shock in her core, but was quickly replaced with sharp joy. She didn't mind that it was a simple transport ship, utterly dwarfed by the warships next to it. It was hers, and she would finally be able to contribute to the war that had begun shortly after her emergence from the nesting hive.

No one could quite remember how the war had begun, though her people blamed the humans and the coarse words their species was known for finally causing the fragile peace treaty to snap. Humans had been at odds with countless species since their introduction to the intergalactic community, with the Hundrel people as one of the few exceptions, though that peace clearly didn't last, the thousands of dead speaking to that point.

As the captain of a tiny transport ship, Grail didn't waste time on forming opinions on who started what and who was worse in the casualties. The war had raged for this long, and it showed no signs of stopping. She had a job to do and she would do it.

Her crew had just finished loading the newest shipment human prisoners into the ship, and she was grateful that this lot seemed to be docile, their silence heavy but welcome as her hands navigated the controls. They would be taken to the next galaxy, where they would be kept until they were traded or executed depending on their crimes.

The engine humming warmly, she hands the controls off to her crew, retreating to her quarters to begin her record of the transport. As she passes the containment unit, a few of her eyes catch the gaze of an older human, his weathered face hidden under a dirty beard of matted grey hair. He grins with yellow teeth as he notices her stare, and she flinches, though her teachings remind her that many humans meant no harm by the action. She hurries away, ignoring the concerned glance of her first officer.

The humans had always been more bark than bite. This run would be no different.

---

Kidd's grin is sharp as the alien captain retreats, her many legs moving as quickly as she could without running. Smiling was handy in times like these, friendly to allies and a warning to foes since most other species in the universe hadn't gotten the hang of it. Not much else he could do to the bastards while he was stuck here.

He looks around the hull, taking in the haggard faces of the men and women around him. His crew were tough, but they had been hit with enough force that they couldn't run, and surrounded with enough enemy ships that fighting was a suicide mission. He didn't doubt that his people would die should he ask it, but there were better ways to die than being obliterated the moment they fired a single shot. No, they would live, and if he had his way they would fight another day.

His bones groan as he eases himself down the wall, joints stiff with disuse from the containment cells they had been before. His first mate rushes to help, ignoring his attempts to wave her off in favour of supporting his descent. Hela had always been a worrier, tough as she was. He nods in thanks, silently cursing his age that always seemed to catch him at the worst moments. Here at least he is level with the bottom of the windows, where a gap in the sheet metal gives him a view to the outside.

He had always loved the stars, his mam laughing at the irony of him being one of the few babes still born on Earth, though he jumped on the first ship he saw when he was old enough. He could remember staring up at the sky, trying to count every one he saw, a habit he had yet to break, though now his counting served a much different purpose.

Now he notes each star that passes by the hull, waiting until his count reaches over a hundred, enough to know they were out of range of the base they had left. They had reached no mans land, with no space station or planet close enough to be directly communicated with without at least a several minute delay.

He waits a for a beat, then another, before he starts to sing.

The first words are more air than sound, pushed through chapped lips into the hull, yet they pierce the silence almost deafeningly. His crew go tense, ready as always for a fight but Hela shakes her head, glancing at the guards that stand at the door. Still, it doesn't stop the grins that come to each face as familiar words ring out.

The king and his men

Stole the queen from her bed

And bound her to her bones

The seas be ours

And by the powers

Where we will, we'll roam

With each line his voice grows stronger, the words ringing off the metal walls. The guards shift, clearly put off by this sudden change from the silence before. Their unease worsens as Hela continues, her voice far lovelier than his but no less charged with the anger that fills their chests.

Yo, ho, all together

Hoist the colours high

Heave ho, thieves and beggars

Never shall we die

The chorus repeats, this time with more people joining in, and the man can't help but laugh as one guard rushes out, no doubt to let the alien captain know of their actions.

As the song swells with each new verse, he sits back to wait for what came next, his relaxed pose leaving no indication of the adrenaline starting to pump through his veins.

