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morporkian-cryptid · 3 years

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Today in "Elliott's Niche AF AUs": one (1) person asked me about this, sooooo...

Lupin III Discworld AU crossover headcanon pile thingy!!!

For those who don't know: Discworld is a flat world held on the back of four giant elephants on top of a giant turtle, floating through space. That world has magic, as well as trolls, dwarves, goblins etc... but in a way that's meant to subvert typical fantasy tropes.

Ankh-Morpork, the biggest city on the Disc, is a hotbed of crime, innovations, and innovations in crime. It is run by a council of guilds, and by a Patrician (a lifelong tyrant; he's elected by the guilds but he has the final say in everything). Notorious for having an Assassins', Thieves', Beggars', and Seamstresses' (sex workers) Guilds. Also notorious for its Watch (the police), which is actually surprisingly good at solving crimes. It's also the biggest immigration destination on the Disc.

Character backstories/situations:

Lupin : half-quirmian-half-agatean (Quirm being the DW equivalent of France), grew up in the Agatean Empire (DW equivalent of China/East Asia). He moved to Ankh-Morpork to follow Fujiko, and/or to escape Zenigata. He’s an illegal thief (meaning he's not registered with the Thieves' Guild), and his favourite hobby (besides just stealing in general) is screwing with the Guild. Commander Vimes, the head of the Watch, is supposed to catch him (or at least help Zenigata catch him), but he's secretly rooting for him because he dislikes the Guild slightly more than he dislikes Lupin.

Jigen : son of a couple of Agatean immigrants in Ankh-Morpork, grew up as a street urchin in the Shades (the most crime-ridden neighborhood of the notoriously crime-ridden Ankh-Morpork). He joined the Assassins’ Guild later in his life as a (mostly self-taught) sharpshooter, with a talent that outshone that of the Guild's best students. He later quit the Guild after he met Lupin (possibly had a contract to kill Lupin, and decided “screw this I’m going with him”). He can use any kind of shooting weapons, but favors crossbows. He’s tried stealing and using the gonne (DW's first and only firearm); it didn't go well. He somehow managed to learn one single spell from the wizards, the fireball, by becoming pals with Arcchancelor Ridcully (wizard, head of the Unseen University, and famous for his unfortunate passion for crossbow shooting).

Goemon : agatean immigrant/fugitive, master swordsman. He left Agatea because Fujiko stole his Zantetsuken and fled to Ankh-Morpork, so Goemon had to follow her to retrieve his sword. He then met Lupin and Jigen and decided to stick around. The Zantetsuken is a talking sword, and its personality is basically the embodiment of Bushido. It's extremely annoying (like all talking swords), but Goemon loves it. (it was probably his only friend back in Agatea)

Fujiko : agatean immigrant/fugitive. Ran away from the Agatean Empire chased by Goemon. She joined the Thieves’ Guild, but everyone confuses her for a seamstress because her technique usually involves seduction. She tried it on Vetinari once. It failed spectacularly.

Zenigata : agatean immigrant, part of the Empire’s police force, who came to Ankh-Morpork chasing Lupin. He only brought his assistant Yata with him, and has to cooperate with the Watch to have resources to catch Lupin. Vimes doesn’t particularly like him, but he’s good at his work so he can’t say anything (they're both too stubborn to get along).

Bonus:

Yata: Zenigata’s assistant, came to Ankh-Morpork with him, rapidly became great friends with Rufus Drumknott (the Head Secretary of the Patrician, Lord Vetinari). He has a bad influence on Drumknott. He also befriended Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, but then again Carrot befriends everyone.

Ami: She's a clacks operator. Clacks are basically the DW equivalent of telegraph. There's a group of clacks hackers called the GNU, so she might have joined them.

Albert: He's part of the Patrician's Dark Clerks (they're the secret services of Ankh-Morpork)

Rebecca: She's from Quirm. That’s all I have about her for now. (Quirm's the equivalent of France, but in the french translation it was made into an equivalent of Italy)

Random-Ass Headcanons

Lupin gets along like a house on fire with Moist von Lipwig (former conman and current postmaster, notorious adrenaline junkie), both figuratively and literally. Lupin and Lipwig sometimes team up on heists and rely on each other’s help, when they’re not busy competing against each other because Lupin keeps daring Lipwig to thieving competitions.

One of the contests’ goal is to steal Vetinari’s manuscript, The Servant. Fujiko wins. She wasn’t even in the race.

///

Fujiko quickly became friends with Adora-Belle Dearheart (Moist von Lipwig's rather explosive girlfriend), they get together every now and then to trash-talk their respective boyfriends.

///

For some reason everyone thinks Lupin is a werewolf. (it’s actually Jigen)

(maybe. I haven't yet decided whether or not he is. That would be a very good source of angst, considering what most werewolves are like, and also a very good source of domestic fluff if the whole gang has to adapt to the moon cycle and Jigen's transformations. Idk. Might be fun.)

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Fujiko owns a horse golem (a gift from Adora-Belle or something she stole, we may never know). The Gang also owns a carriage, modified with a spell so it will drive faster, and they drive it completely carelessly. It has been destroyed and rebuilt countless times. (actually a bunch of spells, Lupin probably found a way to blackmail Ridcully so he could mod the shit out of his carriage. Or they rely on Jigen’s friendship with Ridcully)

///

Lupin uses swamp dragons as firearms (dialogue courtesy of @marquise-de-clarabas: Jigen: You stole a dragon??? Lupin: I didn’t steal him! He’s his own person and can make decisions himself! Dragon: I wanna steal). He has an alias and disguise entirely dedicated to visiting the Sunshine Sanctuary For Sick Dragons, and somehow became friends with Lady Sybil Ramkin-Vimes (Commander Vimes' wife, and the greatest expert on swamp dragons in the city, probably on the Disc). Vimes doesn't know about it, and Lupin finds the whole situation hilarious. He constantly makes jokes about how he’s playing with fire.

///

The Thieves’ Guild and the Watch are competing to catch the Gang, but secretly Vimes is rooting for the Gang (the Guild just hates them). That said, Vimes also hates Lupin (only slightly less than he dislikes the Guild), because he's always a little shit whenever he gets put in jail, and then he immediately breaks out.

///

Rincewind (famously bad wizard with a shit luck and a tendency to run from problems) once got arrested by Zenigata, because he got startled by him yelling LUPAAAAAAAAAN! and started running for the hills, making Zenigata believe he was Lupin in disguise. Rincewind is terrified of Zenigata.

///

Zenigata is actively trying to stop the Thieves' Guild from catching Lupin and Co, both because he wants to catch them himself, and because he knows what the Guild does to illegal thieves and he doesn’t want it to happen to Lupin.

///

Lupin stole Ridcully’s hat (custom wizard hat with a bunch of pockets, drawers, a crossbow, and a tiny flask of alcohol) as a gift for Jigen’s birthday. He also stole Lipwig’s hat (golden cap with dove wings), after which Adora claimed she didn’t recognize Moist (dialogue courtesy of @marquise-de-clarabas: Moist: C’mon babe, it’s me, your boyfriend! Adora, knowing full well who he is: I have never met this man in my entire life). He also raided the Assassins' Guild's armory/museum to get a birthday gift for Goemon.

///

About Jigen and the gonne (spoilers for Men at Arms) : basically, the gonne being such a dangerous and destructive weapon compared to crossbows, it has a nigh-magical attraction on people, and awakens and strengthens whatever lust for power, vengeance, blood etc they have. It basically controls its user and feeds on their convictions, addictions, wants, etc. The only person known to have resisted it is Vimes (because he's a stubborn mofo with a sense of morals you could bend iron on), and even he came damn near to losing his mind. (And Carrot, because... he's Carrot.)

Assuming the gonne didn't get destroyed in this AU: after they steal it, Lupin tries to use it, gets completely possessed/cursed (again) and accidentally tries to murder his friends (again), prompting Jigen to take it from him. Jigen then gets possessed as well, and they start fighting for the gonne, until Goemon just walks in, takes it out of their hands and takes it away. Goemon's completely unaffected by the gonne because 1) of his ascetic training and 2) "it is a filthy morporkian artifact and cannot compare to the noble art of the sword."

///

Zenigata often teams up with Angua (resident werewolf of the Watch), they get along very well. The Gang is very easy to track, they smell like a tobacco factory that has caught on fire.

///

Yata and Drumknott (Patrician's head secretary, and confidante, sort of) get together after office hours, and argue about whose boss is the best (because as we all know they both have a crush on respective bosses). One day Drumknott accidentally calls Vetinari “Sempai” after he heard Yata call Zenigata that all the time.

///

Lupin follows Lipwig’s example and steals all of Yata’s pencils every time he visits the Pseudopolis Yard (the Watch's HQ). Drumknott is fuming when Yata tells him about it.

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Leonardo Da Quirm is butt-naked, because Part 4.

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Something with vampires, probably.

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tagging @carriagelamp and @mad-whoman-with-a-book00 because I know you may be potentially interested in this AU ^^

#lupin iii #lupin the third #discworld #ankh-morpork #terry pratchett #lupin iii discworld au #already making a tag in case i make more posts; you never know #the hobbit's headcanons

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themadauthorshatter · 3 years

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... I’ve already made a draft of this and deleted it, but I’m going back in.

This is an AU of what would happen if Mareven was healthy and the end game.

I apologize in advance for any and all MareCal shippers, including myself.

SO! What happens?

Simple.

Everything remains mostly the same in the story except we get more of a doubtful and uneasy Maven as the story progresses, as in he hugs Mare a little longer and is genuinely perturbed when he hears about the ‘bomb’ that went off and looks terrified of Cal when he returns and orders Farley to be tortured. He’s also more hesitant to listen to his mother.

He still offers Cal’s legion to the Guard, but is a little sadder to say it.

THEN WE GET TO THE PLOT TWIST OF THE STORY!!!!!!!!!

Maven plays along, but, as he stands by his mother’s side, he mouths, “sorry” to Mare and goes for a gun on Arven’s belt, shooting him in the leg and warning him not to try silencing him or he’ll aim for something more vital.

It catches EVERYONE off guard, especially Elara, who’s about to risk having Cal or Tibe out of her whispers to get Maven back in line.

Instead, Elara asks what he’s doing and why, as she thought this was what he’d always wanted.

“It’s what you want, Mother. Not me. None of this is right. You’re already the Queen. What else do you want!?”

Elara bares her teeth. “Are you saying you want to live your days with a Red rat?”

Maven pulls Mare to her feet and pushes her behind him, keeping the gun at them, nodding. “I’m saying I'm not following your plans or listening to anything you have to say. I'll die before I let you in my head again!”

Well, wish granted because Mare senses the cameras turning back on and Elara lets Tibe and Cal go.

Only to force Maven to shoot her and Tibe, though Maven actually misses him.

Mare breaks free and they make a run for it, Elara shouting that they are traitors and to arrest them, though she does force Tibe to play the part of concerned husband.

Cal isn't in the room because he races after Maven and Mare.

Speaking of which, Maven leads Mare through the castle and finds a hall that goes toward a servant's passage, so they can escape.

Too bad there are guards that round the corner and take aim at them, not only for staging a coup de ta, but also for attempted regicide.

Cal's there too, aiming a handgun at them and telling them to submit to arrest.

They do and are sent to the Silent Stone cells.

Mare is confused and livid and doesn't want to talk to Maven, who keeps pacing and clutching his head and telling someone to be quiet.

Mare mentally tells him to maybe practice what he’s preaching, but wonders what the hell all that was when they were captured.

Maven sighs and sits down, back-to-back with Mare, and asks her how good she is at picking locks.

Her hands are for picking pockets, not locks.

Maven lets out a semi-bitter chuckle and regards that he shouldn’t have bothered asking because of course she’s better at pockets. he then admits that he’d been so scared of the cells as a boy, his young mind tricking him into thinking that there were monsters or prisoners in the cells.

Speaking of the cells, Mare breaks her silence and asks why it’s so hard for her to use her powers, even asking if Arven is close by listening to them.

Maven admits it would be useful to do that, but no. The cells are made of Silent Stone, which is basically Arven being there without him really being there.

Although she already knows what’s going to happen, Mare wonders what will happen to them, in the Bowl of Bones.

Maven lists off a firing squad, some Silvers, maybe some animals, and the fact that no matter what, the show will not be short; the people want blood and Tibe is going to give them blood, even if it’s his own son’s.

“Not if he can’t find you.”

Both Mare and Maven stand as Cal walks in, dressed formally and holding a set of keys to the cells.

Maven asks what this is and what Cal’s doing as he opens both Maven’s and Mare’s cells.

Cal explains that he’s already had to give Julian a head start and hopes that Maven and mare can do the same, can vanish into thin air before their execution.

Mare asks why they should accept the help, seeing as Cal’s the one who arrested them, but Cal counters by asking who’s idea it was to get them arrested, glaring daggers at Maven.

Maven has his own question: How does Cal know they won’t be seen?

Cal looks away and admits that he hopes there aren’t any Red servants that know how to fix the security system.

Maven and Mare exchange a glance and start walking, but Cal gets between them, shackles them, and grabs their arms, telling them to play along and make it convincing so no one questions anything.

They both do their best reluctant prisoners act up until they pass by Sonya, who inquires as to where Cal’s taking them.

Cal states he’s just taking them to get some cardio before their execution, seeing as how they’ll need every ounce of strength they’ll need.

Sonya spits that they shouldn’t and should actually fight with nooses around their necks so they’re easier to grab and throw around, but drops it anyway, eying Cal before she leaves.

Time’s almost up, so it’s a good thing Maven leads Cal to a servant passage, where they stop and get free, Maven getting his flame-maker bracelets back.

Maven opens the passage, but Cal stops him and Mare, telling them to be careful now, because if they manage to escape, they’ll be fugitives and will get hunted like deer for treason, Maven for attempted regicide, from what narrative that now exists.

They nod and thank him for the help.

Before Mare can follow Maven, Cal grabs her arm again, which makes Mare turn to him.

The two stare at each other, realizing what’s happening and what’s going to happen.

The royals will figure out that Cal helped them escape and will probably have him killed for letting two traitors run free.

Cal is the one who helped her in the first place by getting her the job at the Summer Palace, and now he’s saving her life again, this time also saving his brother’s and risking his own.

Maven shouts for Mare to keep it moving and Mare pulls out of Cal’s grip, backs away, and races after Maven, Cal watching her leave before closing the passage.

His face contorts with sorrow, regret, anger, and pain and he clenches a fist as he hears a sentinel shout that Mare and Maven are missing.

Cal shouts, “They’re this way!” and races down the hallway and away from the bookshelf, trying to make it look like they outran him.

In the passage, Maven leads Mare by the hand as they soon find themselves underground and under the streets, overhearing an announcement to keep an eye out for the two of them because both are armed and dangerous, Mare especially.

Maven groans at his father’s words and muses that at least they’re out.

Mare isn’t as relieved and asks what he was planning with his mother.

Maven stops in his steps and states that she already knows.

Mare does know, she just wants to hear Maven say it.

Maven bites his tongue and clenches his fist at his side, not turning to face Mare as he asks what will happen if he doesn’t tell her.

She’ll make him tell her, make him talk or she’ll shock him until he dies.

Maven tightens his fist but then drops it, admitting he and Elara planned on killing Tibe and using Mare and Cal as scapegoats, sending them to the Bowl of Bones, and having them executed to wrap up the story and solidify Maven as the new King, with no Scarlet Guard and no loose ends to ensure the story of Mare being a Red would slip out.

Mare demands he define ‘loose ends.’

Lady Blonos. The servant girls who dressed Mare as a Silver. Lucas. Julian. Sara. Mare’s family. Kilorn. Cal. Mare herself. All the Reds on the list Julian gave her.

Mare gasps at that last one, sliding down a wall as Maven explains in increasing panic and with his eyes growing teary that he was along with the ride and all for getting the throne the way his mother planned, but then he began to feel genuine feelings for Mare and her plight and no matter how much Elara tried to take those feelings away, they always came back. She did the same with Tibe, making Maven lose his love for him, and had semi-success with Cal, but didn’t fully remove his love for his brother. It also changed when they killed Blonos and the servant girls, and when Tristan died. It opened Maven’s eyes and made him realize that he was going to kill someone he didn’t want to die. he’d already lost Thomas and it was his own fault, but if he was the reason he lost Mare, too, he’d lose his mind.

Maven stops his rambling and joins Mare against the wall, admitting that he knows he deserves whatever comes next, but whatever does happen, he just asks that mare know that he is sorry for all of this, for putting her in such danger that now they’re on the run and risk execution if they’re caught.

Mare turns to him and asks if Elara has the list, if he told her about the Newbloods.

Maven shakes his head; the raid was going to happen in a few hour hours, so there wouldn’t have been enough time for Elara to look through his mind, write down all the names, and the find them in the blood base, so they have a good head start there, too.

After a minute of collecting themselves, and a glare from Mare, the two stand up and keep walking until they reach a fork in the path and wonder which is safer.

The only answer they get is a gun pushed against the back of Maven's head and a certain blaonde telling him to go right or she's painting the tunnel Silver.

Mare turns and sees Kilorn and Farley, with the addition of a certain Barrow we all still mourn, don't lie.

"Shade!"

Mare and Shade reunite, though Maven voices confusion as he thought Shade had been executed.

Shade explains that they tried and failed, making an example by teleporting in front of and behind them, saying with pride that no one's faster than him.

Mare is a mix of happy and sad at the news, but Farley brings them back and reminds them they need to keep going or they'll get arrested and killed.

Maven also gets put back in shackles, but acts as a good sport and doesn't burn them off.

They continue throught the tunnel until they reach a train, climb aboard, and get to riding, merrily on their way to nowhere in particular.

Back in White Fire, Elara slaps Cal HARD in the face and demands to know what he was thinking and where Maven and Mare are.

Tibe gets between them, but Cal admits that he didn't fully know what he was thinking, just that he couldn't let his brother be forced to fight when he's still in training. It would be a bloodbath.

Elara asks if that's the same reason why he also let Mare go, or if there's something he's not telling them.

Tibe also wants to know. He understands letting Maven go, but why a Red rat like Mare? If the people see her lightning powers and Red blood, there will be Hell to pay.

Cal's silent, but Elara solves that with a quick look into his mind, seeing all the moments of Cal and Mare being close and friendly with each other.

Elara asks Cal if he's more interested in dirt than diamonds and Tibe gets the picture instantly, upon seeing Cal's reaction.

Change of plan: Cal is getting his legion back in action, and an additional two hundred soldiers to locate and either capture or kill Mare and Maven. No more catch and releases or else it's Cal who fights in the arena and he'll have nothing but his wits to defend himself.

Cal pales at this and gasps that they can't kill him, because then Norta has no heir.

Tibe only glares at him and tells him not to fail before leaving to let Cal get his army ready.

Cal watches his father leave and is broken by the fact that he legitimately screwed up and that his father, as King, needs Maven, his own son, executed with Mare, someone who never should have had her powers to begin with.

Elara glares at Cal for a moment longer and also walks out of the room, leaving Cal on his own.

#red queen #mare barrow #maven calore #tiberias calore vii #cal calore #tiberias calore vi #elara merandus #au #ua #mareven #healthy mareven #I'm making Cal the antagonist and I'm so sorry #sorry to marecal shippers everywhere

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x-reader-theater · 3 years

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An Austenite Affair {2}

Relationship: Javier Peña x Male!Columbian!Reader

Summary: " I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,' said Darcy, 'Of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done… " ~Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

Warnings: Cursing, Sex, Unprotected Sex, Period Typical Homophobia

Word Count: 2779 words

A/N: Hey! Welcome back. I don’t really know what to say except than you for the response on the first chapter! I really appreciate it! If you want to read it on Ao3 you can do so here. Edited by the aboslutely incredible @mystic-writes . Show her some love!

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Chapter 2: Pride and Prejudice

"I can not fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun." ~Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen.

"Carajo a Peña que se siente tan bien," you mutter quietly as you tug on Peña's hair, and you feel his throat vibrate around your dick. Your fingers grip his curly hair tighter as you feel his moustache running along the top of your cock, and you feel the tight coil in your stomach begin to snap. "Oh shit, Peña!" you exclaim, though you do put your fist in your mouth to try and quiet your loud moans you come down his throat.

You throw your head back against the wall behind you, and you let go of Peña's hair. He stands up and you reach out to grab his dick. He holds your hand and kisses you, and you pull your lips away from his.

"You don't want help?" you ask and he kisses you again.

"I already helped myself," he says against your lips and you look down between your legs to see Peña's cum splattering the floor between your legs. You laugh and kiss Javier again, and you can taste yourself in his mouth as your tongue brushes against his teeth.

You grab a dirty cloth from one of the racks that usually houses old documents, but you had put a handful of old towels just for occasions such as this.

You bend down and wipe the floor of Peña's cum as the man in question pulls up his pants and tucks his shirt back in. You throw the towel back and do the same, and when you go to leave, Peña grabs your wrist.

You go to kiss him, but he stops you with a hand on your cheek. "Why do you call me Peña?" He asks, and you frown, pulling away slightly.

"I dunno," you say, looking away from him. "That's your name."

He grabs your chin lightly and makes you look into his dark brown eyes. "My name is Javier." You raise an eyebrow at him. "Most lovers call me Javi."

Your eyebrows raise at that and you look at him. "Is that what we are? Lovers? You fuck me in a closet Peña. Once you fuck me in a bed, only then will you be my lover," you say, breaking out of his grasp and leaving the small supply closet at the back of the archives.