---

"I don't see why you felt the need to inform me the prisoners have begun singing, Grit. Prisoners do many strange things, singing is almost normal."

Grail pinched the bridge of her nose, a trait she seemed to share with the humans. Her log had been quick to finish, and she had planned to rest now that the difficult part of the voyage was over, only for her crew member to interrupt her first slumber in weeks. His fingers twist together as he averts his gaze, face flushing green but not backing down.

"Captain, it's not so much that they are singing, but what they're singing. I've never heard a song such as this one, yet each human in the hull knows the words by heart. The style doesn't fit any human music I've been exposed to either."

She sighs, but follows him out of her quarters. Her room had the thickest walls in the ship, and it is only once she is in the hallway to the main hull that she first hears the voices. They are indeed singing, the sound rough with untrained voices yet ringing with emotions she can't quite understand. Metallic clangs join the voices, in time with the words and making the song more ominous in turn.

Reaching the hull, she sees they're stomping in time, heavy boots loud against the floors of the ship. Still their voices ring louder, and she can't stop the shiver that runs through her as she is met with a blend of grins and glares from the group, her arrival doing nothing to change the swell of music greeting her.

Some men have died

And some are alive

And others sail on the sea

-With the keys to the cage

And the Devil to pay

We lay to Fiddler's Green

Once more the chorus strikes, now each human seeming to try to deafen them with the volume. One figure catches her eyes, the man from before who had grinned at her.

He sits at the edge of the group, almost lounging against the wall. She would have missed him completely were it not for the hunger in his gaze, as well as the way the group seemed to gravitate around him, both protecting and energized by his presence. He stares at her, and it is enough to push her back to the control room, muttering to Grit to ignore the obvious attempt to put them on edge (as she ignores the fact that it's working).

She scans the controls and screens in an attempt to distract herself from the raging swell behind her. Her attention is captured by a tiny blip on their security screen, barely visible but enough to send a frisson of fear down her spine. She curses softly as her fingers race across the keyboard, searching for the source of the blip.

"Captain?"

Her first mate, Ilso looks concerned, moreso when Grail lets out a soft screech of expletives, a bad habit picked up from some of the nastier human prisoners she had hauled. She turns, stifling the urge to run her hands through her hair.

"Our communication shields were breached, someone is listening to everything we're saying on this ship." Facing the screens again, she tries to push the offending force out of the system but it holds strong.

Ilso chuckles, the sound high and nervous.

"Well I don't know what they hope to hear over this racket. Though I suppose they might this tune..."

His words strike at them both, eyes widening as they turn towards the hull, where the group is somehow still getting louder. She gestures towards the room frantically.

"Get them to shut up, do whatever you have to, I'll try and shut it down here."

He nods and rushes out, gesturing to the guards to follow him into the room. She can't hear what he's yelling over the song but she ignores it for the moment, turning back to the monitors to try and rebuild their defenses. Her fingers can't seem to move fast enough, each wall falling to whatever is attacking them, her codes becoming sloppy and rushed as she desperately tries to keep them out.

Her blood freezes as the navigation system shows a ship appearing next to them, the whir of lightspeed slowing down enough to send her panic rushing through her. Another appears on the other side. The ships are small, but any relief over that is quickly dashed as more keep appearing. They're fully surrounded by the time she breaks out of her panic enough to bring up visuals.

The first thing she notices is how each ship seems almost shoddy in some way, repaired with scraps and peeling paint that seem at odds with the powerful guns they're equipped with. Each is different, the only similarity being the symbol each has painted somewhere, a grinning skull on a black background that rings faintly of a lesson on human history she had mostly forgotten, times of violence and wars on oceans more vast than any on Hundrel.

She's shaken from such memories as the final ship appears, a fleet leader as big as any Hundrel warship, clearly human but also bearing the skull of the group. A few figures hang out of the airlocks, clutching ropes as their skin glitters with the portable containment fields that her people were known for. The large hanger doors lining the sides of the fleet leader slowly open, and she realizes that her ship has been caught in a tractor beam, the fleet leader slowly pulling them in.