"We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him." ~Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

You're sitting at your desk, chatting idly with Peña as someone else walks in. You look up and see someone you've never seen before, someone who looks immediately at Javier and then idly looks at you.

"Javi, we have to go in fifteen," he says in a distinctly american accent.

You raise an eyebrow at Peña and say, "¿ Esta tu nueva compañero, Peña?"

Peña nods. "Si. Si, lo es."

You lean to the side and smirk as you take in the American's appearance and say to Javier, "Dile que tiene un buen culo."

"What? What's he saying?" The blonde asks but Peña ignores him to glare at you.

"Él está casado," he says and your smirk widens.

"¿Eso no me ha detenido antes?" you ask and Peña's eyes narrow. You sigh and mumble as you open your latest book, Pride and Prejudice, "Bloqueador de pollas."

Peña snorts.

"What! What's so funny?" The American asks and Javier waves him off.

"Come on. Don't we have somewhere we need to be?" Peña asks and the blonde rolls his eyes.

"'I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,' said Darcy, 'Of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done…'" You say from behind your book. "Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen."

You look up at where Peña and the American have stopped to look at you. The blonde huffs out in disbelief as he says, "You can speak English?"

"Sure I can. I just chose not to," you reply, dog-earing your page before setting it down on the desk your feet are still on.

"So, you wanna tell me what you said before?" He asks and you shrug.

"This is Colombia. You're gonna have to get used to people talking behind your back, Gringo."

The American stomps out and Javier looks back at you, an unreadable expression on his face before he follows. You just go back to reading your book.

"To be found dancing was a certain step towards falling in love." ~Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen.

You're sitting at one of the only gay bars in Bagotá, drinking an alcohol that was probably watered down so much it couldn't even give you a buzz. But, it was cheap and the men were pretty and it was one of the only places you felt safe in the entire country. Maybe even the entire world. At least for now.

You know that one day this place will be raided, and everyone in here will be killed. It's why you don't make a habit of coming here that often. Only when you desperately need attention.

And tonight, you desperately need attention from someone not named Javier Peña.

You catch eyes with someone across the way. His eyes are too light, and his hair is too dark. He has a moustache, but he also has dark stubble. His clothing is tight and modern, and just wrong. You walk over to him and hold out a hand, your shitty drink forgotten on the bar behind you. He takes it and his hands are soft, not a callus on them. You drag him to the dancefloor and wrap your arms around him as he places his on your waist.

If you close your eyes, you can pretend his eyes are a dark brown, not a light brown. You can imagine his hair is a curly brown mess atop his head and his moustache is the only thing on his face. You can imagine his clothes being baggy and a decade too old. You pretend the fingers holding onto your waist, that are slipping underneath your shirt, have calluses on them.

When you open your eyes, you don't see that man.

You see a man with too dark hair and too light eyes leering down at you.

When you look behind him however, you see Javier Peña watching you, sipping something brown from a clear glass.

You smirk and close your eyes again, pressing yourself to the man you're dancing with. You turn the both of you around so your back is to Peña, and you grind against the man, rubbing your hips against his thigh. You pretend the man underneath you is the one who is actually standing behind you.

You can feel his eyes on your back as you do this, and when you spin yourself and this unknown man around again, you can see Peña glaring from across the way.

You don't break eye contact, daring him to stop you.

When you finally do break contact, it's because the man you're grinding against pulls your chin up and kisses you. You don't close your eyes like he does, instead watching Peña from the corner of your eye.

He gets up out of his seat and starts walking over to the two of you, reaching out, and tapping the unknown man on the shoulder.

"Oye, deja de besar a mi novio," Peña says and the man stops kissing you, turning around.

He looks at Peña, then back at you, and asks, "¿Novio? ¿Por qué me nolo dijiste?"

You just shrug and the man let's go of you, rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath, "Increíble. Jodidamente increíble."

Peña takes his place, slipping his arms around your waist, and pulling you close to him. He leans his head against yours, his lips only inches from yours.

You smirk. "Boyfriend, huh?"

"Seemed to be the only way to get that asshole off of you," he says with a roll of his eyes.

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Asshole? I seemed to be enjoying myself, quite a bit…" you press your hips into Peña's thigh and you feel him stiffen as your growing erection presses against it. You lean forward and whisper in his ear, "Though, I won't lie…" you press a kiss to cheek, "I was pretending it was you I was dancing against."

Javier pulls you away and looks at you in the eye, and you meet his gaze innocently, your eyes wide with a small smile on your face. "I want to fuck you." You raise your eyebrows again but don't interrupt. "In my bed. I want you to be my lover."

You open your mouth to say something, but you find no words come to your mind. You just lean forward and kiss him.

"Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces." ~Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen.

Peña pulls you into his apartment, closing and deadbolting the door behind you, before pushing you up against the door, his hands on your hips, and you lean in, hungrily kissing the man pinning you. You feel his leg move in between yours and you groan quietly into his mouth. You feel the tickle of his moustache on your neck as he moves to kiss along your jaw, and down to your collar. You throw your head back and your fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. You find your fingers slipping, and unable to undo the buttons.

"Do you like this shirt?" you mutter against his lips as he grabs your ass.

He shrugs as he kisses you. "It's fine. Not my favourite."

You smirk. "Good."

You grab his shirt and pull it apart, pulling as hard as you can, and buttons fly across the room. Peña gasps against your mouth, but you just continue to kiss him. You let your hands roam his chest and back, and you dig your nails into his back, and drag them down.

He moans loudly and grabs you by the hips, pulling you closer to him. You can feel his arousal through his jeans, and you groan into his mouth.

"Fuck me, Peña," you mutter, and the man against you grabs you by the hips, still kissing you, and drags you down into his room, and throws you on his bed. You fall, sprawling on the bed, and look up at Peña with dark eyes. He's standing over you with his shirt open and a bulge in his pants. Your mouth waters as you eye him up and down, following the trail of hair down his pants. You go to reach up, to touch it, but a hand on your shoulder stops you. You lean back and watch as Peña slowly takes his shirt off, throwing it to the side. You wiggle your hips as he slowly opens his jeans, undoing the button at the top and unzipping the zipper slowly. You bite your lip and groan as he shuffles his pants and underwear down his legs.

Suddenly, Peña's standing before you, naked, and you want to join him so badly. But, you wait for Peña to straddle you on the bed.

Unable to restrain yourself, you move your hands up to his hips, running them down his thighs and back up, but not touching his hard cock. He slowly undoes your shirt and pants, and you help to throw your shirt across the room. When he pulls your pants down he raises an eyebrow at your lack of underwear.

You shrug. "I guess I was hoping."

Peña smirks and leans down, kissing you slowly but deliberately as he slides your pants down your legs and onto the floor. When they're out of the way, he moves so he's being framed by your legs on either side. He leans down, kissing everywhere but your aching dick.

You whine as his breath ghosts over it, but he doesn't do anything. He just pulls away.

"You fucking tease…" you mutter out and Peña chuckles.

"Do you have anything to…" he doesn't even have to finish the sentence he leaves hanging in the air. You know what he's asking for.

You reach down and pick up your coat that's on the floor and pull out a bottle of oil, handing it to Peña. He looks at it and shrugs, pouring the thick, viscous liquid into his fingers. He rubs his fingers together and places one at your entrance. You whine at the contact, and he places a hand on your hips to stop them from moving as he traces circles around your hole.

"Peñ-Peña!" you exclaim, reaching up to dig your fingers into his shoulders. "Just fuck me already!"

Peña chuckles above you and says, "Paciencia. Tener paciencia."

"Javier Peña if you don't fuck me right now I swear to God I will leave," you say through gritted teeth.

As if taking the hint, you feel one finger enter you. You gasp and throw your head back, relishing in the feeling of finally being touched somewhere, and now the feeling of Peña's lips on your neck. A second finger enters and your back arches up. You move your hands to Peña's shoulder blades, and your nails dig in there as well.

You can feel Peña moving his fingers in and out of you, opening up your entrance wider, and kissing your neck, cheek, lips. His fingers hook up and stars pass through your vision. You have to close your eyes and stuff a fist into your mouth to keep you from screaming.

"¡Santo cielo que se siente tan bien no pares!" You practically shout from behind your knuckles.

Finally, he pulls his fingers out and squirts more oil into his hands. You watch as he slicks up his cock, before lining himself up with your hole. After a few moments, he slowly pushes in, and you have to force yourself not to squirm.

"Fuck," Peña mutters into your ear as he pushes himself all the way in, his hips against your ass.

You squeeze his shoulders, moaning quietly, silently asking for him to move, and as if he understands, he starts to push in and out of you, slowly picking up pace as he gains better control over his movements.

The slap of his hips against your ass fills the room as he pounds into you, the only other sounds being yours and Peña's panting.

You can feel yourself getting close, his cock brushing your prostate over and over again, having found that perfect angle, and your shoulders rise from the bed as you try and press as much of yourself to Peña as you can.

"Ah-ah Peña, I'm close," you say, and you can feel him nod. "Oh, fuck, Javi!"

As you shout his name, you feel yourself let go, and a rush of pleasure washes over you. You feel cum splatter on your stomach and your hole tighten around Javi's cock.

At hearing you shout his name, and your entrance closing around him, he comes with a shout, burying his head in your neck as he fills you.

The two of you lie there, panting, Javi leaning over you, just looking at each other.

You let out a breathless laugh and say with a smile, "Holy fucking shit."

Javi laughs and nods. "Yeah. Wow."

"I think that was some of the best sex I've ever had," you say.

Javi raises an eyebrow. "You think?"

You laugh and hit him on the shoulder. He joins you in your laugh as he pulls out. You lean up and kiss him slowly, but he breaks away, going to the bathroom to get a wet towel to clean you both up.

He throws it onto the floor and joins you in the bed.

He pulls you to his chest and wraps his arms around you, holding you close. You lay a hand on his chest and place your head in the crook of his neck.

"So, does this mean I'm your lover?" Javi asks as he lights up a cigarette that seems to have come from nowhere.

You snort and look up at him. "After what you just did tonight?" you ask. "Fuck yeah."

"Do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last." ~Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

#Javi #Javier pena #javier pena x reader #javier pena x male reader #javier pena x you #narcos #netflix narcos #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #steve murphy #my work #my writing

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shadow--writer · 3 years

Text

If I Catch Fire Then I Change my Aim

HA I DID IT (hm de dum . song lyric titles will die with me and holy fuck I should make a master list of this bsery). Finals kicked my ass and I, of course, bit back but I am back on the writing bullshit of everyone’s nightmares.

Maeve x Lucas. Amani slaps some sense into one of the two dumbasses. 3.9k (how am I still surprised by this? I have learned time and time again I cannot stfu)

TW: mention of past abuse

@dela-png

The day was warm. She had her door open as she finished organizing her herbs. It did absolutely nothing to help the deep pit in her stomach.

Her bangs kept falling into her face, she had tucked the handkerchief away again. Every time she looked at it she saw the raw hurt on his face.

And that was a distraction.

In her line of work she couldn’t afford distractions.

Even so she was distracted. By the pit in her stomach even though it had been...weeks. Again. He misunderstood what she said and didn’t come back.

She rubbed her temples with a low groan.

They were both idiots.

Morons. If there was another word for it, that could be applied.

She did regret cutting him off, but judging by his reaction to her little nickname, it was for the better. She was fine without him. Yeah. She was fine without…the nice feelings he brought. The flowers. The food.

Mmhmm yeah she could go on just fine. He was just one person in a large world of many.

Ugh but someone tell her heart that.

She groaned, laying out on the counter, the worn surface cool against her cheek. Pining was the worst. Especially when it was unrequited pining. Well sure it wasn’t unrequited before but now it for sure was.

Even if he did prop her tables up again and bring her lunch one last time.

After taking her words in the totally wrong way.

She huffed.

Why did this have to be so complicated? It wasn’t fair.

She really had to go and fall for the guy who was like a dense hyperactive puppy (a very cute one but this wasn’t the time). Oh and then she had to let her trauma string her along like a little puppet.

Ugh he was right. Of course he was. Three years and she still wasn’t over anything.

She stretched out her arms, now resting her chin on the counter. She really should be over him. Over the words he used against her still ingrained in her very being. Gods she was just an idiot.

He was right about one thing. She did muck up every relationship she’d ever had.

She hated admitting he was right. But of course he was right, he was always right. He always had to be right. He got angry when he was wrong.

She pushed herself to stand, pressing the heel of her palm to her eye. Always right.

She chuckled without humour. Yeah right.

She moved away from the counter, staring at the chipped blue paint she couldn’t scrub away. The pain was still a little raw. She knew it was an accident and he just took her words the wrong way. But it still hurt to see him look at her that way. Such unabashed hurt and anger.

Almost worse then when she rejected his kiss.

She turned away from the pain, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She was never going to get over Lucas if she kept thinking about him and dragging the pain out. She just needed to bury her feelings. Bury the hurt.

This was all fine.

Maybe once things calmed she’d go home. Lucas didn’t want to see her again anyways.

She would just be a hazy memory in a few months time anyways. His first heartbreak.

She bit her lip. Ouch that hurt to think about. She knew she was someone's bad memory. But she didn’t want to be his.

Maybe if she were different it would be okay.

Who was she kidding? She couldn’t turn back time anymore than she could fly.

It was her biggest self indulgent dream. To be able to fly. Sometimes when she was standing alone with the breeze, she felt like she could take off and never land.

Great. She was starting to sound like her Mhamó. Always had her head in the clouds.

The door slammed open, yanking her from her musings.

In the doorway was a fully healed, and very angry looking Amani.

Oh great it was ‘piss-everyone-off-o’clock’.

She shifted a bored look at the angry lady in her doorway. “Oh and how may I help you this fine afternoon?” Her voice was dry and filled with sarcasm. Was it so much to hope that she’d be left alone just once in her life?

She was still recovering from her clinic being raided.

“I can’t believe you’d not only have the audacity to dump him like that but insult him in another language.”

Ah. So this was how today was going to pan out.

Lovely.

She crossed her arms. “Audacity? What I do and chose to do are none of your business nor your concern. I did it to protect him.”

“From what?!”

“Me.”

“Oh boo hoo.” She chucked a nearby pot at Maeve. She dodged, the glass shattering. Great more for her to clean up. “Protect him from yourself?! What a load of bullshit!”

“You are a spitfire,” Maeve replied, dodging the box of masks that were thrown at her next. “But I’d appreciate it if you stopped throwing my things. Most of them are new.”

Amani snarled. “I hear you’re a spitfire as well. I wonder what I’d have to do to get you to insult me in another language.”

Her gaze at Amani turned icy. “It takes quite a bit to push me over that edge.”

“Liar. You did it to Lucas.”

“I did no such thing. He took a detour off a cliff to get to that conclusion. You do know languages are used for things other than insults right?” She dodged a stool. Amani was getting increasingly more pissed off.

Just-fucking-wonderful. This is what she gets for helping Will at the dock. This is what she gets for being nice. For catching feelings. And then trying to break things off knowing she was going to muck things up.

Hateful stars above.

“That’s-” Amani let out another frustrated growl. “True I guess.”

“...you two really like jumping off cliffs to conclusions. Astounding.”

Amani’s eyes were narrowed into slits. The gold paint on her lips shone in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Maeve could admit she was almost pretty.

You know, if she wasn’t currently trying to kill her with her own stool.

“I thought you liked him.”

“I did.”

“Past tense?”

Maeve kept her gaze, hands trembling at her sides. She hated Amani’s tone. “And what of it?”

Amani searched for something on her face, a smug grin creeping across her face. “Ooh you like him. You still fucking like him.” The expression darkened again. “So how could you?!”

“My reasoning is my own.”

“I am his best fucking friend, you think he doesn’t tell me this stuff?!”

“He can tell you his side of things. But that is only half of the picture,” she said, keeping her tone level and cold. She could feel her anger bubbling in her gut. Amani was right to be mad. She and Lucas were both right to be mad. “What happened on my side of things with me is with me only.”

“Don’t you have friends to talk to?”

“No. Not here I don’t. I didn’t see the need for them.”

Not after what happened the first time.

Amani froze. “That...is a terrible way to live.”

“Oh great a lecture. And I thought you were pissed at me. Come on now, lay it on me. Let’s see what you can do.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong I’m fucking pissed. But holy fuck do I feel bad for you. Cutting off people who want to be your friends?”

“You included in that?”

She shrugged. “Uh yeah. We were on the same wavelength. I liked you. Well, when you weren’t being a bitch.” Alright, she did deserve that one. “And then you fucking went and ruined everything with him.”

“If ruining it is how he stays away from me, fine.”

“What’s got you so fucking scared?!”

She flinched, nails making little crescents in her palms. She was easy to read when you looked for the signs. She was scared. She was terrified.

“He does,” she whispered, letting go of everything. If Amani wanted to know, fine.

She didn’t...she didn’t want to hold onto it by herself anymore.

And fuck she knew her sisters would beat her over the head with the dumbassery she pulled to spare her own feelings.

“Why?! Did he do something to you?”

Her head snapped up. The words made her remember the faces at the market. “What? He’s never done anything to me. He’s only been...a sweetheart.”

Amani’s shoulders drooped a bit. “So then why did you leave? Why are you so scared of him? He’s not...that way anymore.”

She pursed her lips. That way anymore? The fuck was going on?

“If you want to know, fine. Fine! Throw my own shit at me, berate me and then have the audacity to ask questions now but fine. I did like him. But I don’t want him getting close to me.”

“Why not?!”

She fought back angry tears. Ugh she hated being pushed to this point. Hated it! “Because I am a fucking selfish person.”

“This is being selfish? This is the OPPOSITE of selfish!”

“Maybe me wanting him to be around was selfish and too much for me to ask for!”

“For what?!”

“Myself! I don’t deserve anything he’s given me. I don’t deserve his affections. I don’t deserve anything like this!”

“And why the fuck not? Why do you think you don’t deserve any of this? Because I can tell you for a fact that’s not just you speaking there.”

She froze. “I- It’s just-”

“You fucking like him! Still! Don’t past tense me,” Amani said with a low exasperated sigh. “And holy fuck you two need to learn to talk to one another.”

“Like...his palm said,” she whispered to herself.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“Even if you still like him...why did you just...leave him like that? Say those things? Push him away? ‘For his own good’, bull-fucking-shit.”

It was her turn to growl. “I said this! But I’ll say it again to get it through your thick skull. I’m pushing him away because I’m fucking selfish okay?!” Her voice was starting to crack. She was starting to crack. Under the scrutiny.

Under the fact someone was willing to listen to her.

“I’m not some perfect thing. I don’t know what he’s told you or what he’s made up about me but that’s not me.”

Amani’s eyes widened. “Hold on...Maeve?”

She threw her hands in the air, blinking back tears. Cracking and shattering. She hit her breaking point.

Weeks now. Since she first told him to leave.

Another few after he took her words in the wrong way.

She...fucking gods, she missed him.

“I’m just...I’m selfish, okay?! I don’t want him falling in love with an idea he’s made up. I don’t want him falling for me and then realizing he doesn’t really like me. I don’t want him falling in love with me, period.”

She shocked the other woman into a jaw slack expression.

She scrubbed her eyes, she didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to cry. But now that she was, the tears just wouldn’t stop.

“I’m tired. I’m tired of love. I’m tired of romanticizing everything. I’m tired of loving, giving and then being broken. I’m tired of people loving me and then deciding that they need to change me. Because they don’t really like me.” Tears were freely streaming down her face now. “I’m not perfect.” Her voice cracked over the words.

They were true.

The rung true.

She was a broken mess. Fuck, she hated love for the longest time. It only got worse.

A festering wound.

“I’m tired of being changed like I’m not a fucking person. People will always find something wrong with me. People don’t like how...weird I look to them. And it’s not even weird!” She was yelling, her voice breaking. “So what if I glow? So what if my hair has some weird silver metallic looking streak in it. My tattoos aren’t even that odd. So then why?”

She sniffed. “Why is it that I’m always the issue? My personality is too much. I talk too loud. I’m too crass. I argue too much. I’m not quiet enough. I am not good enough for anyone.”

There was a pause.

She was really letting this all spill out of her. The dam had been broken.

“Holy shit, what the fuck happened to you?”

“Eloquently said,” she replied with an eye roll, staring up at the ceiling. She willed the tears to stop. “Love fucking happened. And I hate it. I hate having to...second guess everything so he likes me.”

She wasn’t talking about Lucas. She wasn’t...really talking about Lucas. She never had to second guess herself around him.

And that was refreshing. It was so refreshing that it scared her.

“Because I...” She let out a low whine, an embarrassed heat rising to her cheeks. “Because I like him. And I don’t...I don’t want to like him like…” she waved her hands around. “This.”

“But you do.”

She lowered her gaze to meet Amani’s again. “What if he doesn’t?”

The look Amani shot her was both exasperated and withering. “...he tried to fucking kiss you. He gave you his copy of Thumbelina.” She flinched at the mention. That wound was still fairly fresh as well.

She had...read it so many times. She didn’t know why she read it so many times. It was nothing special. Fluff with a happy ending. But...maybe it was the thought of being a little closer to him through the words on the paper that brought her pause.

Amani continued on her tangent, ignoring Maeve’s reaction. “He brings you things to eat. Holy shit he talks about you all the fucking time. He gifts you flowers. What more evidence do you need!?”

“Gifts are not evidence.”

“Flowers, Maeve. He brings you flowers. Why can’t...why are you still doubting it? Why not like him openly? Why?”

She finally let the truth out. The doors opened and her chest was cut open again. Heart on display again. She hated being this vulnerable. Hated it.