She tries the controls, but it's futile, and so she rushes to warn the others. The singing still hasn't stopped, and as she enters the hull she sees that Ilso has been overtaken by some of the humans, the other guards held off by the blade braced against Ilso's throat by the woman closest to the grinning man. Ilso's eyes are panicked as they meet hers, and she is caught in the haze of fear that had been buzzing at the edges of her mind since the start of the fiasco.

"Captain?" Grit hides his panic well, but she can still catch the edge to his voice. "What's happening?!"

"We're caught. Hostiles, don't know their identities other than possibly human. They've been listening since we left the base's range."

She has to shout over the humans, and her words only make them cheer louder. Now the man with the yellow teeth joins in, his voice somehow ringing through all the others.

The bell has been raised from its watery grave

Do you hear its sepulchral tone?

A call to all, pay heed to the squall

And turn your sail toward home!

They're nearly thrown by the sudden stop, her ship screeching against the floor of what must be the hangar. She can barely hear the rumble of the hangar doors closing, the song now seeming to echo louder indoors. Through the window of the control room, she catches a glimpse of the heavy metal doors crashing closed, the sight cementing the shivers she can no longer suppress.

Her eyes swing to the doors of her own ship as the squeal of tearing metal rings out, far too close for comfort. For a transport ship, the presence of prisoners meant they were reinforced specifically for cases of attempted prison breaks, though those were in regard to attacks in the vacuum of space.

Here, they stood no chance to the continuous assault, and with a wicked screech they crumple and fall away. The instant they do, she realizes that the sound of the group didn't increase because of their own voices, but because outside the ship there seemed to be hundreds more joining in, creating an unending wave of sound that rang through the cavernous room.

Yo, ho, haul together

Hoist the colours high

Heave ho, thieves and beggars

Never shall we die

The humans rush out of the ship, several stopping to grab her and her crew to haul them along as they finish the song with the beings outside, their cheers leaving the room ringing with noise even as they taper off. She can indeed see hundreds filling the rooms, swarming around ships and piles of supplies as they rush to greet the escaped prisoners.

It's mostly humans, but she's shocked to see members of all species from countless planets and factions intermingling, most dirty and thin but still smiling wide. She gasps as she catches sight of some Huldren people, seeming perfectly at ease around the humans they spoke with, exchanging jokes and stories with none of the issues the Council complained of.

She tries to take in as much as she can, but quickly she is passed off to some other humans, who smile widely as she and her crew are dragged out of the hanger. Fear sticks to her skin as they're dumped in cells that are completely dark when the doors close. Huddling closely to her crew, they wait for what will come, the remnants of the music still ringing in their ears.

---

"Kidd! You old bastard, I thought you were dead!"

Kidd turns at the familiar voice, leaning heavily on Hela as he presses a hand to the cut on his leg the alien had gotten before Hela had stepped in. He grins at the figure running towards him, finally relaxing at the sight of his old friend.

"Edward, you should know by now I'm fucking hard to kill."

The other man rolls his eyes, either at his words or the use of his first name, but doesn't hesitate to pull the man into a warm hug, clapping his back firmly before pulling away.

"You should just be glad we were listening for your message. Not terribly subtle, but then our folk rarely are." His gaze finds the wound on Will's leg, eyes turning dark as he takes in the sluggish bleeding. "I don't suppose you'll be wanting them that got you that cut to be dealt with?"

He shakes his head, leaning back on Hela as she wraps her arm around him.

"Nah, this was a desperate act of a desperate man, when they found out what we were up to. They were just doing their job the best they could. Same deal as always, some time in the hole then if they want they can join one of our crews or be dropped off at the nearest planet. They seem decent enough, unlike some people I could think of."

Edward nods, willing as always to listen to the older man. Kidd could remember when he first picked up the scrawny stowaway, teaching him how to not get killed as best he could, and Edward still took his advice more often than not, even as his crew grew beyond anything Kidd ever managed.

The three walk down the hall, Edward leading them to the med ward where a few of the gentler folk took care of any injuries, which kept their hands pretty full in this profession. Kidd looks around, admiring the size of the ship.

"So where'd you pick this beauty up? Nearly gave me a heart attack to be found in it til I heard the voices." Edward laughs, looking proud as he glances out of the window, where the rest of the ships can be seen.

"Stole her right from under the noses of the Admiral off the edge of the Milky Way. Close enough to home to make me uneasy but so worth the effort. Plus it's always fun to piss off the army, human or otherwise, makes life exciting."

"Can't argue with that, even if I'm not as spry as I used to be." There's objections from the other two at his words, but he waves them off as best he can. "Oh hush, it's no insult to have managed to live this long. I'm more insulted by the pitiful excuse of a beard you have."

Hela laughs at Edward's spluttering, hands coming up as though to protect the thin black fuzz covering his lower face.

"I only just started this, you son of a bitch, someday it'll be even longer than yours."

Kidd agrees with a vague noise, distracted by their arrival to the med bay, as he is immediately rushed by several of the crew tasked with first aid. His leg is wrapped tight and he's then ushered to a room in the guest quarters near Edward's rooms. Hela orders him to rest and he is left alone, finally able to fully relax for the first time in weeks.

He sits near the windows, looking out at the expanse of ships and space that seem to stretch endlessly. He can still hear the cheering of the crowds beneath him, the celebrations sure to last until the morrow, when he would be better fit to join in.

He settles in, hoping to plan for the day ahead, but his exhaustion hits hard after holding off for so long and he drifts into a restless sleep, mind filled with visions of violent seas that churn beneath him, and voices ringing in time to the crashing waves.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me

#my writing #story #based on a writing prompt #basically pirates in space #science fiction #?? #I think #posted it on reddit originally #short story

[krystalreverb]

Tomorrow Tomorrow (Fic Preview #2)

The city of Enbarr was a hive of activity, shops and businesses, residences, everyone from the elite to the most poor were represented among the populace. Hubert passed by one man who was passed out in the street with his shoes still on, a bottle of ale in one hand. Then they passed a man wearing finery and gold, chatting up another man also wearing finery and gold. Two women chatted by the central square, with pretty pins in their hair and long skirts that scraped the ground. All activity stopped when they noticed their Emperor atop a great black horse with her terrifying spectre of a retainer behind her. 

“T-The Emperor--”

“Look, it’s the Emperor and her vassal!” 

“I wonder what they want? The Emperor never comes out of her castle!”

“Hubert.” Edelgard said.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“They seem confused. How do I… tell them I mean them no harm?” Edelgard asked quietly. Hubert chuckled and simply climbed down off the horse, and held out his hand to help Edelgard down. 

“Show them a good time, Your Majesty.” 

Edelgard took in her surroundings, and her eye caught a pretty scarf that was on display at a kiosk stall on the side of the road. She began heading towards it. The crowd in the square parted to let her through.

“Excuse me.” Edelgard said, and the man running the kiosk jumped slightly, put down his newspaper, and looked at her. When he realized it was the Emperor at his stall, he immediately leapt to his feet.

“Y-Your Majesty! What can I do for you, Your Majesty?” He said in a rapid, fearful voice. 

“First of all, you can relax. I am not here to seize your wares, arrest you, or hurt you. I just want to look at that scarf you have on display.” She pointed to the scarf, and the man immediately opened the glass case it was in and handed it to her. She touched it, feeling the material. A nice material, but not usually fit for royalty. However, it was a beautiful deep blue color, and of exceptional craftsmanship. It shimmered with bluish sequins of purest silver that had been individually hand-sewn into the fabric. She turned it over in her hands, admiring the work that was put into it. 

“I like it. How much do I owe you?” She asked, pulling out her wallet. 

“Not at all, Your Majesty. Your money’s no good here.” 