But it was...nice having someone to talk to. Even if she tried to kill her with her own stool.

“Amani, I am not perfect. He might make me out to be. He might see me as such. I don’t know. But I am awful, Amani. I’m an awful awful girl.” Amani’s brows furrowed at her word choice. Every time she said it she thought of sugary sweet words. A beautiful lie.

A hand around her throat.

“I’m a terrible person.” She sniffed, holding her arms. She was spiraling. Always spiraling. “I’m selfish. I push people away when they need me. I’m mean. I’m flighty. I’m stubborn…too stubborn. My temper gets the better of me. I’m an awful person.”

“Having a temper doesn’t make you a bad person,” Amani said, her voice now softer. It was different from how angry her tone was. “None of those things make you a bad person.”

Eyes glittering with unshed tears, her head snapped up with her tone. “Then what am I?!”

“Human.”

Maeve froze at the rawness of Amani’s voice. “You’re human just like the lot of us. You’re no angel, believe me. Neither is he. Neither am I. We all have done things we regret. That’s what makes us fucking human. You put him on this pedestal like he’s innocent in all this. He’s not. I know better than anyone.”

She swiped at her eyes, sniffling loudly. Amani slowly shuffled closer. “But how we love makes us human. It doesn’t even have to be romantic but, you don’t just like him. You love him, don’t you?”

“I...I don’t know,” Maeve admitted. Her tone was deathly soft, soft enough that she could only feel the way her mouth moved around the words. It was the first time she’d said it out loud. “I don’t know and that’s what scares me. What if I do? What do I do then?”

“You tell him.”

She felt her whole body flinch, tear streaked cheeks tacky. “What?”

“You heard me. Tell him. If you love him don’t keep it to yourself. Dumbass is dense as a brick but I’m sure he loves you too. It’s not...this doesn’t feel like a ‘like you’ situation. I dunno it’s just…I see it in his eyes. The way he looks at you, how he talks about you. Lord you should hear the way he talks about you. I haven’t seen anything like it.”

“He doesn’t really love me,” she said bitterly. Always in denial.

Amani smiled, it looked a little tense with her frustration. Her eye twitched. “Yes, he does. I know my best friend. He’s head over heels and you hurt him.”

“Because that’s who I am. I hurt people.” She clutched her stomach. “I hurt him because I’m selfish.”

“Why?”

She wanted to stop running.

From everything.

And just let the floor swallow her whole.

“I don’t want him getting close to me,” she whispered to the floor. “I don’t want him to see the mess that I am. I don’t want him to see all my broken pieces. I...I don’t want him to leave.”

Years. It had taken her years to open herself up again. So then, why him? Was there even a reason?

Amani moved to gently reach out to clean her tears away. “He’s broken too, you know. He’s been broken down and pieced back together many times. Sometimes pieces get left behind. Sometimes they go missing. But I have never seen him light up the way he does when he talks about you.”

“I don’t deserve him.”

“Gods Maeve, it's not about deserving him. The world doesn’t deserve him. Fucking hell if we’re talking about it, I don’t deserve him. But it isn’t about that. It’s about want.” Amani huffed softly. “So tell me, do you want him?”

The word was choked around her lips, threatening to drown her. It sounded cheesy to her own ears but it just...felt true. “Desperately.”

Amani smiled, it was softer now, tilting her head up with a hand. “Then go for him. Show him how you feel. Sounds sappy as all hells but love him without holding back. If you really think you’re the only one who has reservations about this, then you’re wrong. He was a mess when you first told him to leave.”

“A...mess?”

“An angry sad mess to be sure. Oh and don’t forget how embarrassed he was. And then the self depreciation. He’s gonna give me grey hair.”

Maeve snorted. “You and me both.”

“Well you already have some.”

“It’s silver thank you.”

“Silver shmilver. Back to my original point before you distracted me.” Amani booped her nose. She wrinkled it at the touch. “Show him what good can be in the world if you look for it.”

“I’m...not good.”

Amani let out another huff, grasping Maeve by the shoulders and staring dead into her eyes. Normally she was fine with intense eye contact.

This was a little too intense.

“Yes, you are.”

Maeve’s hands shook. Those evil vile hands. The hands that failed to save so many people.

The ones that burned.

“How good can I possibly be?” she spat out. “How much good can someone see in me? I’m just me.”

Amani sighed. “First of all, you’re going to give me a headache. Second of all, I have never seen him so...different. Almost...happier? Whenever you’re mentioned he lights and perks up and I’m embarrassed for him.” Maeve felt her ears redden. Amani looked at her, unimpressed. “I see the feeling is mutual. Goddess you two are going to make me sick. But, I think that’s good.”

“Is...is it?”

“Yes dumbass. Did you not hear my spiel? I am not going through it again. If Lucas ever found out I’d be this sappy singing his praises to the girl he has affections for he’d never let me live it down.”

Maeve chuckled, rubbing at her eyes.

“Oh I mean that. Don’t you dare laugh, he remembers the weirdest shit. And if you think you can get away with all your problems and then having them rise to the point of cutting him off, think again. He will lord it over your head. ‘Remember the time you tried to cut me off?’ and shit. That is, after you two fucking apologize to one another. Lord one bad thing and he jumps to a conclusion and you close yourself off.”

“...you jumped to the same conclusion.”

“That’s the past! It’s behind me now.”

“...it was literally twenty minutes ago.”

“I’m a different person now.” Maeve sighed, making Amani crack a grin. “Glad you’re not crying anymore.”

She bristled. “Me crying a bad thing?”

“No but now I’ve seen both you and Lucas really cry for the first time and let me tell you, that was an experience.”

“I...made him cry?” Awful. Vile. Evil.

“Uh yeah. He kinda broke down. Not a pretty sight. Didn’t get up for a while. Then the miscommunication about the whole ‘nickname insult’ thing was just salt to the wound.”

“Why was he crying over me?”

“Well he’s in love for one thing.”

“...is he though?”

“I am three seconds away from smacking you. But yes, congratulations you were the first person he cried over. A feat in itself but why’d you think I was so pissed?”

“Maybe...I am terrible.”

Amani’s glare was once again, disapproving. “But, holy fucking god, I see it’s had a similar effect on you. Shit, you two are just so fucking dumb it’s unbelievable. You don’t get love like this every day and you just push it away. Why?”

“It’s…” Her eyes darted around to rest anywhere but on Amani. “...not love.”

“Mmm sure, that’s not what I see but you do you I guess.”

“Even...if it was love...why? Why him? And why...me? Why now?”

“You think I know? Sometimes it just happens. It’s not some dumb fuckin ‘fate’ thing. It just happens. I’d say it’s part of being human. It’s part of our connections. Sometimes you love romantically, other times not.”

“How do we know it’s...not something...else?”

“You really like making this harder for me. God damn. Because of the way he looks at you. The change in him. Bitch the way you look at him. Holy fuck. The way he looks and talks about me is different from the way he looks and talks about you. And that’s fine. I’m his best friend, and you’re...you’re…”

“...me?”

“Something new. Something exciting. Something terrifying. He’s lived here his whole life, you and I are something new to this place. But...even then, you’re different, the feelings he has for you are different. He asked me how to go about kissing you. Bitch what other fucking evidence do you fucking need?”

“He asked...how to kiss me?”

“Yes! He was scared to. Then of course you rejected it, which, nice fucking going.” She winced. Okay she deserved that one as well. “But what more do you need? I’ll ask again, what more fucking evidence do you need me to provide? At the very least he likes you a lot.”

She chewed on her lower lip, reopening the small cut she had worried into it days prior. “And...if he does...what do I do then?”

Amani looked ready to strangle her. “Uh duh. You go for it. All love is is a leap of faith. Why not jump?”

“And if I fall?”

Amani sighed, but the grin creeping onto her face was crooked and her eyes filled with a strong light. “Well, he’ll be there to catch you.”

#the arcana #the arcana game #my writing #maeve #lucas #maevas #maeve x lucas #angst with a happy ending #this is fine

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afy2018 · 3 years

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Take These Ch. 1

“Take these,” Xavier offered his colleague. He wrapped Svane’s personal journals in twine. “Ask Eliza if you wish to know more about Bulshar… just be careful.”

Nicole accepted the old books then continued their search around the camp. Bodies were strewn around the bloody pass, preserved by the frozen morning and the freshly fallen snow. The remaining Purgatorian soldiers took note of their fallen, carrying them to the front of the jagged pass for the caravan to take. It was the lasting effects of adrenaline that kept Haught from collapsing in the wake of their fief’s mass mourning. By mid-afternoon, everyone returned to the castle, recouping from the previous night’s entanglements. In a weird way, everything felt quite normal as the residents fell back into their previous patterns. De Behr’s men travelled back to London with their minor scrapes and bruises. Doll’s peers seemed to take their time, though as they mourned their colleague’s noble death. Eliza spent her time in the Atrium, the silent heart of the Earp manor recently cleared for usage in the middle of winter. Nicole joined her, awkwardly shuffling through a narrow path of snow.

“How may I help you, Dame Haught?” Eliza inquired, barely acknowledging her presence.

“What do you know of Bulshar?”

“Ah, Xavier told me you’d be asking sometime before I left. I’m surprised that in your training you weren’t informed about his existence,” she continued. “Bulshar Clootie-”

“Clootie?”

“Yes, he’s a cult leader from a prominent family in London who has been executing royal and historical lineages for the past three decades.”

“Is he still active?” Nicole asked, still standing at relaxed attention.

“Very much. He is responsible for massacring many old families mostly in Wales and Ireland. While I was still working in the Royal Army’s special forces, we raided his fortress and found a room filled with various trophies from his victims. We were able to identify eight of the twenty crests.” Eliza informed her. She took a deep breath and asked, “Dolls refused to explain why you were so keen on asking me about Bulshar, so you tell me.”

“I just need to know why his name has come up so frequently in my life.”

“You know, I thought I recognized your last name and colours. The Haughts are an Anglo-Irish family which we believe to be mostly safe from Bulshar’s tirade as the families we’ve identified are Gaelic or Welsh.”

“Does he have any heirs or wives?”

“Most likely yes, but nothing official.”

Nicole’s shoulders slightly slumped at her answer. “If you raided his base, why is he still active?”

“He’s slippery. We’ve lost many a spy by his hand, so when he inevitably found out we were raiding his base, he fled and we still have no clue as to his whereabouts.”

“Any feeling about where he might be? Or anyone who could be connected to him?”

Eliza reflected for a short while and said, “If you find Robert Svane he would know the most… maybe even your friend John Henry Holliday?’

“Why would John know anything?”

“Dolls told me that he was close to the Revenants, he might know a few secrets he hasn’t shared with anyone.” Nicole shifted her weight to the other foot, relaxing from her attention stance even more before finally leaning against the gazebo. Eliza then warned in a slightly more hushed tone, “Be vigilant and careful about who you share information with, Dame Haught. Bulshar has agents of chaos everywhere. Once you begin to investigate him, you’ll find that you can no longer trust anyone, not even the ones you love.” With that last piece of advice, Eliza lazily sighed, her demeanor completely shifting from just a few seconds before, “Anything else you felt you needed to know?”

“No, thank you, Dame,” Nicole bowed, then retreated to the castle.

John Henry Holliday, that’s who she needed to find. She hated searching for him as he was the laziest busy-body she knew. Nicole scoured the manor, first in Wynonna’s office, then down the Eastern wing, North, then South, but he was nowhere to be found. She did, however, happen upon her partner approaching their room.

“You look lost, Cesario” Waverly teased, wheeling her around.

“Cesario?” she questioned. Nicole couldn’t help but smile at her suave action and pecked her forehead.“I’m looking for John.”

“Oh, he’s playing dice at Shorty’s, currently getting rich at Shorty’s,” she remarked. “Is he in trouble?”

“No, actually, he might have some information about Bulshar…”

“Who told you that?”

“Eliza,” Nicole nodded towards the atrium. She mulled over her words and admitted, “If he knows about Bulshar, you may have been correct in thinking that he wasn’t as trustworthy as we originally thought.”

“Well, if he isn’t trustworthy, then why ask him?”

“I mean, he’s bound to say something true,” she guessed.

Waverly bit at the inside of her lip, “Why don’t you hold off on asking him. Wynonna’s known him longer and might help you prepare to call out his fibs when you question him.”

“Yeah, that’d be helpful…” Nicole agreed, fixing her partner’s St. Michael necklace and shirt. “So, if I’m Cesario, then who are you, Olivia or Orsino?”

“I would hope Orsino,” Waverly assured with a reaffirming peck on the lips.

“Where are you off to?”

“Gary needs help with the survivors, so I was going to get some bandages and salve.”

“How is Paul?”

“He’s very shaken. We had to amputate his leg and now… I’m not entirely sure what’s next for him,” she honestly sighed.

“Do you think he’s glad to be alive?” Nicole whispered.

Held back, Waverly asked, “Why? I’m… I’m sure he is.”

“I… don’t know. I was just curious. What would you do if you lost your leg?”

“I would continue my daily activities. Why, what would you want?” she carefully inquired, reaching up to her jaw.

Nicole pulled away, for a brief moment. “I don’t know. I think… I’m going to go ask Wynonna about John.”

Waverly watched her retreat into herself as she escaped their conversation to hide in her sister’s office for the time being. Despite their concerning conversation, she went along with her duties, collecting apothecary supplies to do her part in the reconstruction of their fief. Nicole found her way back to the office where Wynonna was still penning a letter to the Carlo brothers. She glanced up at her with a weak smile.

“Please tell me you brought something.”

“Just myself, and Svane’s dirty secrets,” Nicole explained, pulling the diaries from her satchel. “Wanna take a peak?”

“I’m a tad busy with the dead and all, but make sure to tell me the juiciest bits,” Earp remarked, going back to her letter.

Nicole sat down in the corner and began to pour over the old journals. There were seven in total and they spanned from 1601 to what would most likely lead into this past week. Svane’s writing in the first journal instantly began mentioning not only his father, Björn, but a cultist mentor Nicole assumed to be Bulshar. His writing was mostly chicken scratches, which made reading too difficult in certain passages. Sitting out of the way, Haught caught the various conversations between the ruling Lady and her citizens. Two of which, Pastor Williams and the local gravedigger Jones, were worried about last rites and proper burials in the dead of winter. It became all too real for her, though; and judging by the side glances she earned from Wynonna, it was getting to the young leader, as well. Earp kept a level head throughout the meeting and dipped into the treasury so Jones could bury the dead before they began to decay.

Once they left, Nicole asked, “How are you?”

“Considering I haven’t slept for the past three days, I lost Svane who’s probably going to attack us again, and this battle left three families with dead kids and another four considerably injured, I’m faring quite well,” she huffed. Wynonna locked them in the office and turned to her friend. “I- was it worth the bloodshed? Really, don’t bullshit me like everyone else.”

“I never do,” she admitted, thinking about her words. “I think it was. You dealt with an old foe who has been attacking and slaughtering your family for the past, what, four generations?”

“Six.”

“Exactly.”

“But was it worth doing that? I was prepared to execute a man. Could I really live with that blood on my hands? I know he killed my sister and father, but was he actually a bad man? I can’t help but think there was another way to do this and now I don’t think we can ever go back. You know in all of the years, the treaties and agreements, disarmaments and land disputes, the Earps have never attacked the Svanes like this,” Wynonna spiraled.

“I think there were only a few possible outcomes to your situation. In his anger and bloodlust, Svane could have changed his mind, but considering the ultimatums he gave you that really didn’t seem like an option, you offer your line and give your people over to a new unstable rule, you give yourself over and he returns to eliminate your issue, or you fight back and rid of him.”

“But I didn’t do that. I could have just killed him right there and then, but… I wanted to make a spectacle of it. Am I as bad as Robert?”

“If Svane were to return in any capacity, what would you do?”

“I would offer an agreement to co-rule over this land.”

“Do you think he would accept that?”

“I don’t know,” Wynonna pondered.

“I don’t know either. For the first time, I feel rather lost. I have another lead to who I really am, but I feel like I’m floating around in the ocean like a bottle with a deadly message inside.”

“What have you found so far?”

“According to everyone I’ve asked, Bulshar is a dangerous man with an ever-growing cult that has massacred many important families back home. He knows Svane, according to the journals, and somehow, there’s a link to me.” Nicole wrapped the diaries back up and placed them in her satchel. “I’m going to take a break, I just need to clear my head. I suggest you do the same. You need to sleep and clear your mind if you plan on leading your people through this.”

“Maybe it’s just insomnia, but I’m already missing Robert. He made living here exciting,” Wynonna joked. “Hey, can you keep this between us? I don’t need people knowing their leader is weak.”

“You are not weak, Wynonna.”

“I feel weak, then.”

Nicole went to open the door, the lock getting in the way.

“It’s locked,” Earp informed her.

“Yup, I know.”

“It’s also pull not push when you’re ready,” she chuckled.

“You ass,” Nicole joked on her way out.

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment!”

“How is that a compliment?”

“Because I have a great one!”

Nicole shook her head with that vibrant smile as she walked down the now candle-lit hallway to her room. The afternoon sun set by her shoulder, casting bizarre shadows into the old manor. In the tranquil building, every emotion began to rear its ugly head. In all of her years arresting, fighting, and inevitably killing, Nicole had never felt so affected by her actions. It may have had to do with the sheer intimacy she had with the people she was not only fighting for but sleeping alongside. Her fears suddenly came back with the dwindling light and she no longer knew how to cope with the losses. Returning to her room, Waverly stood by her side of the bed, pulling up a bundle of bandages and a jar of salve.

“Hey, sweetie!” she brightly exclaimed. “I know you’re going to say you’re fine, but we should really bandage you back up.”

“Thank you,” Nicole smiled, dropping her satchel on the floor and locking their door.

She approached her partner, taking the objects out of her hands to embrace her. Waverly stumbled back for a moment before fully wrapping her arms around her, too. The youngest Lady of the castle clung to her, their hearts being the only sound besides the crackling fire.

She slipped her hands to the back of her nape and waist. “Are you okay?” Nicole let out a deep sigh and tucked her head further against her neck. “It’s going to be okay, whatever you’re worried about.”

“I know because you’re safe.” Haught pulled back enough to regard her deep Caribbean sea blue eyes. Her eyes darted around her features, wishing she had seen them their first time together. She tucked a stray hair back behind her ear and directed to the medical supplies, “Is it okay if we save this stuff for later?”

Waverly glanced at the items on the table. “Oh, yeah, of course.”

Nicole leaned over to blow out the candle, getting tugged down into another chaste kiss by her partner. She smiled against her lips and wrapped her hand around the back of her neck to play with the soft hairs at her nape. Her hands roamed back under Waverly’s jaw before finally pulling away and extinguishing the candle, now the only source of light being from the dim fireplace. She settled back into her place in bed, spooning against her side. Waiting proved more virtuous than she would have thought, even with their first encounter being slow and awkward in the dark.

“What have you learned about your past?” Waverly whispered into the quiet room.

“Eliza told me that his reach is far and effective, so I should be careful of whom I trust,” Nicole nonchalantly answered. “And now realizing that his reach is more permanent in this area than I had previously known, I’m not entirely sure who I can trust here.”

“Well, is Eliza herself trustworthy? What if she’s just making you run around in circles?”

“Well, if she isn’t worthy of trust, then who is? She worked on his case, so if anyone knows the unbiased facts, she would.”

“I’m just saying, his own spies may reach into the army.”

“Hm,” Nicole considered.

“Nicole?” a wary voice called with a brisk knock on the door. “It’s Wynonna, we need to talk. I know you’re awake still so get dressed and come to my office, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she instinctively responded.

“Don’t,” Waverly quietly begged with an enticing kiss.

Between pecks, she chuckled, “I don’t want to anger your sister.” Pulling on her pants, Nicole shuffled around the dim room, taking her satchel with Robert’s diaries. “I swear I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, okay?” she promised with a firm tightening of her belt.

“Hair.”

“Oh, thank you,” Nicole responded with another brief peck as she pulled it in a tight regulation bun.

Haught escaped her room, quietly closing the door behind herself and walking down the candle-lit corridor to her friend’s office. She could hear hushed voices trickle down the hallway, their words completely unintelligible until she stood in the open doorway. Augustine, Seanan, and Gareth the apothecary standing in a semicircle behind the desk with Wynonna twiddling her thumbs in the corner. They all had stern faces, even their local tavern owner’s normally bright demeanor was far more severe than Nicole would have liked. Various situations raced through her head, maybe they were going to send her away? Did they not like her relationship with Waverly? Was Robert already back? Was she getting framed? The last scenario proved much closer to the issue they seemed to have.

“We were told that you got your hands on Robert Svane’s personal journals,” Augustine began.

“Yes, madam,” she confirmed.

“Would you please hand them over, young knight?”

Nicole began to reach into her satchel, then stopped, “Why?”

“Those are revolutionary contraband and must be destroyed,” Gareth nodded. Nicole furrowed her brows at his response as he was chastised by McCready.

“May I please hold onto these? I have some personal matters that these may appease. I swear only my eyes will see these words.”

“Knight Officer Haught, I am commanding you to hand them over,” Augustine repeated with an even more demanding tone. Her dark eyes were like a void, their severity thickening the tense air that already clouded the room. Nicole glanced at Wynonna for help, receiving no reaction to the scene unfolding before her. “There should be no hesitation to my order, soldier.”

“No.”

“Wynonna,” she shifted to her niece with an expectant nod.

She approached her friend, reaching for the satchel until Nicole tugged it out of reach. “Don’t do this, Nicole.”

“What is going on? Why can’t I study these? I just need a day with them, then they can be destroyed,” the young knight pleaded.

“We cannot trust that you may not copy them, Haught,” Gareth ruthlessly explained.

“This may be the only chance for me to find out who I am, please, just twenty-four hours, and I’ll destroy them in front of you.” Seanan glanced at Nicole with somber eyes before looking at his friends. “Shorty, please!”

“Wynonna,” Augustine commanded.

Doing as her aunt commanded, the older sister tugged at her satchel once more, trying to unbutton it to retrieve the books. Nicole shoved her away with a firm hand against her sternum before racing to the safety of her chambers. She heard loud footsteps echo down the corridor, gaining speed and encroaching upon her as Nicole fumbled with figuring out which door was hers.

“Nicole!” she hissed in the darkness. “Wait!” She firmly took her wrist and yanked her from the door. “Stop.”

“I need these, you know I do. It’s the only way I can find out who I am, what Bulshar has to do with me.”

“Stop,” she commanded in a louder tone. Wynonna glanced around their position and whispered, “Find some random journals to burn instead of Svane’s. I don’t understand their significance either, but obviously, there’s dirt in there about the Earps that they don’t want to see the light of day.”

“Fine, but I am not going to hand them over,” Nicole finished, rushing to the other side of her door and locking it. She rested her head against the old wood, waiting for Wynonna’s footsteps to fade away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Nicole walked down the main street, feeling as if everyone was looking at her. She clutched her satchel tightly, glancing at her surroundings to search for John. With the previous night’s concerning meeting, she wondered even more about Wynonna’s reflection if Robert was a purely bad person. He may have ruled his people as a dictator, but were his people or his action in the wrong? Haught pinched the bridge of her nose and continued to Shorty’s inn, catching Holliday playing dice. He and his opponent were playing for peanuts as the mere achievement of beating John Henry was enough to build a good rapport with the middleman. Nicole patiently waited for the game to end to question him.

Beating out yet another young farmer, John turned to his colleague, “Would you like to try your hand, dear knight?”

“I have some other things in mind. What do you know about the Revenants, who are their allies? Who were they as a people?”

“Are,” Holliday corrected, flipping his dice to show the same number of pips. “But this isn’t the safest place to talk about them. I swindled some extra coin, why don’t we share a pint. I think we all deserve a drink for the horrors we endured. What do you say?”

“I would say I need a beer,” she huffed, calling over the barmaid for a round of ale.

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Maybe I feel remorseful for the deaths we totalled.”

“I hope this doesn’t offend you, Dame Haught, but you would be terrible at poker.”

“It does, but it stands true,” she smirked as they were served. “I do, however, think that we may have made a mistake and now I am being scapegoated.”

“How?”

Nicole pondered how much she should divulge before answering, “I spoke with a few of the town's elders and now I may be a target of future harassment.”

“What do you suppose you’ll do about it?”

“I’m not sure.” Haught briefly paused and looked up at John. “I have many questions for you, Holliday.”

“Ask again in a more private venue,” he warned. “That is if it pertains to your initial question.”

“It does.”

“Day drinking, I see,” Wynonna interrupted. “Can I speak with you, Haught?”

“Can it wait until I’m done with this?”

“Yes,” she nodded, plucking the stein out of her hands and finishing it off for her. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Nicole huffed in annoyance. “I’ll be seeing you around, John.”

“I would hope so,” he briefly nodded as a new opponent came to try their hand.

“Did you really have to chug my beer, it was free.”

“Wait, I’ll explain later.”

“I miss when everything was public knowledge.”

Wynonna nodded in agreement as they silently walked to her office where she produced several old novels she had taken from various rooms in the manor.

“Hide Svane’s journals… somewhere and have these ones on hand for when we burn them,” she explained.

Nicole took the stack and asked, “Do you have any further explanation for why your aunt is so protective about these?”

“No, but I really do not want to be on her bad side, and neither should you.”

“Yeah, Lady McCready, is, uhh… fucking scary,” she agreed on her way out. “Thank you.”

Nicole went through her room and began tearing through the various bookcases to hide the real journals. She wrapped them up and placed them under the bed, now going back through their spots to blend them in with the other books. It was an obvious place but hidden well enough that even Nicole knew that she would have to search through the novels to find Svane’s. She popped up from her spot by the bed when Waverly entered, going straight to the wardrobe.

“My dear Orsino,” she called out, making Waverly jump.

“Oh! What are you doing? Wait, you’re sober right? Not playing drunk hide-n-seek again?”

“Sober, yes. Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, I was going out for a ride, would you like to join me?” she invited, approaching her partner.

“I wish I could,” Nicole smiled, standing back up and pecking her. “But I still need to talk with John, you know, figure out some truths… but maybe another day.”

“Okay, I’m going to hold you to that, then.”

“I hope you will,” she smiled, anxiety finally leaving her system when Waverly wrapped her arms around her waist. Nicole took a deep breath even as her heart fluttered when she glanced down to peck her forehead. “But I must speak with John, so I would love to help you get ready and ride out of town.”

“Is he expecting you at a specific time?”

Nicole sucked her teeth then remarked, “No, he is not, Gary isn’t needing your assistance any time soon?” Waverly backed away to lock their door with a cheeky grin on her lips. “Alright then.”

“Are you sure you need to go?” Waverly bargained

“While I would love to spend all day with you, I really do want to get some answers out of Holliday,” her partner blushed even as she was trapped between the desk, hands still gently meandering over her ribs and chest. Coaxed into another amorous kiss, Nicole chuckled against her lips as she was pressed into the desk again. “Okay, okay, I need to leave before it gets dark.”

They dressed back into their outer clothes, Waverly now dawned in her riding attire. “Just a quick question, because I hate to ruin a moment, but are you okay? You seemed a bit shaken by last night’s… whatever that was.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Nicole affirmed, slinging the satchel over her shoulder and standing before the door. “I love you, just so you know.”

“I love you, too.”

“I mean it,” she smiled on her way out.

“Wait, I thought you were going to ride out with me?”

“Another time.”

She found her way back through the manor and to the main street, spotting John talking with a young bath maid. Nicole felt a sudden tug on her shoulder, making her wheel around, face to face with the reigning lady of their land. Wynonna had a firm grasp on the satchel, looking up with a weirdly calm demeanor. Haught pulled the satchel back with surprising difficulty.

“What are you doing?” she questioned with another tug.

“Staging a fight,”

#wynonna earp #wayhaught #waverly earp #nicole haught #knight au #renaissance au #wayhaught fanfic #wynonna earp fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #wlw #lgbt #lesbian #sfw fanfic #sfw

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siribear · 4 years

Text

‘hey there, alley cat.’

whisper smiles. last time she saw hancock, she was still alice, just the general of the minutemen. there’s still the casual air about him that she likes. though, judging by the inhalers on the side table, it may just be the chems. still, after everything she’s been through so far, she appreciates the relaxed persona.

‘hancock. you wanted to talk to me?’

he leans back against the couch, eyes skyward, a blissful look on his face. ‘just wanted to check in on my favorite minuteman.’ he looks over to her. ‘you’ve got some new duds. and a new friend.’

she leans her hip against the arm of the couch, knowing better than to sit on it, now. deacon shifts, his head angled toward a holotape on a side table. join the railroad. unsurprising that hancock knows about the railroad; the freedom trail runs right outside his city. surprising that he’d be so open about knowing about them, considering the commonwealth’s stance on synths. ‘do you even know any other minutemen?’ she asks with a shrug.

‘lately? quite a few more. thanks for setting up in hangman’s alley, sister.’

she hums. ‘can i expect your people to begin occupying the place?’

‘occupy? nah. you might have the occasional visitor, though. have to keep an eye on my brother.’ his voice lowers to a growl. ‘make sure he’s doing alright.’

‘brother?’

‘mayorship runs in the family. mcdonough and i are - family.’ for once, unease settles across his shoulders.

whisper remembers mcdonough. the fraying tweed suit, the reluctance to lend her a hand. more relevant to the task at hand: he isn’t a ghoul.

‘experimental drug,’ hancock answers in the silence. ‘i found it; i took it. don’t think my brother ever forgave me for that one. but i looked like you, once.’ he glances at deacon. ‘maybe a little better.’

deacon huffs, mock offended. ‘anyway,’ whisper says, before deacon and hancock can get going. ‘as long as it remains a free settlement.’ she rolls her eyes. ‘a free, minuteman-aligned settlement. i don’t want to see it turned into some outpost against your brother.’

hancock holds up his hands, appeasing. ‘i understand the important of a safe haven, alley cat,’ he says, eyes glimmering in the low light. then, he finally gets to the point. ‘hear all sorts of things on the radio. you get your man? the merc.’ a pause. ‘the other merc. i know you brought maccready home.’

she turns to deacon. ‘why am i surrounded by gossips?’

‘we’re the ones with all the information,’ he offers.

‘and we’re the most interesting,’ hancock adds. ‘if you don’t want to answer, that’s fine. just thought i’d ask.’

she considers. ‘no, it’s - ’ a sigh. ‘i found him. he’s dead.’

‘do you feel better?’ he leans forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes shadowed by his colonial-styled hat. ‘get what you wanted out of it?’

deacon tenses slightly, fingers flexing. whisper, conversely, feels - fine. ‘i didn’t, but i’m hoping i will. seems i have to find a way into the institute itself.’

‘i’ll help you where i can.’ at her look of surprise, ‘gotta keep my favorite minuteman happy, don’t i? or else she won’t help a certain settlement i have in mind.’

‘help, not establish.’ she wants to sigh. do people not help each other without a price these days? she’s gotten used to maccready, but he’s a mercenary - it makes sense. now, it’s just exhausting. she wishes he would just ask her for help outright. ‘point me in their direction and i’ll set up supply lines, clear the area, whatever they need.’

‘i appreciate it, sister. see, they call themselves the slog - ‘

whisper inspects the blip on her map for the slog. an all ghoul settlement in the north-eastern part of the commonwealth. formerly a public swimming pool. apparently they’ve been having trouble with a group of super mutants that have set up down the riverbank. along the way, farenheit has marked other established settlements. it would branch the minutemen further than they are now. connect more of the commonwealth, bring everyone together -

‘you’re sure all these jobs for the minutemen aren’t keeping you from your job?’

‘we have runners and tourists to keep us appraised of the movements of... people of interest. here, i’m gathering intel on the changing climate of the commonwealth, of which you, my friend, are spearheading.’ he bumps her with his shoulder. stagnant sewer water splashes upward at her startled jerk. ‘it doesn’t all have to be infiltration and disguises.’

he ushers her through the sewers that makes up the back entrance to the church’s catacombs. hardly active in its original purpose, but the smell still lingers, centuries later. burned into the stone. ‘as long as des isn’t going to yell at me for keeping you away for so long.’

‘i’ve been away longer,’ he says. ‘a year, once. seeing me three times this month? they’re going to think i’m bored.’

the stale water underfoot mutes her laughter. ‘they must be tired of you by now.’ she hooks her arm through his. ‘is that why you got pawned off on me? torture the newbie?’

he chuckles, pats her hand gently. ‘i suppose i can go back to working on my own if i’m cramping your style, partner.’

whisper exhales, coughs once after she breathes in through her nose. she leans in more heavily against him, and deacon easy shifts his weight to accommodate her. ‘of course not. and give up the one bright light i’ve got in the commonwealth? no,’ she repeats on a wistful sigh.

his startled laugh announces them to the few agents hanging around the back entrance, most of them readying themselves for whatever hours of sleep they can scrape together. he nudges her with a quick jerk of his arm, and she untangles herself slowly. rounding the corner, they come upon des leaned over her stone table, a cup of coffee cooling next to her. in one corner, carrington finishes patching up an agent, and in the opposite corner, tinker tom has fallen asleep at his desk with some invention cradled in one arm.

and here is what she realizes after scanning the room: these are her people, too. she’s alice, general of the minutemen as much as she is whisper, agent of the railroad. helping one group is to help the other; her minutemen just stick to the open surface instead of dwelling in hidden safehouses.

‘deacon. whisper,’ comes desdemona’s voice. lack of sleep has eroded it down to a rumble. ‘good to see you two again. drummer boy delivered your reports. congratulations on taking the castle.’

‘thank you. i’m sorry about augusta.’ whisper notes the strikethrough on the blackboard, the question mark next to another. their list of safehouses, dwindling.

desdemona sighs, whatever energy she absorbed from cold coffee gone in an instant. ‘we’re still picking up the pieces after the last institute raid. now, we find out what pieces can still be put back together.’

whisper leans back against the table, stone digging into her lower back. but she watches deacon try to move tom into an actual bed - mattress. she smiles, entirely fond. a gesture that doesn’t elude desdemona’s notice, however sleep deprived she is.

‘we have rules,’ she says, still looking at her map,’ against fraternization. i know i don’t have to remind deacon, but - ‘

‘clandestine organization? of course you do. i figured you would.’ she lifts her left hand. ‘you don’t have to worry about me.’ desdemona is silent for a moment, head raised to view whisper’s - claire’s? - wedding ring, scuffed and dirty, still on her finger. ‘i am - was married. until very recently. he’s dead.’

‘i’m sorry.’

whisper shrugs, catches a glimpse of tom cuddling up to his contraption before deacon and carrington make their way over to the table. carrington stands opposite desdemona, caging her between the railroad officials. deacon sits on the edge of an abandoned desk instead of the perfectly functional chair pushed into it. ‘if there’s anything else i can do, though. not as a railroad agent, but as a minuteman - ’

‘i’m not sure i can trust you. if we can even trust you.’ carrington frowns, hands tense at his sides. ‘all of our agents go through months of tourist work before so much as setting foot in a safehouse. but here you are, an unknown, allowed into headquarters after you so conveniently found it.’

‘i told you, nick valentine showed me your - her - ‘ she jerks her thumb in desdemona’s direction, ‘- holotape. i’ve started seeing them around, too. i’m surprised no one else has come knocking on your door.’

‘no one else wants to,’ deacon murmurs. whisper frowns.

carrington fishes something out of his pocket, pink and sponge with a fair bit of metal and wires embedded in it. he holds it aloft, like she’s supposed to know what it is. ‘how do we know that whatever’s on this won’t be sending you right back home?’

whatever small amount of chatter that filled the catacombs stops. all eyes and ears are on them, on her. deacon, in her periphery, slides off the desk and back to his feet, ready to spring. get them both out of there, duck away for another year. but whisper carefully takes the item from carrington, near-speechless, breathless.

‘what is this?’

‘you don’t know.’ carrington states his question.

whisper removes her sunglasses, tucks them into the collar of her shirt, and asks again. ‘what is this?’ the doctor looks to deacon, and she follows. ‘deacon?’

‘part of kellogg’s brain. dug it out of the mess after you - ’ he lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. ‘you know.’ she still has the welts and cuts dug keep into her knuckles. ‘thought it could lead us into the institute.’

‘this? i didn’t even consider - i almost - ’ almost lost it, their chance to find the institute. blinded by rage and revenge, she went to fort hagen to kill a man, not get her son back.

‘i’m guessing you guys found something on it?’ deacon redirects.

carrington’s frown subsites, but his brow remains furrowed as he looks at whisper. ‘not really, no. it’s more organic than mechanical, but part of it is a port. we couldn’t get any of the data to appear on our terminals, but our friend in goodneighbor could make better use of it.’

deacon plucks the piece of brain from her hands. ‘great. we’ll go visit her tomorrow, then. anything else?’

though carrington opens his mouth to respond, desdemona cuts him off. ‘it can wait until morning.’ she looks around at the other agents lingering. ‘and the rest of you are done eavesdropping. good night.’

she doesn’t realize deacon’s dragged her from the room by her wrist until he releases her, and she misses the heat of his hand. they’re back around the corner, near the back entrance, standing near one of the back bunks.

‘he’s like that with everyone,’ he tells her, flopping backward on the bed.’

‘well, now i really feel like i fit in,’ she says dully. ‘hey, about that brain piece - ‘

‘you heard the boss.’ he stretches out on the bed, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. ‘anything else can wait until morning.’

she nods, but doesn’t move, instead carefully watching his face, sunglasses still, frustratingly, on. what she wouldn’t give to know what’s going on in that head of his sometimes. his chest rises and falls unevenly. a particularly loud and fake snore startles her. ‘go sleep on glory’s bed. she won’t mind, much.’

whisper smiles and pokes him in the side. ‘if you wake up in the morning and i’m dead, just know that you put me up to this.’

‘and i will miss my favorite partner yet.’

settled in glory’s bed, she eventually hears the soft click of deacon’s sunglasses folding, the shift of him finally getting comfortable. he sleeps on his side, back pressed against something solid, so he knows he’s safe. these days, she’s that solid presence. whether it’s her back while she keeps watch or her knees when they’re sitting in front of their fire and neither of them can sleep. whisper puts the stone wall to her back and drifts to sleep, the chill of the catacombs fading away to nothing.

#siri drabbles #oc: alice ward #series: we will all go together when we go

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rinusagitora · 5 years

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The love, lead, and the undead.

Fandom: Monster Prom

Characters: Vicky Schmidt, Damien LaVey, Brian Yu, Oz, Zoe, Vera Oberlin, Liam de Lioncourt, Amira Rashid (he/him), Dahlia Aquino

Pairings: Brian/Damien/Vicky, Oz/Zoe, Amira/Vera

Words: 3.8k

Summary: Canon divergent. Chapter 5/?. WARNINGS— violence, gore, drug use, smut; Oz and Zoe discover the meaning of his premonitions, and Vicky makes a fatal mistakes.

Zoe was kind enough to have brought Oz to one of her many dimensions of horror outside of time so they were able to brainstorm on Oz’s premonitions. The gurgle of lava or lungs filled with blood came with the slight breeze through the crooked window and Fear twitched hungrily from the volatile energy secreted by one of Zoe’s many homes.

A whiteboard materialized before them. “Let’s make this simple,” said Zoe, “you’re going to tell me every minute detail of your premonitions, and we’re gonna make a map of everything we can think of that connects to the details. Start with the first one.”

“I was watching myself wrap kilos of cocaine, but it looked like I was looking through a camera in my chest. When I looked up, I was staring down the barrel of a rifle. Someone screamed don’t move or something along those lines, I saw a flash, and then got a headache.”

“Okay, and the second one?”

“Well, there was blood and soot coming out of my fingers, my index fingers were bent backward, I saw blood and brains kind of floating around like soap bubbles. I started to fall forever. There were bright blue snakes in my eyes, as vivid as gems. I landed in a vat of bloodshed and lightning.”

“That is… that is intense.” Zoe finished her list on the whiteboard.

“Let’s start simple," Oz said. "The only person I can think would end up in a coke lab in any capacity is Brian. He’s got substance abuse issues. I know people say is pick of poison is alcohol, but I don’t see why he won’t escalate.”

“That’s a good start. Let’s take this into consideration, though: who could be on the other side of the gun?”

Oz shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest.”

“Oz… you think too highly of our friends,” Zoe scolded him. “I can think of several. Damien is wantonly violent. Vera and Vicky are regularly doing heists. Miranda has constant feuds with everyone under the sun. Polly will do anything for some drugs. God, there are so many fucked up folks at our school, I could go on and on.”

“Fair enough.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I’m… I’m not sure. Raiding one of these places isn’t in anyone’s modus operandi. Maybe Polly for shits and giggles, but she would’ve told us something, don’t you think?”

“I do. That’s the most we can do for now. Instead of getting our shit in a bunch, let’s move on.”

“The snakes kind of remind me of Vera. I’m not sure why else there would be snakes in my eyes.”

“That’s a good start. Why would they be blue?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, when you think of blue, what do you think of?”

“Depression, rain, the ocean, storms, the sky. Brian since he’s always depressed. Dahlia is literally blue. Aren’t Vicky’s and Faith’s favorite color blue?”

“Yes, good. What about the lightning you saw?”

“I mean… Vicky electrocutes herself for giggles. I think Calculester and Vera listen to thunderstorms to help them sleep.”

“Fantastic. What about blood?”

“Damien’s a demon. He’s constantly covered in it.”

“Great, great, great. This is enough for us to start with. Why don’t you call Vicky, Vera, and Dahlia? I’ll tackle everyone else we brought up.”

“Can do.”

Zoe’s nightmare dimension evaporated. They were back in his apartment, where Oz picked up his phone and dialed for Vicky. It went straight to voicemail. She must have been busy, but it made his stomach churn. He tried Vera next and she too didn’t pick up. Oz knew Amira kept tabs on Vera, though. He called Amira.

“Hello?” Amira grunted.

“Hi, Amira. I know it’s late but I need to talk to you about Vera.

Amira cussed in the background. "One second," he grumbled as he rummaged around. "You're Gucci. Is everything okay?'

"I don't know." Oz sighed. "Okay, suspend your disbelief for a minute. I've had a couple of premonitions lately. First I had a premonition about someone getting shot in a coke lab. Do you know anyone who’d be involved in any way with coke?”

“Yeah. Vera has a drug trade.” He hummed. “Come to think of it, I overheard Vera talking with Vicky about robbing a lab.”

Oz’s chest constricted. The likelihood one of his friends would have been murdered dropped, and while he wasn't particularly disturbed by the idea of murder, the chance of Vera and Vicky shooting a hardened criminal with buddies didn't put him at ease. “Is she with you?”

“She’s not.”

“I need you to text her to call me as soon as she can, Amira. I-I know I’m kind of being a dick, but this is important.”

“You’re fine, Oz. I’ll get in touch with her as soon as I can.”