“Of course it is. I insist on paying you for this scarf. I will not have objects simply handed to me without the means to pay for them because of my birthright. I am not some vain imperial princess, I am your Emperor, and I demand to pay you for this scarf.” Edelgard repeated firmly. The man folded, looking a little shocked at her sheer vitriol.

“Alright, alright. 300 gold, that’s all, my kid makes those. She’s talented, right? I let her keep half of what I make off them.” 

“Three hundred? It’s worth at least five. Given that it’s a handcrafted item of exceptional craftsmanship. I will give you five hundred for it, use the remainder to treat your family to a nice dinner out.” Edelgard said, handing over five hundred gold and taking the scarf back to Hubert while the owner of the shop tried to figure out exactly how he managed to haggle up the price of an item with the most powerful woman in the world. 

“Hubert, hold up your wrist.” She said, and Hubert obeyed. She tied the scarf around his wrist. “Here, you hold onto this for safekeeping.” She said sweetly, and his lips twitched in a smile.

“I do believe it suits me, milady. I’ll hold onto it. Shall we go find some local foods to sample, Your Majesty? I hear there’s a little bar in this area that makes the best dumplings in this half of Fódlan. The atmosphere’s not exactly fit for royalty, but the food is good, and the company is a laugh riot.” He suggested, and Edelgard nodded. Hubert led her into what could only be described as a hole-in-the-wall bar filled with big, burly men who rode big, burly horses and had big, burly beards. Yet, as soon as these tattooed, chain-wielding tough guys clad in leather and studs noticed their little crimson flower of an Emperor in their bar, they jumped to their feet and made way for her to take the best seat at the bar. It was the only seat in the house that didn’t squeak when somebody sat down on it, and it was the only one that hadn’t been broken once or twice in a bar fight.  

“The Emperor…” The grizzled old bartender said in awe, almost dropping the glass he was cleaning. “W-What can I get for ya, Your Majesty?” 

“My vassal has suggested dumplings. I hear they are very good here, and I wish to try them.” She looked back at Hubert, who winked and clicked his tongue playfully, gesturing up at the menu written in chalk above the bartender’s head for her to get anything she wanted. “...and a tequila sunrise, please.” Edelgard finished. 

Hubert gently tapped a man on the shoulder and asked him to move so he could sit nearest to his lady’s right. The man obliged, scooting over a seat and allowing Hubert to sit down. The seat complained underneath him, issuing a rather ominous squeak and a slight cracking noise as it settled.

“Right away, Your Majesty!” The bartender skittered into the back, and a loud, yet distant call of “Get your asses in gear! The Emperor is here! I need an order of dumplings, ASAP!” and the sudden clanging and bustling of pots and pans and feet indicated that the employees in the back had jumped into action frantically.. 

One of the burly men approached Edelgard on the left. Hubert watched him suspiciously. “So… what are you doing here, Yer Majesty? This is the fuckin’ …. Like, I mean, it’s the shittiest bar in Enbarr. Worst bar in Enbarr. Sorry.” 

“Don’t cuss in front of the Emperor, mate!” Another patron called. “What are yeh, an idiot?”

“I’m tryin’! I don’t get all that fancy-talk!” 

Edelgard regarded him for a moment. He seemed sincere, and his stance was passive, indicating that he meant her no harm, and was just asking an innocent question, vulgarity aside. She decided to answer him.

“I needed a day outside. Those castle walls are quite protective but they’re also quite restrictive. I find my daily activities limited by what I can do within the castle grounds, and my choices are scarce. I find it repetitive, and sometimes frustrating to no end. Hubert suggested a day in town to let me relax a little. He then suggested the dumplings here.” She said.

“Oh, the dumplings are great.” Another guy piped up. “Best dumplings in Fódlan. The bartender-- his name’s Skip, by the way, but anyway, Skip’s old grandma used to make them, and then they were really the best. Now they’re still the best, but some of the magic is lost. Nobody could ever roll a dumpling the way Skip’s grandma could.” 

“Yeah, every one of us was at the funeral, it was just before the war broke out. It was real sad, she started this place and ran it for like, forty years. But Skip’s done a great job of running the place since she died.” 