“Thank you so much. Text me as soon as you can.”

“I will. Bye, Oz.”

Oz hung up on Amira and then dialed for Dahlia. Her phone went to voicemail. "Fuck!" he cursed as he threw his phone. It shattered and scattered across the floor like ceramic. Oz felt sicker and sicker, like something greater than themselves, Zoe and Oz, who were gods in their own right, incapable to turn the tides of something awful in motion.

Zoe hugged Oz. "Did she not pick up?"

"She didn't." He rubbed his face. "God, this is going in disaster."

“Look. We have a lead with Vera and Vicky. Let’s get some rest, baby.”

Zoe was right. Oz let her drag him into her bedroom where they were swallowed by a toothy maw made from red hot metal. Zoe dove onto Oz seconds before the universe vanished.

---

Vicky woke to her alarm with a sense of unease, like Eugene’s fingers were still in her hair, like his lips were on her cheek. The shadows were dodgy. Eugene’s phantom only felt more real when she only had two hours of sleep under her belt.

Shakily, Vicky dressed in leggings, a tee, and sneakers. Vera was outside of her apartment in a ratty, old SUV with her chauffeur.

“Morning. Are you ready?”

“No. I hardly slept last night. I need some coke so I can stop feeling like I’m running on fumes.”

“That’s not good. Here, just don’t overdo it.” Vera passed Vicky a partially unwrapped kilo of cocaine. Vicky gently scooped some onto her fingertips and quietly snorted.

There was only a second before she absorbed the coke. When it hit her brain, she felt great, better than the last couple of days treated her, at least. Like she was a big dragon atop a horde of warm gold coins and dispatched a platoon of pitiful knights with a swoop of her tail. She felt big enough to have swallowed Eugene and Stan whole as if they were no bigger than a grain of rice.

She sniffed. Her nose was a little runny. “That’s better. Where’s the body armor?”

Vera dropped a pile of heavy kevlar onto Vicky’s lap. She donned pads and a vest and a thick helmet. She attached two assault rifles to her vest and many magazines to her legs. She whooped as they turned, Vera slapped her back.

“You fucking ready?”

“I’m so fucking ready!”

They stopped. Vicky and Vera stormed.

Vicky kicked down the door and shot the coffee table. “Get on the fucking ground! Put your fucking hands up!” she screamed

“Fuck!” The three men and two women in the room hit the deck. Vera threw a jammer onto a shelf and secured the denizens with zip ties. She frisked them down and dumped their guns into her duffle bag.

“Who else is here?” Vera demanded.

“There are two more in the basement! They’re just kids, don’t hurt them, " begged a ghoul.

“We want your money and your drugs. Don’t move, and y’all will live,” Vicky said.

“If you take everything, we’ll be killed!” said a vampire.

Vicky slapped the talker with one of her rifles. “You’ve got me to worry about first! Shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your fucking brains everywhere! Have I made myself clear?”

The vampire nodded.

“How many guns are stashed here?”

“You gonna clean us out?” the vampire asked.

“I asked you how many guns are here! Do you want me to blow off your dick?”

“Let him go,” the ghoul implored, “he’s a dumbass kid. There are twelve guns. Two under the table, one behind the door, one in the bathroom, three in the kitchen, two behind the couch, and the rest were on our person."

“You get that?” Vicky shouted.

“Yeah! Just keep them busy!”

Vicky heard a snap. The young vampire, freed of the zip ties, charged her. She kicked him down and shot him in the chest, but she was tackled not a second later by the ghoul with a hunting knife in hand. He was only kept at bay thanks to her rifle barrel lodged against his neck. Vicky pulled the trigger. His disembodied head collided with Vicky’s, she shrieked something ungodly in her disgust and hopped to her feet.

“Fuck, bag what you got. We gotta go!”

Vera ran up the stairs and then they wildly shot into the living room as they escaped. They fell into the getaway car and sped away.

There were a few seconds, the longest seconds of Vicky’s life, where Vera and Vicky huddled on the seat as their chests heaved.

Vicky had shot someone.

It wasn’t the first time she hurt someone. When people got feisty during their heists, she shot them in the hand or foot, she even kicked some. But she killed one, possibly two people. She felt sick, even though her haze of coke.

“Did we get anything?” Vicky asked.

Vera howled with delight. “We got so much fucking money!” She opened her bag for Vicky to peer inside. “This was all just on a table down there. They had a bunch of kids counting it! I got three kilos on top of that. God, there’s gotta be at least half a million dollars in here alone. Baby, we are rich as fuck!”

Vicky’s eyes bugged out of her head. She eventually broke into a grin so enormous it made her face hurt. “Oh my god! We are fucking rich!”

“We’re in it now, baby!” Vera held her face and they hopped in place. “Oh my god, you’re amazing, you crazy bitch. I love you so fucking much! We’re set for at least another month.”

“You can go a month without doing this again?”

“Fuck no!”

Vicky couldn’t help but be intoxicated by the money and Vera’s own elation. There was just a learning curve, she told herself, she would catch up.

---

Oz woke and he was stiffer than rigor mortis and it felt like he was knifed in the lung. It made him crabby. Slowly, he peeled open his eyes, and groggily surveyed his surroundings. Normally, Oz was a pacifist, but he sincerely wanted to wring the neck of whoever thought it was a good idea to kidnap him and Zoe.

When Oz looked down, his chest ache made sense. He was skewered by an oily black rod that reflected red light by the candles above them.

“Zoe!” he rasped. “Baby, where are you?”

“Fuck, stop screaming. I’m right behind you. God, my head is splitting, there’s something in my chest too, " she said. Her voice came from behind him. They were tired back to back.

“I think it’s the same thing in my chest,” he replied. “What the hell happened back there?”

“I don’t fucking know. I think we got swallowed by… by magic, or something like us. We have a lot of enemies. It could be one of them,” Zoe hypothesized. “That doesn’t matter now, though. We have to get out of here. Can you move?”

“If any of you so much as twitch, we won’t only kill Vicky, we’ll kill all your friends.”

Oz recognized that voice and it made his guts churn with horror. He craned his head over his shoulder to try to look at Dahlia. “Oh my God, Dahlia, what the hell have you done?" If the Aquino family was after Vicky, that had to have meant a declaration of war against the LaVey. "Dahlia, you're a fool! If you kill Vicky, you're going to bring the wrath of the LaVey family down on the heads of yourself and your loved ones. You will all be slaughtered!"

“Oz, shut up!” Zoe snapped. “Dahlia, look, I know you’ve got beef with the LaVey, but you can’t do this. The entire eighth circle of Hell will come for your ass if you kill Vicky. They won’t be merciful and you know that! Don't throw your life away like this. Pull out of this while you still can.”

Dahlia threw a chair. It exploded on the stone wall across from Oz. “No! The LaVey had this coming for a long time now, Zoe, and if the two of you had just kept to yourselves, we wouldn’t have had to imprison you.”

“Fuck!” Oz screamed. “Vicky hasn’t done anything!”

“She has! She fucked Damien, and now we’re gonna kill her and use her to fuck over Damien.”

“You are sick!” he bellowed. “Dahlia, I will kill you if you lay a hand on any of our friends!”

“Oz, shut up!”

“You two are cute. The thing is, with that spear in your chest, you’re virtually powerless.”

It dawned on Oz the spear was the reason Zoe told him to shut up. She wanted to create a distraction so he could pull it out since it would’ve been less obvious if he did it thanks to his position behind her. God, she was so much smarter than he was.

“Fuck, Zoe, talk some sense into Dahlia.”

“Dahlia. I know what you’re going through,” Zoe said, as Fear crept its inky appendage to wrap around the hilt of the spear. “I was needed to create chaos for eons. It was the only way I felt loved and accepted. But you deserve better than this! There are hundreds of wonderful traits to your name that you can make something out of yourself with. You don’t have to be-”

Zoe screamed. It sounded like the cry of seagulls and whales. Extremely pained, so much so, even Fear faltered.

“Zoe!” Oz screamed, “Zoe, what’s wrong?”

Dahlia skirted around their seats and smiled at Oz. “I cut off your girlfriend’s arm. If you try to escape before we kill Vicky, I’ll be cutting off more than just an arm. The next one is that big ol’ eye she's got.”

Oz never hated anyone before that moment. He glared at Vicky with vitriol that made his inky skin simmer.

"As soon as I'm out, I will make you wish you only had the LaVey to worry about, " Oz promised. "There's no coming back for you, Dahlia. I'm going to kill you."

Dahlia didn't reply. She only left them in the dark.

---

Vera and Vicky counted their winnings that afternoon. They took three hundred grand from the lab, and the kilos they took would have sold for another four hundred fifty grand. They were almost a million dollars richer. It was almost enough for Vicky to spend the rest of her life in retirement.

And Vicky stayed high. Vera gave her the coke out of her car. Vicky refused to come down.

To celebrate, Vicky took Vera and her suitor Amira, Liam, and her boyfriends out to party. She was only a quarter of the way through an expensive bottle of whiskey and as terribly as she danced, she felt like she ruled the dance floor, intoxicated by coke, booze, and the bass-heavy music that blasted from the speakers overhead. The way Damien and Brian sandwiched her, with their hands on her hips and in her hair, simply overjoyed Vicky. It was almost like she hadn't murdered someone hours ago.

When the bartender presented her with a three thousand dollar bottle of whiskey tied with a boy. Vera and Vicky were showered with confetti from party poppers as Liam took a photo.

Brian wrapped his arm around Vicky. He reached behind them for a glass and held them in place as Vicky poured generous servings for everyone.

"To the splendid duo!" Liam cheered. They toasted, and Vicky was surrounded by friends and loved ones. She hardly felt ill even as the image of their head falling onto her flashed before her eyes for a brief moment.

Vera was dragged into the dancefloor by Amira and Damien was off to create mayhem. Brian, Liam, and Vicky were left at the bar.

"It's a little weird celebrating robbery," Liam remarked. "Don't get me wrong, there's worse, but it is a little weird."

"It is. I shot two people today, and I killed at least one. I think this is Vera's way of trying to help me feel better." Vicky hopped up onto a stool and slowly sipped her whiskey. She felt Brian and Liam burn holes into her head with their eyes alone.

"Babe…" Brian mumbled, "are you okay?"

"I don't know."

"Vicky, take this seriously," Liam scolded her. "We're worried about you. You killed someone today. I mean, that in and of itself is super fucked up, but you're my friend so I'm willing to overlook the legal repercussions for your wellbeing."

Vicky felt sick. "I'm… processing it, I suppose. It's kind of surreal. Vera says I would've died if I didn't kill them, and she's absolutely right, but… I don't know. Killing someone is different than what I thought it would be like. It's dreamlike. Like I'm looking into a box replaying the whole thing."

Liam pensively took a drink. "It's definitely not what anyone expects."

"You say that like you've killed someone too," Brian said.

"I'm four hundred years old. Of course, I've killed a couple people." Liam brushed his hair back. "All I can really say is time dulls the feeling. You'll learn to cope."

Vicky thought she coped pretty well before Liam decided to pry into her business, but she kept that to herself. She took the whiskey bottle and Brian onto the dance floor instead. Damien jogged over to them. They drank and danced.

“You,” Damien teased as he impolitely pried her whiskey out of her hands, “are beautiful in this lighting.” He took an impressive swig, held her chin, and kissed her. Whiskey drowned her mouth like arousal drowned the junction between her legs.

“Fuck,” she groaned. She kissed Damien’s neck, and then Brian’s behind her. “Let’s go to the bathroom for a quickie,” she whispered.

Brian and Damien never protested as she dragged them into the handicap stall.

Damien shoved Vicky against the wall. He sunk to his knees and pushed her pants and underwear around her ankles. His tongue slipped between her legs. Brian held her by her neck and kissed her. He played with her breasts through her blouse, and clumsily, thanks to all the booze and coke in her system, she slipped his cock out and stroked him.

Brian proved needy, however. Not long into their foreplay, he grumbled for Damien to move, he pulled her shirt over her head and then kissed her when he tossed it onto the floor. She was perfectly content to allow him to ravage her. As he fumbled with her bra, she kissed him and help his biceps with her hands. He grabbed her by her wrists and held them above her head. With a giggle, Vicky wrapped her legs around his hips.

He slammed himself inside her. Vicky adored it. He wanted her so badly. She must have been so pretty in the fluorescent light, with the way he stared into her eyes and wordlessly grunted. He tucked his face into her shoulder. He gnawed on her bolts. Electricity coursed through him and it made him quiver inside of her.

“Please fuck me harder,” she pleaded, “I need it so badly.”

Brian pulled himself out. Vicky protested until she was flipped around and bent over. He reentered her and rode her furiously. When Vicky looked over her shoulder, Damien poked her mouth with the head of his cock. She happily swallowed him, albeit clumsily between her inebriation and Brian’s roughness making her whole frame shake like a house shook in an earthquake. They shook her entire world.

Brian became sloppy. Damien pulled him out and they switched positions. He backed her up so Brian could fit between her face and the wall. She pulled him into her mouth, so deep she choked. Nonetheless, she happily bobbed with Damien as much as she could. Brian stroked her hair. He groaned and not seconds later, he came into her throat. She must have been so pretty, the way he slipped down the wall as Damien finished her off. Cum dripped down her chin as she came with Damien. She gurgled. Her legs shook as she was filled and filled.

Damien pulled himself out of her pussy. Brian passed him a wad of toilet paper to wipe up the mess. Brian pushed himself to his feet and held Vicky.

A knock came from their stall door and Vicky yelped.

“If you guys are finished in there, I’d kind of like to have a dance with my business partner, " Vera said.

“Oh shit,” Damien grumbled.

"I'll be out in a second!" Vicky replied. The three of them fixed their clothes and Vicky tumbled out with a sheepish smile. Vera was as uncharmed as she was drunk.

“Come on, let’s get you some dignity back.”

“I better be your favorite slut, at least,” Vicky said. That made Vera laugh.

Vicky was pulled back onto the dance floor. Amira handed her a drink with Kahlua and orange bitters before they took her into their sweet, sapphic arms. Vicky loved having girls for friends.

“You were amazing today!” Vera said. “I can’t fucking believe how much we got!”

“I shot someone. The cops are gonna be on our ass if they don’t have friends.”

“Yeah, but they would've cut your throat if you didn't do something. I’m glad you’re okay, and you know I’ll help with anything if you get in trouble. A lawyer, maybe some assassinations if we can’t rig the trial.” Vera laid their foreheads together. “Vicky, you’re my best friend. You and I have done so much together. I want you in my life forever. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

Vicky grinned. “Like sisters?”

“Like sisters, honey. Like I want to plan your wedding with you and all that gross, lovey-dovey shit.”

“I want that too. I want you in my life forever, Vera,” Vicky confessed. She hugged Vera as they swayed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Crash and burn. But that’s not important because I’m here now. I’ll be here forever.”

“Me too,” Vicky said.

She felt okay. The sickness from her murder was still heavy, but Vera held her like family, and that was comforting.

#monster prom #vicky schmidt #vera oberlin #damien lavey #brian yu #oz monster prom #zoe monster prom #amira rashid #dahlia aquino #liam de lioncourt #brian/damien/vicky #oz/zoe #amira/vera #platonic liam/vicky #platonic vicky/vera

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homenum-revelio-hq · 5 years

Photo

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Sara!

You have been accepted for the role of non-biography character, CONFIDENCE “CONNOR” BROWN! This application was an absolute delight to read! I loved how developed you’ve made Connor and I feel like he’ll have a lot of really fun things to bring to the table. I am really excited to have an Order member who is sort of is he part of us, but yeah he’s really part of us. I am so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Sara

AGE: fourscore and seven years ago…

TIMEZONE: est

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I’m around every day and will try to post most days

ANYTHING ELSE: Nothing in particular, I can take care of my own squicks.

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Confidence Brown (he goes by Connor)

AGE: 26

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Connor is certain he’s heard of this thing called gender, he even plays her every so often but… owning it? Having one? Oh, sorry, no. He hasn’t owned one since he was in fifth year and he realized he really didn’t have to. That did not go over well with his parents who had joined, and remain, part of a severe religious community. The whole witch thing also didn’t go over well but they made peace until makeup started coming out. Sexuality is much the same. Connor uses he/him pronouns and relishes the comparative freedom of the magical community verses the muggle in this regard.

BLOOD STATUS: Muggleborn

HOUSE ALUMNI: Slytherin–what’s that? All Slytherin’s are blood purist arseholes? Connor might not have had the easiest path at Hogwarts or elsewhere but that’s not to say he didn’t make friends (or gather the right blackmail to smooth the way) and insinuating that everyone is evil from his house would earn a laugh or a hex and maybe both.

ANY CHANGES:

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

There are two certain things about Connor Brown: he’s going to survive and he’s going to be fabulous while doing it.

Sure his mother named him Confidence well before he showed any of that but he certainly grew into the name. How could he not with the looks kids gave him on the playground? And then when he first tumbled off the Hogwarts Express and into Slytherin. That’s not to say Connor deserves pity–oh no. He’s taken everything he’s gotten and cheerfully made it into something he can not only enjoy but thrive in.

Slytherin became a (sometimes dangerous) playground of learning who to befriend and who to blackmail (and Connor, true to the house he had been sent to, was always good at that). When he was asked to leave his parent’s house, he found another–a better one.

His ego led him to believe that he would have to gift the wizarding world with Camp but one accidental step down the wrong alley and into Ganymede Gentleman’s Club (it can’t be that, can it?) showed him that the wizarding world has known what Camp is for generations.

The problem is much of Connor is bravado and showmanship. Sure he is quite talented in disguising spells, and he’s always had a deft hand at arranging muggle or magical transportation! But every dance has to come to an end some time or else a guy or gal will twist their ankle and make it end. Connor has learned never to lean too hard on anyone and that self-protection has carried him well, but it’s a two-sided blade that can easily lead to a sloppy mistake that could get him or someone in his care killed. That’s not even to speak of his pridefulness and penchant for eavesdropping… and possibly lacing a drink or two.

For recon purposes, of course, and only for the Order.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

His parents Mary and Jon Brown disowned him after catching him coming home from a party all dressed up at eighteen. Parties were bad enough, what he was dressed in was worse. He moved out that night.

Be-Joyful Brown: sister. it took a while but now they are back in contact and even meet up occasionally… in public. She is two years younger than him.

Lavender Brown: Joy’s young daughter. Connor calls her the Lavender Menace… Joy doesn’t understand given that Lavender is an infant and can’t menace anything.

OCCUPATION:

Connor happened upon the Ganymede Gentleman’s Club shortly after being jumped by muggles outside of a muggle gay club. He crashed there for three nights before the owner took pity on him and gave him a job and a closet of a flat at the top of the town-home-turned revelry and tryst site.

Jobs Connor has had at the oldest Gentleman’s Club near Diagon Alley:

Waiter—more flirt then helpful

Doorman— less bouncer, more greeter looking for codewords

Bartender—more eye candy then proficiency

Entertainment—a continuous portion of Connor’s club life, although he has moved on from it for a full time gig

Host—a sort of lower level manager who tries to de-escalate while being a flirt

Manager of the House—arguably the highest job without owning the establishment

It’s important to note that this Magical Molly Club has functioned not just as a place for gentlemen (and women) of a certain disposition to meet, put on ridiculous shows, dance and play cards–but for married pureblooded people to meet up with their lovers. There's history here–but all of it laced with someone going shhh! And that is just the type of environment Connor needs when someone sends him a message asking for him to get some poor wix out of trouble in London and out to the McKinnon farm.

The actual space is just off Diagon Alley and is more a charmed and modified townhome than anything. The important thing is that it doesn’t look like anything and there’s even a keyword to get in. Inside there is a bar, a very small stage, and a lot of small tables that can be removed to create a dance floor. There are then a maze of rooms–because what better way to keep out unwanted guests and raids then magic helping scramble who might be where?

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

It’s all fun and games until people start dying. Connor comes from a very religious family and was a muggleborn in Slytherin: he knows what like to be hated on sight for something he can’t control. He also knows what he has in him to provide (housing, transportation, gossip) and he knows what he can’t (good support in a complicated duel or medical). Also, at the very end of it: Connor wants to help but he does not want to die. That doesn’t mean he’ll squeal, but it does mean he likely has a ticket for himself squared away if there should ever be a need. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst—and that’s his feelings about the Order in a nutshell. Connor has not survived this long by pinning his cloak to fantasy.

More clearly: Connor is a low-level member of the Order. He has no interest in climbing the ladder, little interest in skirmishes. He attends a bare minimum of meetings and functions as a sort of middle-stop for those who need to escape to the McKinnon farm. He puts people up in one of the ‘for rent’ rooms at the club and then finds the best way to move them…and sometimes that’s with him and an airplane ticket. He’s not the most well known and he’s happy with that, too, because it means he might get out if everything goes tits up.

SURVIVAL:

Is Connor part of the Order? He hadn’t heard of that. Truthfully, Connon makes very certain not to carry any identification on him that would imply, however indirectly, that he was part of the Order of the Phoenix. The most he might do is flirt with one who came into Ganymede Gentleman’s Club –but he flirts with everyone, really, so is that such a surprise? It might be more of a surprise if he flirted with Rodolphus Lestrange—and he’s not going to confirm or deny that. It goes so far that he’s not above disguising himself before going to Marlene’s for a meeting. Sure Marlene knows who he is, and Caradoc–any older Order Member, really, but why advertise? Besides, he likes dressing up. He doesn’t hide to those he hides in the club on the way to the McKinnon’s, however, because he figures they’re already scared enough and trusting someone with a fake face on would be a little too much.