The bartender came back out and began preparing Edelgard’s drink. He pulled down the top-shelf tequila, a fine glass bottle with a fine glass stopper that looked like it had been there for a thousand years and had never been opened.The wax seal around the bottle was still intact, if a little dusty. And Edelgard laughed. 

“Your usual brand is fine. I’ve had worse alcohol on the march, believe me.” She insisted. “Don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around me. I conquer only out of necessity, and I prefer to use my words if I can help it. I fight only to right the wrongs in the world, and to take down oppression. Now that my war is through, I prefer to relax and plan my future. After all, I won’t be around forever, and I’d like to die on my own terms.” She smiled, and the old bartender let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He chuckled back, pulling the wax seal off the bottle and discarding it before popping the glass stopper out of the bottle with a gentle clink. He took a sniff; it was a vintage and had mellowed quite nicely on the shelf for all those years. 

“With all due respect, Your Majesty… you took on the Church of Seiros, the Alliance, and the Kingdom, and won. You get the top-shelf liquor in this bar.” He said, pouring a generous amount of the tequila in his tumbler to mix the drink. 

“I was a Captain, you know, during the war. I fought under you for a while when you assigned yourself a Fighter battalion in the battle of Arianrhod. You probably don’t recognize me without the helmet and the big metal gauntlets, but I was a Berserker-class warrior. I saw the way you fought, how you fought on the front lines for all that time, and managed to come out relatively unscathed. Watching you fight was incredible. You’re a real spitfire, Your Majesty, and you’re getting the good stuff.” He poured her drink and handed it to her. Edelgard smiled and accepted her drink gracefully. 

“Thank you.” The chef brought out Edelgard’s dumplings, and eagerly waited by her side as she tasted one. Her eyes lit up, and the plate was gone within mere minutes. Hubert stifled a snort as she ate, devouring dumplings like a ravenous beast. 

“W-would you like more, Your Majesty?” The chef asked. “I’d be happy to make more!”

“One more order, yes. These are delicious! Why, it’s even better than some of the food in the castle!” She exclaimed. “Hubert, try one.” She held the dumpling up on a fork for Hubert to eat. Hubert gently leaned forward to take a bite. His eyebrow twitched. 

“Make that two more orders.” He said, and the chef beamed and scrambled back into the kitchen. 

“So you’re out on the town, havin’ some fun, and you choose to come here?” Skip asked.

“I’ve been here before.” Hubert answered. “Once or twice, to make a deal or two. You likely never even saw me.” Hubert replied with a bit of a grin. “After all, a nobleman usually doesn’t make himself known around these parts. However, I liked the food and the company was fun and I had the brilliant thought that perhaps, my lady might like to visit.” He said. Edelgard took a healthy sip of her drink. “After all, it is only my greatest wish to see a smile upon my lady’s face. It is my job, you see. And it’s a job I’m quite fond of. I don’t plan to leave it, you understand? I don’t see myself in any other career but this.” He said, and Edelgard laughed, shoving him in the ribs teasingly. However, she was a strong woman, and Hubert nearly toppled backwards off his barstool, forced to use a touch of magic and grab onto Edelgard’s elbow to right himself. 

“Hubert! Don’t be so stuffy! These are our new friends, now. It’s time to celebrate new friends.” Edelgard said firmly, and Hubert made a series of hand gestures and mouthed some words at Skip behind Edelgard’s back, and Skip barely managed to interpret them as “two shots of vodka for me and another sunrise for her”. Skip nodded and began preparing the drinks. 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Hubert said out loud. He slipped his arm back, and Skip handed him his first shot. “Shall I call a toast, my lady? To a unified Fódlan!” He called, and the crowd cheered and raised their drinks. Hubert knocked back the shot of vodka as though taking a sip of water. Edelgard scoffed.

“You can’t handle Almyran brandy but you can drink that rotgut swill?” She said. “I can smell it from here. It smells like it would explode quite beautifully should I cast Fire on it. Should I? You’ll likely lose your eyebrows if I do.” 