RELATIONSHIPS: variable depending on the characters in-game. I do have some ideas but I would need to talk to some players to confirm since a few are likely to be apped!

Caradoc —They met when Connor was a first year and in tears over something he is certain was utterly stupid. Truthfully Connor does not remember what it was and doesn’t really care. He does care about Caradoc, however, and the ways he’s changed from Hogwarts to now. He sometimes gets on Caradoc’s case about his missing smile and the way he responds to some jokes nowadays but there’s a clear limit on what he can say—after all, Connor has changed, too.

Younger Order Members—Connor both delights and hopes to avoid many of the younger order members. He’s a need-to-know sort of bloke and most of them, well, he’s not sure they do. Then again, there’s always a sort of delight in seeing the gears turn in someone’s face as they try to place him, place the Club, or any other number of things… and, okay, he wouldn’t mind seeing some of the dramatics he’s heard about the younger members doing… so long as it all turns out okay in the end.

Connor as a first year at Hogwarts was rather sensitive—that swiftly changed into the sometimes garish, often entertaining, presentation he still manages today. The problem is he’s grown less and less able to take it off or put it to the side as the daily prophet brings darker news. He’s still a good friend but friends have to learn not to guard so much and that, along with the general air of suspicion that permeates the entire community, have likely begun to curdle all but the strongest of bonds.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: Connor/Chemistry Connor/Ooops and Connor/One Night Stand Oh God No

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Connor would Iike to say his varied layers of what the hell bad times have predisposed him to being accepting of all…but the truth of the matter is Werewolves scare him. It’s not disgust. Its fear bred from, of all things, bad muggle horror movies. He was only six or seven, he snuck out of the movie he was supposed to see to see Curse of the Werewolf or something similar. So while he would swallow it and let someone in need in (what would he have done if someone hadn’t done the same to him?), there’s an honest fear response that comes from childhood. He’s also afraid of dogs, though, so he’d probably blame a whole canine sort of thing for his unease.

Connor is also a bit biased against Purebloods. Sure his friends are alright… but all that sneaking around because you’re married? It’s probably something bred from having a ultimately failed or doomed relationship with such a person but he has more then enough history to look at most Purebloods and go fuck you. This is also why he has such a cashe of secrets just-in-case.

Privilege wise: Connor has had the privilege to find safe places to land and make use of every not-so-great situation he’s found himself in. He has a solid job, he’s been able to make himself invaluable (although it’s unlikely the Pureblood who owns the Gentleman’s club would ever think about letting him own the space), and he is stable enough to help others. Thats pretty remarkable overall for a queer muggleborn born to working class parents.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? I love a good AU, I love a game where you can create a little something more… and when the characters I considered got apps I tried to think: what could be useful here. I hope to muck around and make trouble for multiple characters…and introduce a little queer history into the backdrop.

PLOT DROP IDEAS (OPTIONAL): I don’t have any specific ideas right now but I imagine Ganymede Gentleman’s Club will be quite useful.

ANYTHING ELSE? N/A

EXTRA FOR NON-BIO CHARACTERS:

This section is only if you are applying for a character that does not yet have a biography written (i.e. a character not listed on the character page). Essentially, any Marauders Era character can be applied for, so long as they can realistically fit into the plot and add substance to the roleplay! It may be a good idea to send a message to the main before you do this so we are all on the same page.

PAST: Connor’s parents joined a small offshoot of the Evangelical Alliance movement in the UK. Or, maybe, they were part of that community first and later it latched itself onto the Evangelical Alliance. Truthfully, Connor doesn’t remember which came first and it hardly seems important now. The important thing was, that it meant his childhood involved daily prayer, every-other-day church service, and the few children around all had names like Be-Faithful, Be-Joyful, and He-Provides. Confidence, by comparison, was a very reasonable name, although even before a witch showed up on their tiny flat’s doorstep his parents wished they had named him Humility instead. How he did not get stoned to death for being a wizard he will never know. He did start to suspect his parents had been bewitched when they couldn’t seem to look at his textbooks but not in a way that represented any sort of discomfort or pain. The second part of his childhood came with more than he could have ever imagined. The food was richer (and more plentiful, given that his mother worked only part-time in a shop and his dad worked as an assistant minister), the clothing more dramatic and in so many colors, and the magic. Slytherin was not the easiest house for a muggleborn but Connor rarely protested because there was always, always more and it was learn fast how to swim or drown.

PRESENT: It took a while. It took being sent from his parents’ home and not seeing his sister for a good three years—but Connor believes he has finally found his soft landing. Ganymede Gentleman’s Club is even more decadent than Hogwarts—and he gets to live there, and perform there, and talk to anyone who comes in the door (even if they don’t want to)! To make things better, Connor is able to get his well-powdered nose in the thick of gossip…and use his theatrics to help out others who might find their lives taking on too much water. He might not be able to do so indefinitely, the club only has a finite number of rooms ( he’s not a McKinnon!), but he can do something and he takes great pleasure in that. If that pleasure is partially in sticking his nose up at Pureblood politics, well…he’s allowed to have his heart in the right place and his unabashed glee right next to it.

FC CHOICES: Ezra Miller …and second option Keiynan Lonsdale

#homenumaccepted #marauders era #roleplay #literate rp #new rpg

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infinity-warfare · 5 years

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Death Eaters is a group of dark wizards, followers of Lord Voldemort, who fought as elite fighters in the First and Second Magic Wars. Dreadful? No, not at all! Especially when you are the future wife of one of them. How to handle this? An exclusive report by word of mouth of a young bride of one of the Death Eaters.

To Marry a Death Eater

When it comes to the fact that mama and papa want to engage you with one of the Death Eaters, you should not faint immediately and voluptuously wait for the hour when this very exciting event happens. What if this marriage turns out to be not as perfect as your mama and papa marriage? Well, let us look closer to all main aspects of such a marriage.

Engagement

When we are referring to an engagement, for some reason most girls imagine a diamond ring and jewellery immediately. Not ordinary, but special, which settle in your casket in the boudoir. All the space covered in flowers, pleasant music plays, and nothing seems to spoil this sweet moment. However, something is rotten in the state of Denmark. The ring does not look catchy and most likely it has been demolished by four generations of women of this family. Most likely, you will have a rich inheritance in the future, but now this is something that you have to be content with for at least another six months. Moreover, couples do not marry immediately after the engagement! It is time to know this thing, girls! The thing that can really spoil this day... Probably it is the very first time when you first see your hubby. Traditions are traditions and love in noble families is not obligatory. Ew... I should remind you that not all young and promising ladies are lucky! You will certainly not have an ugly and blind husband, but… Not only his look matter, is it?

Wedding

If a white veil, treats, and dances are the first things to come to your mind, forget it! You will probably spend more than one evening together just making a list of all his relatives, who, undoubtedly, should be invited to the celebration. And no one will tell you facts that grandfather Roderick can be wildly drunken with ordinary apple cider and will certainly sing obscene dirty ditties and aunt Morgana will aggressively shout “Now a kiss!” every five minutes, of course. Oh, those vile Death Eaters! They will do anything to a noble lady kissed them all evening! The very same wedding day can be remembered by the endless number of relatives who are drunk with firewiskey, rubbing shoes from Madame Malkin's shop and passionate desire to take them off. In addition, when it seems that there is more blood in wedding shoes than your feet, then a granny-toastmaster named Sulpicia will organize a festive relay race for you, dividing all relatives into the bride and groom teams. Perhaps only there you will understand why the hubby mother rubbed her hands so hard when she emphasized her in the guest list. Relatives from your side, whom you have always considered adequate, already being slightly drunk, will perceive this idea as the most valuable diamond in the mud compartment. And do not forget that you have to dance with all the drunken and sober relatives, including other Death Eaters. If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen! The result is miserable: the legs are not felt at all, it seems that something valuable was stolen from the house, several fights and unforgivable spells, broken windows in the smoking room, everything around in the garbage and even when you want to retire with the groom, most likely Auntie Albertina will go with you to conduct the initiation rite? What the hell?

The wedding night

As it is clear from what was written earlier, you will remember this first wedding night forever. Salutes and fireworks are still exploding around the house, the house is full of all sorts of psychopaths from the bride and groom sides, some floors resemble ancient Greek ruins more than the Parthenon in Greece, and Aunt Albertina drags into your bedroom. Therefore, close the door on fifteen protective spells, having stunk out Roderick and Morgana before. If you thought that intimacy begins here, then you are deeply mistaken. What did these psychopaths give you? Half the night passes in a wedding rush over the gifts that all those familiar and unfamiliar people bought for the young family. And when it turns out that the celebration cost more than all that was given by all these people - it certainly will not be up to sleep. How could they? Hasn’t even a three-story wedding cake paid off? All gifts to the last will be examined in the most thorough way, up to such household things as services. One of which, will break, of course, for good luck. Or was it originally broken? After all, when it turns out that, there is nothing in the last envelope except the greeting card; it will already be five in the morning. What a wedding night, think again! In addition, these bloody legs, after dancing with relative psychopaths. In the furnace. I am a bride. I was tortured all day, I survived and deserved to sleep. Intimacy? Some other time, honey.

Honeymoon

The honeymoon is not always going after the wedding and you should understand this especially when your husband is a Death Eater. No Bahamas and Caribs, a suburb of England and constantly leaving for some races (or maybe raids?) on the instructions of Oz, the Great and Terrible (wrong story villain?). If you suddenly want to spend time together (I do not exclude such a possibility), then you can go with your husband to do the task. And how do you like this? Yes, you have to dress all black and kill a couple of Order members, but is this really a problem? Good girls very rarely become wives of such bad boys. Therefore, you have enough gray matter. And generally speaking! The golden time that you spend before the birth of your first child is your honeymoon. Enjoy! It is possible that you are the same lucky girl who still gets to pull her hubby somewhere on the beaches and into the luxurious life by the sea - for this kind of rest, this instruction is very useful! First, stick down the mark on your husband's hand so that its signals are invisible and imperceptible; attach a cold for the latter. In case your man looks at other ladies in bathing suits, pull sharply on the plaster and remind this handsome man where to look! After all, the real goddess is you. If after this your husband is indestructible, there will always be a little witch mate – “Imperio”. What? All is fair in love and war!

The first year of marriage

According to statistics, the largest number of divorces occur in the first four years of marriage, and the first year of marriage is considered the most difficult and to some extent decisive. If you didn’t kill each other during this long busy year of joint scandals and tantrums on the basis of the husband’s constant absence at home (but the presence of the one at work and the service of the Lord, no brothels and the vail), you are a pretty promising couple for the magical world. It is possible that mama and papa were right, matchmaking you to this Death Eater. The art of marriage is to allow as little spoilage as possible! Try to be tolerant of your sweet Deathyeater. And then you will find the same answer in the form of jewellery, flowers and expensive things. This is a time when you can EVEN love your husband. But do not overdo it. So that a man does not get bored in a relationship and does not go in search of emotions on the side, you need to periodically drive him crazy. The main thing here is to drive him crazy, but not to screw the poor man’s brains out. And this is already a great art that not every nymph can master! But it is also worth remembering another, rather important rule. The less DE we love, the more he loves you back.

Everyday life

What you should not bother with is life. Cooking, washing and cleaning, all this will take home elves or house cleaners, as you wish. Now you are the lady who controls this infinitely troublesome process. Make sure that the poison for the Order of the Phoenix in the cauldron is cooked correctly, the bloodstains were washed down to squeak and snow-whiteness and the rooms of the house is clean and pleasant. If something is wrong, shout at the little minions, if they are guilty that something is wrong. And yes they all burn in hell ... You can follow the example of the Walburga, which hangs their little heads on the door handles. Another option is to tell your husband. Damn them, the next time they will be neater. Then why do we need living OP members, problems at work and dirty carpets for aristocratic clean feet? Remember that the house is in the first place and it is the face of the family. Finally, yet importantly, it must be clean. Several tactically correct decisions and your reputation will rise to a new level.

Husband's friends

Since your husband is a Death Eater, you should still accept the fact that all his friends are likely Death Eaters too. The first forty years in the boy's life are the most difficult. It is precisely for this reason that he communicates with them in order to make his own good way into life and provide it for your family too. Devoured circle, which is brought along by raincoats and masks from papier-mâché. Do not be angry with your husband, because this is not a club for trips to the Vails, but really for work. The better the job, the better your financial position and status in society. Stroke the raincoat, wave with a hand, and send a sweet kiss. This means that you will have a whole evening in the company of your beloved books, music, movies and a bottle of champagne. The main thing is to ensure that the husband returns home and does not cover the bed with blood, which in turn is made of very silk. Sometimes it may happen that the husband invites his friends to you for tea - in this case, offer all possible types of tea and bring a little house with a tray for tasting. Perhaps right now your husband will promote, and the promotion, as they say, is always only for the benefit.

Society

In any case, your family life should not end in seclusion as in lives of some noble ladies. Attend secular receptions as often as possible (especially those of Mrs. Goyle) and then your life will shine in new colours. Snake girlfriends will immediately understand your significance by the weight of the diamond necklace on your swan neck. Restaurants, expensive boutiques, and luxury items, this luxurious world is open to you like never before. Spending your husband's money is a pleasure with which nothing can compare, for sure, nothing in this beautiful, perfect world. Even if your husband is unpretentious and rather sparingly dressed for his billions, you should definitely shine for everyone to think for sure. “Yes, he spends all the money on his spouse, he loves her so much. It must be an excellent family. ” Image is quite important in modern society. Also, do not forget to invite pureblood relatives to you and send postcards with congratulations on all kinds of holidays. Who is Giovani Bulstrode? Nevermind! Happy New Year, Giovani. Happy Holidays. xoxo Aurora Travers.

Husband's family

You should not hope that the husband’s family will meet you with open arms. Yes, you are an enviable bride, but nevertheless, in their opinion, their son deserves much more than such as you. Without a doubt, in their eyes you are a beggar woman, without brains, you don’t do anything around the house and my little son could marry many better girls. Sooner or later, you will have to go into battle with the boss named Mother-in-law. Mother-in-law is still a leech. If you have ever heard the cry of Mandrake without headphones in the Miss Sprout greenhouse, then, believe me, these are the sounds you will wake up with every morning! So what are you, say, a ballet dancer and can you do all 32 fouettes? But can you cook borschsch like mom? And spit on her that she had never cooked that borschsch in her life! You just can not! But the photograph of the mother-in-law on the fridge is great for losing weight, I checked it myself.

Frequent problems

If your husband’s greatness increased exponentially, the Ministerial rats most likely began to suspect him of belonging to the Death Eaters. Visit your husband at work often, it is desirable to wear a badge with a quote “the Slytherin is just a slightly different side of Hufflepuff” on your chest. Smile to all the people in the Ministry and fill up your husband’s shirt where the mark is on or cover with your hand. And then the problems just get avoided. With such a wonderful wife.

Children

If your son or daughter grew up Gryffindor - then he or she, clearly, the shame of your pious little family. Since childhood, this is a little lump, tormenting you all nine months with kicks and pressure on the bladder. If after this hell, he or she did not stand in the way of truth, I mean Slytherin way; burn the child from your family tree so that the hole remains not only in the tapestry, but also in his or her heart, and in the whole Universe. You, as a wife and mother, should take care of raising your children. Around this point, you have to share sleepless nights with your hubby, because a one-year-old baby is an even bigger demon than any of the dragons of Bill Weasley. Kick your husband harder at night to get up to the baby, too, muttering sleepily under his breath that the first year is sure to nurse the little one yourself. Even after, when the child gets used not to cry in the arms of his father-devourer, you can change the tactics of education (for both father and son). By his or her five, the child should already be the subject of wealth and all sorts of investments. The best education. The best tutors. Severe upbringing. Ambitions are grafted from birth. Prospects for the future. Already before his first trip to the school of magic, the baby should know which faculties should be downgraded. Never let him or her just try to cheat and doesn’t get the faculty of Slytherin! Just not to say later that the mother 11 years raised a piglet, and he or she did not even congratulate her on March 8.

Decembrist's wife

Nevertheless, it may happen that your life will go downhill because your husband is a Death Eater. Not everyone justifies, not everyone manages to pay off his lot in Azkaban, and only a few can return to the ordinary life of luxury and nobility. Get ready to become the wife of the Decembrist and carry her husband to Azkaban, if that is at all possible. There you have to try so that the Dementors do not steal your soul, and so that the husband ate a little in this prison cell. Some husbands are somewhat more demanding, and then they will have to put in a shaving gel, new financial publications, and necessities, such as an elegant suit to get out of the slammer. Someday he will be released, that is for sure (in fact it is not accurate).

In general, that is all. I wish everyone to think carefully before marrying a Death Eater and have enough brains not to take credit for the wedding! With you was your favorite Miss Aurora Travers! Only love marriage matter! P. S. LOL

#harry potter #death eaters #hpedit #hp edit #deatheateredit #aurora travers #death eater's life #harry potter aestehtic #harry potter aesthetic #article #voldemort

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ira-posts-blog1 · 5 years

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THE RETIREE

At the time when terrorism gained fame in the country, the northern people became the first victims of the forms of violence that came. We had spent two years already as special postings in the barracks, just after our training as counter terrorists. The period of training was one of the most rigourous moments we had faced as humans, but of course, we were yet to see the reality of being soldiers. This was how it all began.

One beautiful evening before the usual tattoo, our unit had received a signal to move to a town that had been ravaged by insurgents in a way that sprung a nationwide outcry. In a short while, we were a muster of agile young men who held unto their weapons anxiously-kalashnikovs, machine guns, and all other necessary military paraphernalia. Jo’dan had mounted a Machine gun on the roof of one of the army vans that conveyed us. He was up there kitted in a bullet proof vest, a helmet and several rounds of ammunition that were slung around him, the rest tucked in magazines. He had struggled to the top of the van but for his training, strength and rare height, such position at which he sat and the weight of metals on him is enough to sink a civilian into distress. We had travelled through three states up towards the Sahel Savannah near the Republic of Chad, until we were now faced with the desert terrain a few kilometers away from Maiduguri towards Bama, where at last we would anchor. The winds soughed across the plain and I watched as it tossed the fine dust on our faces while we sat opposite each other silently but in expectation. All of us had only shot at the range and were expected to kill this time. It was also evident that some soldiers like me wondered of the possibility of returning alive. They were anxious even in the way they held their rifles. One was already fiddling with the trigger in a muzzled down position, locking and unlocking the safety panel, until a sergeant yelled out a command, and he stopped. In our van, was a platoon of the least army officers, privates and Lance corporals and a sergeant who had drowned himself in strong whiskey, saying random orders, but for one which was a necessary order to the soldier who erstwhile played with his rifle. The winds blew on us from time to time and it turned out to be a gift against the heat that greeted us. In a few instances, we all got into high spirits whenever a soldier crooned the usual military morale songs.

After a while through the distance, we finally arrived at the small town that looked like it has been recently razed, and it was where we would camp. There were fires still burning unfortunate buildings and shells and shrapnel from monstrous weapons littered the small town. The hot air reeked upon our nostrils and the Captain ordered all soldiers to mask against the stench and possible poison in the air. The rest of the inhabitants of the town had fled on seeing our troop. They had thought of us to be the terrorists who usually raided villages and towns dressed in military uniform as we were. We had all alighted and were strung out into columns as we received brief orders from the captain pertaining to our charge the next day. It was into a forest that lay northeast off the boundary of the neighbouring country. The army geographers had read the size of the forest on a cartographic scale which gave a size of 686 square kilometers; a forest wide enough to swallow the whole country’s military manpower. When the people noticed from afar, the regimentation in our mode of operation, they returned, some to their homes to salvage belongings, and others to the temporary camp for the displaced which was a ramshackle primary school built before independence. It was going to be our first ever warlike encounter. The night had come and we kept watch around our tactically setup camp. The other soldiers were at the Maiduguri theatre, being prepared as backups. There were soldiers who had misbehaved and so were punished with a marathon guard duty. They had intimidated a pretty young lady who helped to evacuate dead bodies because one of them liked her. At the time we set up our base, they had been deployed to cover fire for the emergency management agencies that did the evacuation.

Every soldier least expected the kind of cold that rocked the evening at our base. Different tents that hosted ready men were lit up with small fires and the tents shook as the winds seldom howled. Other soldiers were stationed strategically around the perimeter of the base while the ones on punishment were asked to man the checkpoint which was a few yards away from the bamboo stalk that we constructed as the gates of the base. They were there, six of them and Jo’dan was among them unfortunately. He was physically absent at the time of the offence, but because he was part of the squad, it was regarded as a one body offence and so all of them were punished. They were there by the roadside in the cold and alone except for the improvised fire that feebly warmed them and the drums that stood in an interwoven manner to slow down vehicles for check. Although the check point was there, there was no civilian car that passed at that time because of the curfew that tortured the locals. The soldiers were there, hungry and bitter at the punishment they served, especially the innocent ones like Jo’dan.

It was at around half past the hour of eight when the town had slept except for the soldiers at the checkpoint and also for those of us at the base. I had just concluded my two hours guard duty at the gate and was in the tent to rest for two hours before my next duty when my phone rang. It was Jesse, a lance corporal and a friend of ours. His voice sounded mockingly low as against that of an authoritative soldier that I have known for quite some time. He had whispered to me that they were in trouble, especially Jo’dan because of how quickly he vented his anger and I could be their saviour. I had quickly wandered through thoughts for the possible atrocities that could land the soldiers in trouble again. I had braced up against the final thought that Jo’dan had shot a civilian who may not have obeyed the curfew order. But we would have heard the sound of a shot, and also, I wouldn’t possibly be their savior in such a situation-a private soldier. In the midst of my thoughts, Corporal Jesse added.

“…your knowledge of Hausa language may save us the….”

“Ah!”

I sighed out a lot of relief at the small nature of the problem if my knowledge of a language was enough to save them.

“Sir, let me speak to Jo’dan”

I suddenly requested, in order to ensure the veracity of my friend’s situation. On the background, I could hear more than one person speaking at once, and when at last I had spoken to Jo’dan, he spoke vaguely and tiredly as if he had been engaged in a lot of exercise, and I could sense a lot of distress in his voice. It was apparent that he gasped for air seriously at intervals in his speech and was really in need of my assistance. At this time I did not realize that I was already at the main entrance of the base heading towards the checkpoint, with a phone stuck to my ear. At a point during the call, there was no one talking to me, so I tried to make a guess of the cacophony at the background. But as a matter of experience, I knew that there might have been a contest with maybe a criminal. The soldiers at the gate were alert on seeing me pass in such great haste and so they were concerned as to where I was going. After a while, I was able to explain a series of lies at my risk to the intelligence officers, who allowed me to return in five minutes upon delivery of the service I had explained. In no time, I was at the check point. A bright torchlight had spotted me from a short distance and I shouted a word in esprit de corps. When they heard me, they welcomed me in the most respectful manner as would be done to a superior officer. They were all standing, red eyed and defeated and asides their tired looking faces, I saw the problem-a disgrace to the Special Forces unit of the armed forces.

“Jo’dan!”

I called out in surprise. Jo’dan was wet with sweat as he jumped around like a frog. Sitting on a bench on the other hand was another tired looking man, but this one as a result of age. He sat quietly staring at us in a way that one would wait for trouble. He looked at us endlessly as the soldiers explained to me what happened and took a few glances at the frog jumping Jo’dan.

“He has been doing this for almost an hour now, Jesse spoke. Please help us to beg him in Hausa since you understand the language and can speak a little. He behaves as if he doesn’t understand English and Pidgin…”

“…Only Hausa!”

The other soldier added angrily.

“Abeg go beg am. He fit hear you.”

After I heard from all the soldiers, I set out bravely towards the man who had already stretched one of his legs on the bench and looked at me as I approached him. He gazed at me unperturbedly, and his face which creased along with age appeared to have smiled all the while I took to greet him in Hausa language. He looked as though a friendly old man in the way he responded to my greetings. He had literally asked about everything that pertained to my life as a way of responding to my greeting, starting from my welfare at work. It is normal of the Hausa greeting process, but for what he had done to Jo’dan, there could not have been an iota of sympathy in the path of the old man. After the lengthy exchange of pleasantry, he might have been pacified, so he did not allow me to plead. He shook my hands and I felt a surge down my spine. He then asked me to touch my friend Jo’dan. I kept saying profound appreciations to the old man as I hurried to Jo’dan and touched him. That was what saved Jo’dan from the seemingly endless frog jump. The old man stood up, dusted his tailored attire, adjusted his hula and volunteered to tell me what happened.

First of all, I can speak English very well. I am the headmaster of a primary school which is presently the temporary camp of the internally displaced people in this community. I am also a retired captain in the Nigerian army, and the first military officer this community had ever produced. So you see, I have led in wars and have medals, and that means I am a powerful retiree-both physically and spiritually.

He grinned at me mischievously and continued:

As a Chief Security Officer in this community, a position I gave myself, I have trained a couple of trusted young men in intelligence gathering. Just this evening, they reported to me that the bad boys have plans to return, and of course their first target is you-the soldiers. I can assure you that they have the mightiest of weapons and they are ruthless. I have already lost two of my fine boys to them.

At this time, the other soldiers were interested in hearing the old man. So they moved closer to us.

So, as a matter of security and urgency, I decided to come to your base to relate the vital information since I had no way of contacting any of your commanding officers. This was the reason I damned the curfew in order to come. Now to why I have punished this young man;

On my arrival at this check point, as harmless as you can see me now, your colleague did not care to know me or why I have come, so he asked me to frog jump, at my age-I am 72 my friend. I tried to explain to him my reason for coming this late, but he did not listen. So, I feigned ignorant at what he asked me to do by virtue of not comprehending the English language. Your friend flared up and in a fit of rage he advanced towards me, and in an effort to teach me how to frog jump, he then found himself in trouble. I tell you, you soldiers are still young and have not seen another side of being soldiers.

After his narration, the old man clucked for a while, nodded sadly and grinned once more. He then tapped me on the back and left crawling into the dark. I looked at Jo’dan who had been lifted onto a camp bed and was resting off such an unusual treatment. When I stood by him, he chuckled and exclaimed bitterly.

“Soldier man has seen another one! Soldier man don suffer!”

The next day was going to be our charge and I hoped seriously that our enemies were fully humans, and not like the retiree.

*hula- is a typical Hausa hat.

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white-throated-packrat · 6 years

Text

Werewolf and Puppy AU -- Notes

Just some world-building notes for the Werewolf AU.

Werewolf [healthy family version]

The vast majority of werewolves have inherited their werewolfism, and are raised in happy, close-knit families that tend to live in small rural towns, where if everyone isn’t a wolf, everyone is at least first cousins with one. A werewolf raised in this setting is sensible, in control of themselves even during a full-moon (ie won’t be chasing the neighbor’s chickens or sheep), and generally a happy, family-orientated individual. Werewolves are incredibly family orientated, and will happily adopt every friend of their children as part of the ‘pack’ and sometimes just outright adopt lost children.

Children who don’t turn out to be werewolves are still members of the families, though rather like a tone-deaf person in a family of singers, they might feel out of place and out of step. Some of them leave, but many go to get an education, come back, and become necessary parts of the local society by becoming doctors, teachers, any profession that might need a university education that wouldn’t mesh well with being fur for several days each month (though really determined young wolves go to higher education on a regular basis, it’s just awkward, and occasionally nerve-wracking).

There are also were-people who don’t turn into wolves. Coyotes are fairly common, while coati, jaguars, dogs, ocelots, javelinas, and even owls are known. Atypical weres are sometimes teased about it, but the ones with smaller forms travel more easily in the regular world, so are welcomed. Jaguars are generally aloof sorts to start with, and get along fine, though they need even more room to their lonesome than the typical wolf pack.

Werewolf [bitten, but okay]

Some wolves become wolves through a bite, though that’s much more rare nowadays; it’s a hard disease to catch, like leprosy (many people are immune, but a lot more just don’t survive the initial fever). Most people who survive the bite don’t take well to sprouting fur three or four days a month, and bitten wolves are generally in poor control of themselves. If they’re lucky, they meet more experienced wolves -- or people born wolves -- and have a mentor to help them get used to their new life. Psychiatric problems are more common in bitten wolves, because it’s a hell of a life change. They’re usually not a danger to people, unless they were already of that bent, but they’re likely to raid their neighbor’s chickens without considering the consequences.

Werewolf [bitten, Immortals]

The actual monstrous werewolves -- the ones that don’t age, can shrug off multiple gunshots, and kill a lot of innocent humans. This strain of werewolfism freezes a person at the age they were when they were bit, gives them ridiculous healing abilities, is highly infectious and usually fatal, and has pronounced physical symptoms (unibrow, hairy ears, unnatural eye colors, noticeable eyeshine, non-human hair color (brindle, silver-tipped, etc), fangs, index and middle finger the same length, etc). It also comes with some unusual abilities, which may include the ability to smell lies, to charm animals, control *other* werewolves’ transformations, ability to transform outside of the full moon, etc.

The drawback is that almost all of the Immortals eventually go crazy, usually sometime before their 10th decade as a wolf, usually violently so. Healthy werewolf families will kill a crazed Immortal just so that the Immortal doesn’t draw attention to the families. Sometimes it’s a race between the sane werewolves and werewolf-hunters to track down an Immortal and kill them; the sane werewolves are hampered by the fact that they don’t want to draw too much attention to themselves, and the hunters are hampered because they generally didn’t know anything about the Immortal before that werewolf started killing people. At least when werewolves kill Immortals, they know what they’re doing and make it a fast decapitation; hunters usually don’t, and make it horrific.

They’re also infectious even to other werewolves, so there is a weird set of purity codes that werewolves follow when interacting with Immortals -- separate dishes, strict handwashing, pregnant and new mothers keeping distance -- that looks very much like shunning and cruelty from the outside. Immortals who have acculturated (or ones who were born wolves before they were infected with Immortality) obey the rules, and the ones for interacting with regular humans (no violence unless defending the pack); Immortals who aren’t part of the werewolf community don’t, and get judged for it.

And when a werewolf pack, or a clan made of several packs, judges you’ll be a danger to them, it’s not long before they are a danger to you.

Werewolf [subculture]

Most werewolves live in rural, agricultural communities, with livestock ranching being a popular occupation -- it’s an excuse to live on a large amount of land far away from people; ideal for werewolves, who really like to have some isolated land to go camping on and howl at the moon.

Healthy werewolf families function as families and extended clan networks. Exogamy is encouraged, and bitten, sane werewolves are adopted and married in as often as they can be convinced to.

Immortals are both valued (they’re nigh indestructible killing machines; extremely useful against hunters) and marginalized (they’re nigh indestructible killing machines, and they will eventually go crazy). There will only be 2 or 3 Immortals in any community. They’re welcome in everyone’s home as a guest, but never adopted or married in, and if they wind up marrying each other, they’re going to be pressured not to have kids. Most Immortals wind up with a nickname/byname as it’s considered bad luck to be on a first name basis with someone you might have to execute for the good of the community someday.

Every werewolf community has a Tomb of the Immortals were the remains of slain Immortals are kept -- an ossuary. It’s part communal mourning space and part honoring people who were marginalized in life but performed a valuable service to the community. The skulls are prominently displayed with their nickname, name, and years of service painted on them -- skulls, because Immortals are almost always killed by decapitation, and the head usually reverts to human even if the body doesn’t.

[note: once Miguel gets enrolled in school in the werewolf town, some of his classmates play a mean prank on him that involves him getting locked in the local Tomb.]

Characters --Santa Cecilia The Riveras (shoemakers by day, werewolf hunters by appointment)

Imelda Rivera -- family mariarch, widow, who got both sides of the family business started after her husband was killed by a marauding werewolf in 1942.

Coco Rivera -- Imelda’s eldesr daughter, Miguel’s grandmother

Victoria Rivera -- Coco’s daughter, unmarried

Enrique Rivera -- Coco’s son, married, Miguel’s father

Luisa Rivera -- Enrique’s wife, currently pregnant

Miguel Rivera -- our were-puppy

Elena Rivera -- Imelda’s younger daughter, Miguel’s great-aunt; born posthumous to her father’s death

Berto Rivera -- Elena’s son, married

Carmen Rivera -- Berto’s wife

Abel, Rosa, Manny, Benny --- their kids (Miguel’s second cousins)

Gloria Rivera -- Elena’s daughter, unmarried

San Luis de (something or other) -- Werewolf community Miguel winds up at (mostly LoD character from canon, some OCs)

‘Regular’ Werewolves

Tia Chelo --

Cece --

Gustavo -

Chicharron -- grumpy old coot, but has a van and is part of the group Miguel first encounters when he runs away. (Immortal? Maybe?)

Nice Family (OCs -- needs name) -- the family that keep trying to take Miguel in, but he’d rather stay with the ditzy Immortal who might be vague and not quite sure what year it is (and way more fond of chapulines than Miguel is!) but smells like family.

Immortals

La Retratista -- Frida Kahlo, (can smell lies), as long as she has paint and art, she’s content. paints most of the portraits that have wind up on ofrendas. She and Hector are close friends, both being old Immortals. Deeply respected in town.

El Cuervo Viejo-- Hector Rivera, (can charm animals, control other’s transformations); has a lot more guitars than any one person needs, including a dead ringer for the famous white guitar that was stolen from movie star and musician Ernesto de la Cruz in 1963. Plays music beautifully, sings like a crow because of how he was bitten (legs, disemboweled, then throat -- horrific scars that he covers with shirt, long trousers, and a neckerchief -- Ernesto legitimately thought he was dead). Is becoming vague, which is often the first step to turning ‘rabid’.

La Lechuza -- Lucia Guzman (OC), (can charm humans) born a wolf, was infected with Immortality by someone who should have known better and may have had slipping judgement due to oncoming dementia -- he was executed, Lucia was sent to a different community; it feels a lot like exile to her, but even she doesn’t want her siblings to have to decide to kill her someday

#coco the movie #coco au #werewolf au #coco pixar #worldbuilding #miguel rivera #hector rivera #imelda rivera #frida kahlo #a cat and a dog got married #they did not live happily ever after

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the-syndic4te · 7 years

Quote

The officers around me listened glumly, in silence; only a one-armed Hauptmann laughed loudly at the terms freiwillige Frontverkürzung and planmässig, but stopped when he met my anguished gaze; like him and the others too, I knew enough to interpret these euphemisms: the Jews who had revolted in the ghetto had been resisting our best troops for several weeks now, and Tunisia was lost. I looked around for the waiter to order another Cognac. Thomas came in. He crossed the room with a martial stride, ceremoniously gave me a German salute while clicking his heels, then took me by the arm and drew me toward a booth; there, he slipped into the banquette, negligently throwing his cap on the table, and brandished an envelope that he held delicately between two gloved fingers. “Do you know what’s inside?” he asked, frowning. I made a sign that I didn’t. The envelope, I saw, bore the header of the Persönlicher Stab des Reichsführer-SS. “I know what’s inside,” he went on in the same tone. His face cleared up: “Congratulations, dear friend. You play your cards close to your chest. I always knew you were smarter than you let on.” He was still holding the letter. “Take it, take it.” I took it, broke it open, and pulled out a sheet of paper, an order to present myself at the earliest opportunity to Obersturmbannführer Dr. Rudolf Brandt, personal adjutant to the Reichsführer-SS. “It’s a summons,” I said somewhat stupidly.—“Yes, it’s a summons.”—“And what does it mean?”—“It means that your friend Mandelbrod has a very long arm. You’ve been assigned to the Reichsführer’s personal staff, my friend. Shall we celebrate?” I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but I let myself be carried along. Thomas spent the night buying me American whiskies and excitedly holding forth on the stubbornness of the Jews in Warsaw. “Can you imagine? Jews!” As to my new assignment, he seemed to think I had brought off a masterstroke; I had no idea what it was all about. The next morning, I presented myself at the SS-Haus, located on Prinz-Albrechtstrasse right next to the Staatspolizei, in a former grand hotel converted into offices. Obersturmbannführer Brandt, a stooped little man with a wan, timid look, his face hidden behind large, round, black horn-rimmed glasses, received me right away: it seemed to me I had seen him already, in Hohenlychen, when the Reichsführer had decorated me on my hospital bed. In a few terse, precise sentences, he filled me in about what was expected of me. “The transition of concentration camps from a purely corrective finality to a function as a reservoir of labor force, which was begun more than a year ago now, has not been accomplished without conflicts.” The problem involved both relations between the SS and outside participants, and internal relations within the SS itself. The Reichsführer wanted to get a better understanding of the source of the tensions in order to reduce them and also to maximize the productive capacity of this considerable human labor pool. He had consequently decided to appoint an already experienced officer as his personal representative for the Arbeitseinsatz (“labor operation” or “labor organization”). “After examination of the files and receipt of a number of recommendations, you were selected. The Reichsführer has complete confidence in your ability to carry out this task successfully—it will require a strong capacity for analysis, a sense of diplomacy, and an SS spirit of initiative, the kind you’ve already demonstrated in Russia.” The SS offices concerned would receive an order to cooperate with me; but it would be up to me to ensure that this cooperation would be effective. “All your questions, as well as your reports,” Brandt finished, “should be addressed to me. The Reichsführer will see you only when he deems it necessary. He will receive you today to explain what he expects of you.” I had listened without batting an eye; I didn’t understand what he was talking about, but thought it more politic to keep my questions to myself for the moment. Brandt asked me to wait in a lounge on the ground floor; I found some magazines there, along with tea and cakes. I soon tired of leafing through old issues of Schwarzes Korps in the subdued lighting of this room; unfortunately, there was no smoking allowed in the building—the Reichsführer had forbidden it because of the smell—and you couldn’t go out to the street to smoke, either, in case you were summoned. They came looking for me around the end of the afternoon. In the antechamber, Brandt gave me his final recommendations: “Don’t make any comments, don’t ask any questions, only talk if you’re asked to.” Then he led me in. Heinrich Himmler was sitting behind his desk; I came forward with a military stride, followed by Brandt who introduced me; I saluted, and Brandt, after handing the Reichsführer a file, withdrew. Himmler motioned to me to sit down and consulted the file. His face seemed strangely vague, colorless; his little moustache and his pince-nez only emphasized the elusive quality of his features. He looked at me with a small, friendly smile; when he raised his head, the light, reflected in the glass of his pince-nez, made them opaque, hiding his eyes behind two round mirrors: “You look in better form than the last time I saw you, Sturmbannführer.” I was quite surprised that he remembered me; perhaps there was a note in the file. He went on: “You have fully recovered from your wound? That’s good.” He leafed through a few pages. “Your mother is French, I see?” That seemed to be a question and I attempted an answer: “Born in Germany, my Reichsführer. In Alsace.”—“Yes, but French all the same.” He raised his head and this time the pince-nez did not reflect the light, revealing little eyes too close together, with a surprisingly gentle look. “You know, in principle I never accept men with foreign blood into my staff. It’s like Russian roulette: too dangerous. You never know what will manifest, even in very good officers. But Dr. Mandelbrod convinced me to make an exception. He is a very wise man, whose judgment I respect.” He paused. “I had considered another candidate for the position. Sturmbannführer Gerlach. Unfortunately he was killed a month ago. In Hamburg, during an English air raid. He didn’t take shelter in time and a flowerpot fell on his skull. Begonias, I think. Or maybe tulips. He died on the spot. These English are monsters. Bombing civilians like that, without discrimination. After the victory we should organize war crimes trials. The people responsible for these atrocities have to answer for them.” He fell silent and plunged into my file again. “You’ll be thirty soon and you’re not married,” he said, raising his head. “Why?” His tone was severe, professorial. I blushed: “I haven’t had an opportunity yet, my Reichsführer. I finished my studies just before the war.”—“You should seriously consider it, Sturmbannführer. Your blood is valuable. If you are killed during this war, it shouldn’t be lost for Germany.” My words came to my lips of their own accord: “My Reichsführer, please excuse me, but my spiritual approach to my National Socialist commitment and to my service in the SS does not allow me to consider marriage so long as my Volk has not mastered the dangers threatening it. Affection for a woman can only weaken a man. I have to give myself wholly and I couldn’t share my devotion before the ultimate victory.” Himmler listened, scrutinizing my face; his eyes had opened slightly. “Sturmbannführer, despite your foreign blood, your Germanic and National Socialist qualities are impressive. I don’t know if I can accept your reasoning: I continue to think that the duty of every SS-Mann is to continue the race. But I will reflect on your words.”—“Thank you, my Reichsführer.”—“Did Obersturmbannführer Brandt explain your work to you?”—“In broad terms, my Reichsführer.”—“I don’t have much to add. Above all, use delicacy. I don’t want to provoke useless conflicts.”—“Yes, my Reichsführer.”—“Your reports are very good. You have an excellent ability to seize the overall picture based on a proven Weltanschauung. That’s what made up my mind to choose you. But watch out! I want practical solutions, not whining.”—“Yes, my Reichsführer.”—“Dr. Mandelbrod will no doubt ask you to send him copies of your reports. I don’t object. Good luck, Sturmbannführer. You may go.” I got up, saluted, and prepared to leave. Suddenly Himmler called out to me in his dry little voice: “Sturmbannführer!��—“Yes, my Reichsführer?” He hesitated: “No false sentimentality, yes?” I remained rigid, at attention: “Of course not, my Reichsführer.” I saluted again and left. Brandt, in the antechamber, gave me an inquisitive look: “Did it go well?”—“I think so, Obersturmbannführer.”—“The Reichsführer read your report on the nutritional problems of our soldiers in Stalingrad with great interest.”—“I’m surprised that report reached him.”—“The Reichsführer is interested in a lot of things. Gruppenführer Ohlendorf and the other Amtschefs often send him interesting reports.” Brandt gave me a book from the Reichsführer entitled Jewish Ritual Murders, by Helmut Schramm. “The Reichsführer had copies printed for all SS officers with at least the rank of Standartenführer. But he also asked that it be distributed to subaltern officers concerned with the Jewish question. You’ll see, it’s very interesting.” I thanked him: one more book to read, when I hardly read anymore. Brandt advised me to take a few days to get organized: “You won’t achieve anything worthwhile if your personal affairs aren’t in order. Then come see me.”

Jonathan Littell “Les Bienveillantes”

#jonathan littell #les bienveillantes #las benevolas #as benevolentes #himmler #the furies #the kindly ones #books

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lilithhawthorne · 7 years

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Title: Drop of Treason Rating: M Fandom: Mass Effect / Mass Effect: Andromeda Chapter: 1/? First // Previous / Next Cross posted on AO3

Summary: Whether she likes it or not, Sloane has become the de facto Queen of Kadara Port, though her rule has not been a gentle one. Too bad for her that Aria slept through the first uprising, and the Pirate Queen of Omega has more than a drop of treason in her veins.