“Look, the Almyrans make insanely strong alcohol.” Hubert replied defensively. “I can take the ring out of a bathtub with a bottle of Almyran brandy and a little elbow grease, and at least this tastes like something.” He held up his shot glass, wiggling it between his fingers for emphasis. Edelgard laughed. 

“It tastes like furniture polish, is what it tastes like.” She said. It was clear she was somewhat tipsy from her first drink, and Skip had just handed her another. Hubert chuckled.

“Ah, our tastes differ, I suppose. To me, tequila tastes like grass.” He said. “Be careful with your drinking, my lady. Your epaulets are falling off.” He said, fixing Edelgard’s cloak and plucking the drink from her hand, holding it high teasingly. Edelgard laughed, and it turned out she snorted when she laughed, and Hubert couldn’t help but find it endearing, chuckling along with her. She reached up and up and almost into Hubert’s lap to grab her drink back, one hand on his thigh for stability while she reached. 

One of the patrons in the bar challenged Hubert to a game of billiards to pass the time, and Hubert promptly and efficiently trounced the patron, using his cue expertly to spin the final ball into the hole set into the edge of the table. “And that’s how House Vestra funds wars.” He said with a haughty air as the patron handed him a stack of gold coins and some other patrons patted him on the back supportively. 

“Good work! I ain’t seen anybody beat Charlie in a while.” 

“Impressive, Hubert. I didn’t know you could play billiards.” Edelgard said. 

“House Vestra houses more than just shadows, Your Majesty. Our secrets outnumber our words one hundred to one. Besides that, it’s not a terribly difficult game to play; it only requires a certain amount of geometry and good aim. Would you like to give it a try, Your Majesty? I can teach you.” He held out the cue, bowing slightly at the waist as if holding out the sword of a defeated enemy to his liege. Edelgard hopped to her feet and took the cue, and Hubert spared no time in getting close and showing her exactly how to hold it, his body curled around hers from behind, pressed up against her and his chin resting on her shoulder. Edelgard did not seem to notice. If she did, she didn’t say anything.  “Like this, Your Majesty, there we are, balance it on your fingers just like that…” 

“I think I understand… I’m to hit the white ball, yes?”

“Precisely, Your Majesty, use the white ball to knock the other balls into the holes…” He murmured, his hands on hers as he guided her to hit the cue ball into the black 8-ball, knocking it deftly into one of the holes lining the table’s rim. Edelgard squealed in delight and Hubert chuckled a little and they gave each other some manner of triumphant, adoring look.

Two of the patrons looked at each other and raised their eyebrows a little bit.  

Eventually, they paid their tab (leaving a rather generous tip) and bid Skip and the other patrons goodbye, and promised they would return someday. They would notice that Edelgard kept a tight grip on Hubert’s wrist, needing him for support after two tequila drinks early in the morning. 

“Thank you for your hospitality. We’ll be sure to return, won’t we, Your Majesty?”

“Of course! I haven’t had this much fun in a very long time. Thank you for bringing me here, Hubert.” Edelgard said. “I think we should take tea in that nice little tea shop we passed on the way here. What do you think, Hubert?”

“My lady’s wish is my command. I am ever your faithful servant, my lady.” Hubert followed Edelgard out, and the door swung shut behind them. Skip addressed his patrons.

“So how long do you think they’ve been fucking?” 

“Oh, jeez, forever.” The patrons began chattering amongst themselves.

“Did you see the way he was looking at her?”

“Did you see the way he was doting on her?” 

“Did you see the way she touched him?  And the billiards thing??” 

“Either they’re sleeping together or he’s the most pathetic spineless fool in all of Fódlan. He was all over her!” 

“I see why they call him the Emperor’s lapdog.” 

“Ain’t hard to guess who wears the pants in that relationship!” 

#tomorrow tomorrow #fic preview #hubert is pathetic #but then again #so is edelgard #watch them completely miss the signals even when drunk #fire emblem #three houses #edelbert