It was the nicest thing he could do for her, even if she wouldn’t see it that way. It was a hell of a lot more effort than she deserved and surely she would be able to appreciate that. He could have slit her throat, floated her, or sold her in bits and pieces to the highest bidders. Who wouldn’t pay to have a chunk of Aria T’Loak, the Pirate Queen of Omega, reduced to a finger or an ear pinned to the wall?

She had never been this kind. Kept him around like a pet, a trophy, a living relic. A constant reminder of her strength and cunning.

He sure as shit had never forgot her cunning, which is exactly why she had to go.

“The price has changed. Double the credits or we thaw her out.”

If Patriarch had been a younger krogan, he would have ripped the man’s head off. Squished it between the heels of his palms. He was a scrawny human, nervous and jittery, always looking over his shoulder like he expected his own shadow to stab him in the back. It would be easy to squish his head.

His rage may have shriveled up inside him, leaving him hollowed and dry like a husk, but no one besides those who had known him during his glory days knew how far he had fallen. They were all dead. Except the one, who was now a popsicle.

“Why would I pay you double?” he grumbled, inching closer, his bulky form casting the man in darkness.

Poor, squishy human. He recoiled as if he had been spat on, his hands covering his face as he hunkered over, his instinct to protect his soft stomach useless against a krogan. No doubt his testicles were heading north.

“They m-moved the timeline up, I don’t know why! But n-now I have less time to figure a place for her. I - I will have to bribe -“

“I stick to the original deal and add the extra benefit of not cramming my hands down your throat, assuming you have a spine to rip out.” Patriarch raised his massive hands as he spoke, purple and pink light illuminating them with flecks of garish confetti from the strobe overhead.

The life blood of the Afterlife was the music, a constant throb and hum that shook bones and rattled teeth. It had its disadvantages during meetings, especially for an old man like himself. Sometimes the music chased away his thoughts, his grasp on consciousness tenuous after so many battles and so much time.

Today, it didn’t matter what the man said back to him, his lips flapping useless, gums popping saliva as he forced a smile. All that mattered was the look on his face, fear draining the color from his face. Patriarch heard the reply in the rush of blood singing through his veins.Thump, thump, thump.

It sounded like the Afterlife.

It sounded like the blaring of trumpets, his kingdom reclaimed.

He watched from the couch as they came to take her. The imprint left from her long resting laurels would take time to stamp out, but for now he left it, an homage to the former royal ass.

Royalty deserved a better coffin than a white, bulky refrigerator. She deserved better pallbearers than the clumsy fools who struggled to hold the weight between them. He couldn’t see her face, the window fogged from the last of her breaths as they had collected against the glass, but he closed his eyes and pictured her face the way he always preferred her: at rest, her brow smooth, lips just barely turned up at the corners.

He had thought about slipping a note against the curve of her palm, writing his name and apologies and pressing it over her heart. In the end he hadn’t done anything except stash a bottle of her favorite poison in the crook of her arm.

Well, royalty may have deserved a better coffin, but a real queen deserved a knife in her back. They would both have to make do with what they had.

Crash site recovery was dirty work. It required heavy tools and quick feet. It required a strong stomach, something Sevus had learned during his first raid in the Badlands of Kadara. Now he was an old pro, and old pros got the luxury of being choosy with their hauls.

“Somethin’ is burning up real pretty on the radar! Has to a big bugger by the look if it, maybe a merchant ship?” Bromwell tapped a stubby finger against the radar welded onto the dashboard of their off-road cruiser. He traced a path from where they were parked to where the blimp had flashed. “That’s just a ten minute ride if we drive fast.”

“I just ate,” Sevus complained.

“That slop ain’t food,” his human companion teased.

“More nutritious than whatever it is you shove in your mouth.”

Sevus’ mandibles flared in disgust as Bromwell licked his fingers, making an obvious extra effort to slobber.

“All that’s beside the point,” he said, smacking his lips. “Let’s go check it out, come on Sev. It’s been days since we pulled a good haul and somethin’ that big will draw ina lot of curious faces.”

It was no use arguing with him, especially when he had just eaten peanut butter. But Sevus could at least take his time sliding behind the wheel. He adjusted the seat. Groomed himself as he looked in the mirror, brushing stray crumbs from his dextro crackers away from the corners of his mouth.

“Ah hurry up, princess!”

The two speed off, the fat tires of their six wheeled buggy spraying dirt and rocks behind them.

For some, the aftermath of Sloane’s uprising had been even more chaotic than the coup itself. It wasn’t just those who had been fighting, not only ardent opponents of the Nexus leadership, that had been severed from the safety nets provided by the Initiative. There were those who had been a little too sympathetic, who had been slower to lob their support at Tann.

Somewhere along the line their names had been added to a list and they tasted the boots of bureaucracy when it came time to pass down a ruling on the crimes of Sloane.

Sevus had been a botanist and Bromwell… well, Bromwell didn’t talk much about what he had done before and Sevus knew better than to pry.

Not that it mattered. They were all exiles now.

Bromwell let out a high pitch whistle between his missing front teeth as they approached the smoking wreckage. As soon as the cruiser bounced to a halt, he was out the door, eager as ever to be the first to run his fingers over the salvage. Sevus killed the engine and followed.

The ship had been big. Not big enough to be an ark or anything that would make them credits for selling the crash site location, but big enough that there was sure to be something good hidden behind the warped, smoldering metal.

There was a lot to see, a lot going on, but the stasis pod caught his eye right away. It was half hidden, covered by a collapsed shuttle wall, but there was no mistaking the shape and blinding white color.

This was a good find. As gross as it was, as much as it offended his former sensibilities, bodies went for a lot of credits in the Badlands. And a surprising number of people had gone to sleep with jewelry on. None of that stuff mattered to ghosts: flesh, bones, gold, gems, it was all his for the redistributing.

“Here’s a pod,” he called to his friend, picking a path through the smoke and metal towards the jackpot.

This wasn’t his first pod and he knew exactly where to find the emergency release. Knew just the right amount of pressure to apply to the latch to expose the treasure hidden inside.

Ugh, it creeped him out that he thought like that. But hey, he reasoned, cramming his crowbar into the barely visible crevice that would pop the hood, if it buys me dinner….

She must have been working on it from the inside because as soon as the lid had lifted, she was on her feet, her fingers curled like a claw. He felt the pressure against his neck like she was touching him.

There was blood stained across her fingertips, her nails chipped and worn away to nubs.

“Who the fuck are you and where the fuck am I?”

#this is what happens when we talk about my two favorites ladies kissing #mass effect #mass effect andromeda #sloane kelly #aria t'loak #mass effect fanfiction #mass effect andromeda fanfiction #fanfiction #drop of treason

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newstfionline · 5 years

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Pancho Villa, prostitutes and spies: The U.S.-Mexico border wall’s wild origins

By Michael E. Miller, Washington Post, January 10, 2019

On an August afternoon in 1918, a mysterious man approached the U.S.-Mexico border in the bustling town of Nogales.

For decades, the boundary between the two countries had been little more than an imaginary line in the sand, marked only by the occasional--often crumbling--pillar in the Sonoran desert. But rampant smuggling, the Mexican Revolution and the outbreak of World War I had split the border town in two, sowing fear and stoking tensions.

As the man walked toward Mexico, where Mexican soldiers were waving him on, a U.S. Customs inspector suddenly ordered him to halt.

Unheeded and suspecting the man was a smuggler, the customs inspector drew his gun.

So did two American soldiers, one of whom would later say he thought the man was one of the many German spies rumored to be trying to draw Mexico into war with the United States.

Yards away, Mexican officials also shouldered their rifles. When one fired, hitting an American soldier in the face, both sides of the border erupted in gunfire.

“A battle breaks out, killing 12 people, including the mayor of Nogales, Sonora,” said Rachel St. John, a history professor at the University of California at Davis who wrote about the incident in her 2012 book, “Line in the Sand: A History of the Western U.S.-Mexico Border.”

The two-hour shootout marked the end of an era of easy movement across the boundary in Nogales, she said, as Mexican and American officials quickly agreed to put up a six-foot fence through the middle of the border town.

Today, the fence is now a 20-foot-high row of steel beams, recently reinforced with razor wire.

As President Trump travels to the border Thursday to demand $5.7 billion funding for a wall, his high-stakes visit draws attention to the past century of wild, often unsuccessful efforts to fortify the U.S.-Mexico frontier.

Long before the perceived threat was Central American asylum seekers, it was German spies and Mexican revolutionaries, prostitutes and polygamists, Chinese immigrants and cattle infected with “Texas fever.”

“The border between Mexico and the United States is not just a line on a map,” wrote sociologist Douglas Massey in a 2016 essay. “Rather, in the American imagination, it has become a symbolic boundary between the United States and a threatening world. It is not just a border but the border, and its enforcement has become a central means by which politicians signal their concern for citizens’ safety and security in a hostile world.”

Given this outsized importance, Massey wrote, it is easy to forget that the U.S.-Mexico border didn’t exist at all until 1821, when Mexico gained independence from Spain. And it wasn’t for another 30 years that the boundary line looked anything like it does today.

Texans revolted against Mexico in 1836, largely to preserve the institution of slavery, according to Massey. When Texas joined the Union in 1845, it led to a war between the United States and Mexico that ended with American troops occupying Mexico City. At gunpoint, Mexico signed away what is now Arizona, California, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah and Colorado for $15 million. Five years later, in 1853, the United States bought another 30,000 square miles for $10 million so that it could build a transcontinental railroad.

If the two treaties fixed the U.S.-Mexico border on a map, they did little to clarify things on the ground.

By the end of the century, the boundary was blurred beyond recognition. Markers had been moved, destroyed or vandalized. Towns had sprung up on the border. In Nogales, saloons straddled the border, selling Mexican cigars on one side and American liquor on the other, both duty free, St. John wrote.

In 1882, the United States and Mexico formed a joint commission to resurvey, remap and remark the border. The team found that in one stretch, there wasn’t a single marker for 100 miles.

On the commission’s recommendation, President William McKinley ordered a 60-foot swath cleared along the Nogales border in 1897. Saloons were destroyed or moved. Ten years later, the order was extended to all of Arizona, New Mexico and California.

As the border began to take shape, officials started to restrict who and what moved over it. In 1909, Congress passed the Act to Prohibit the Importation and Use of Opium for Other than Medicinal Purposes, effectively launching the business of drug smuggling on the border, St. John writes.

That same year, the first federally built fence went up along the border in Baja to prevent American cattle from contracting “Texas fever”: a disease spread by ticks that had been nearly eradicated in the United States but persisted in Mexico.

Around the same time, customs officials began to prevent the entry of certain people into the United States.

“While Mexicans and Americans moved freely back and forth across the boundary line, by the late nineteenth century a series of new U.S. laws restricted a growing number of immigrants from crossing the border,” St. John wrote. “The U.S. Congress passed the first law restricting immigration--specifically that of convicts and prostitutes--in 1875. By 1910 new legislation had added Chinese immigrants, lunatics, people likely to become public charges, contract laborers, polygamists, anarchists, and others deemed undesirable to the list of excluded groups. This legislation turned what had been an innocent movement of people into illegal immigration.”

The Bureau of Immigration was created at the turn of the century to crack down on all types of illegal entries, but its 18 agents were so consumed with catching undocumented immigrants from China that they quickly became known as “Chinese inspectors,” according to St. John.

Sophisticated smuggling networks soon developed along the border, including doctors specializing in removing “signs of disease,” corrupt officials and rail cars full of Chinese immigrants.

“Fences actually work way better for cattle then they do for humans,” St. John told The Post.

By the early 20th century, the border had become recognizable--if still easily crossed without detection. But that began to change with the outbreak of the Mexican Revolution in 1910.

As Mexican revolutionaries plotted from American hotels and battles spilled over the border, the United States struggled to remain neutral. Several American sentries were killed by stray bullets and refugees began flowing north. Both Mexican bandits and soldiers started raiding towns in the United States.

During the Battle of Sonora in 1914, the fighting came so close to the border that U.S. troops marked the boundary line with American flags to prevent it from spilling over, according to St. John.

It didn’t always work. On March 9, 1916, after the United States broke its neutrality by supporting one of Pancho Villa’s rivals, the Mexican general retaliated by raiding the border town of Columbus, N.M. Although Villa lost more than 100 men, compared to 17 Americans, one local described the scene as a “holocaust.”

“Main Street was in chaos,” Mary Means Scott recalled, according to “Line in the Sand.” “Men were frantically digging in the smoldering ruins for bodies. Others looked distractedly at yesterday’s places of business, now blackened junk.”

A week later, Gen. John “Black Jack” Pershing led an armed expedition into Mexico to catch Villa. The pursuit lasted for almost a year, and stoked Mexicans’ fears that the United States intended to annex its weakened southern neighbor.

As the United States was pulled toward entering World War I, American anxiety over the Mexican Revolution was compounded by fears of espionage along the border. In a telegram decoded by the Americans in early 1917, the German foreign secretary offered Mexico support “to reconquer its former territories.”

Two years earlier, a plot had been discovered to do just that, said Miguel A. Levario, a history professor at Texas Tech University and the author of “Militarizing the Border: When Mexicans Became the Enemy.”

“There was some concern that Pancho Villa would give an order and all the people of Mexican descent [in the United States] would overtake Fort Bliss,” Levario told The Post. But the so-called Plan de San Diego didn’t get very far before its alleged mastermind was arrested.

“When the guy was brought to trial, the judge thought it was such a ludicrous idea that he thought guy didn’t need jail time but rather a psychiatrist,” Levario said.

Still, fear lingered.

“If the people of Los Angeles knew what was happening on our border, they would not sleep at night,” the Los Angeles Times warned in April 1917, according to “Line in the Sand.” “Sedition, conspiracy, plots and intrigue are in the very air. The telegraph lines are tapped, operators have been seduced with gold and spies come and go at will.”

This was the atmosphere on the afternoon of Aug. 27, 1918, when the mysterious man approached the border in Nogales.

“We still don’t know who he was,” St. John told The Post. “Maybe he was a spy. Maybe he was a smuggler.”

What was clear was the response, as Mexico and the United States agreed to erect a six-foot fence.

Other fences went up along the frontier around the same time. Near the border between Calexico and Mexicali a year later, two U.S. soldiers fatally shot a Mexican man named Alfredo Valenzuela only for investigators to find they weren’t sure in which country the killing had occurred.

“To determine if Valenzuela was shot on U.S. soil they had to call in an engineer to determine the location of the boundary,” St. John wrote. “Noting the need to clearly demarcate the boundary line given the heightened border controls, [Baja] Governor [Esteban] Cantú suggested the U.S. government build a fence to assure that its soldiers knew which side someone was on before they shot.”

Even after the end of World War I and the Mexican Revolution, some of the border fences stayed up, according to St. John.

“By the early 1920s, there are what look like permanent fences maintained by the government at most major ports of entry,” she told The Post.

Over the next century, these wood and barbed wire fences would be upgraded to chain link--including some from Japanese internment camps, according to St. John--and then, in the 1990s under both George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton, to 12-foot metal sheets formerly used as helicopter landing pads during Vietnam.

Although these measures were met by local protests, they enjoyed broad bipartisan support. When George W. Bush signed the Secure Fences Act into law in 2006, authorizing the construction of 700 miles of new border fencing, 80 senators supported it including Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama and Charles E. Schumer.

Yet, St. John warned against equating fence-building a century ago to Trump’s demand for a wall today.

“When they were building fences in Nogales during the Mexican Revolution, it was a response to what was happening along the border,” she said. “That is not what is happening now. This [demand for a wall] is coming top down. It is entirely divorced from the reality on the ground.”

#US-Mexico border #US-Mexico border wall #Pancho Villa

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jesus-otaku · 6 years

Text

Title: La Pucelle et la Coccinelle (Part 10)

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Word count: 2094

This is where crap really starts to hit the fan. Like, big-time.

“I cannot tell you the details; my counsel has forbidden it. But I have been betrayed, and I will likely not be with you in this city tonight when our fight has finished.”

By the start of May, Charles seemed to have realized that the Duke of Burgundy had played him and the rest of the royal court for fools. He and his advisors began to order attacks on the territory Burgundy had claimed in the eastern region of France at once. But their attention would have been better directed further north: the Burgundians were laying siege to the city of Compiegne. The city was putting up a fight, but it was clear that without military action to defend it, all of the supply routes into the city would be cut off.

“They have fought well,” Joan commented to Tikki while she was staying at Crepy-en-Valois. “I believe they deserve the aid they have asked for, don't you?” She spent the next few days rallying troops to join her on a campaign to Compiegne. Only about three hundred men volunteered.

“Joan, you cannot possibly expect to save Compiegne with such a small group,” Tikki protested as her charge prepared her things to leave Crepy-en-Valois. “You have only a little more than a month left before your voices told you that your time is up, and Burgundy has almost all of Compiegne's supply routes cut off already. It would take more time than you have to rescue them.”

“The good Duke of Alençon said it would have taken him six or seven months to accomplish what we did at Orleans in five days,” Joan replied. She set her bags aside and leaned back against the wall. “Admittedly, I had more men then, and King Charles' endorsement, but I believe that we can still achieve the same results. We need only have faith.”

Tikki sighed in defeat and hugged Joan's cheek. “Just be careful.”

On May twenty-second, Joan and her men left for Compiegne, arriving there around sunrise of the twenty-third. While the men prepared for battle, Joan first spoke to the garrison commander and then made her way to the church to pray.

Word must have spread quickly that the leader of the group that had arrived was none other than la Pucelle; a group of children poked their heads into the church while Joan was in the middle of praying, and clustered around to watch. Tikki slipped under Joan's doublet hurriedly. She continued her prayers as if there had been no interruption, finishing several minutes after the children had come in. Tikki heard a sniffle and realized Joan had started crying at some point during her prayers.

“Are you all right?” one of the children asked.

Joan knelt in front of them so that she was at their eye level. “I am. But would you do something for me, all of you?” Tikki peeked out from underneath Joan's doublet just in time to see the children nod. “Please, pray for me, for I have been betrayed.”

The children's eyes went wide, but they agreed to pray for her and went on their way. As soon as they were out of the church, Tikki came out of hiding.

“Betrayed?” she repeated, trying not to let her voice keen in panic the way it seemed to want to at the moment. If Joan thought she had been betrayed, then that meant…

“My time is coming to an end,” Joan confirmed. She fell silent in thought for a moment, then asked, “What sort of powers has Sir de Metz been given by his kwami?”

Tikki wasn't sure at all what that had to do with Joan's time being up, but she answered anyway. “The ring of the black cat gives its bearer powers of destruction.”

Joan's eyes widened. “Does he have a power similar to your Lucky Charm?”

“Yes, Cataclysm,” Tikki answered. “It allows him to destroy whatever he touches, but only once each time he transforms.”

Joan crossed herself, and lifted the bottom of her doublet in a gesture for Tikki to hide herself. “You must conceal yourself again, Tikki. I need to speak with Sir de Metz before we leave for battle today.”

Jean de Metz was saddling his horse when Joan found him. He turned from his work immediately with a bow and a smile. “La Pucelle. To what do I owe the honor?”

Joan took a deep breath. “My time of service to the king is ending,” she started. “I have been betrayed. I know the ring you wear is a Miraculous, and that its powers are far more dangerous than mine.” Jean tried to say something, but she kept going before he could get out so much as a single syllable. “You must promise me that no matter what happens to me, you will not use your powers of destruction.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Promise me, Jean,” she begged.

“Jhennette, where is this coming from?” he demanded. “You cannot ask something like this of me without so much as an explanation. What do you mean, you've been betrayed? By whom? And why would you presume that I would use my kwami's powers because of that?”

“Desperation can drive men to dangerous extremes,” Joan replied, and Tikki knew she was thinking of her own desperate use of the Lucky Charm which had led to her leg injury back in Paris. “I cannot tell you the details; my counsel has forbidden it. But I have been betrayed, and I will likely not be with you in this city tonight when our fight has finished.”

Despite Joan's request for her to stay hidden, Tikki risked peeking out of her hiding place to look at Jean. His jaw was clenched tightly, and he looked like he was struggling not to argue with Joan.

“Please promise me,” Joan requested again. “The last thing that France needs right now is more destruction. Even aimed against Burgundy, it will still harm those of our people who are living in Compiegne.” When he continued to hesitate, she said, “If that is not persuasion enough for you, Sir Jean de Metz, then consider it an order from your commander la Pucelle. You swore an oath of fealty to me in Vaucouleurs. Do not break it now.”

Tikki watched Jean's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed whatever protests he had left. Then he sighed, and bowed to Joan.

“As my commander wishes,” he said. “And may it be in accord with the will of God, whatever that may be.”

Joan beamed at him. “Thank you, Jean. Now then, we have a trip to make to Margny. Let us not keep our Burgundian foes waiting.” And she turned on her heel to fetch her horse.

Their raid on the Burgundian camp at Margny did not go well. Tikki hoped it didn't have anything to do with Joan's prediction. They would have been fine, and in fact might have won a hard-earned victory, if it hadn't been for an ambush from Burgundian reinforcement troops hiding behind the Mont-de-Clairoix. But at that point there were too many enemies to fight. Joan reluctantly called for a retreat.

“You lead the men back to Compiegne,” she instructed Jean and Friar Pasquerel. “I will take up the rear.” Jean looked like he wanted to argue again, but did as he was asked without protest. Probably so as not to give Friar Pasquerel any undue alarm. Joan watched them go and then turned to join the rear guard.

“I hope he will forgive me,” she murmured to Tikki. “I may never see him again.”

If Tikki hadn't been inside the Miraculous, she would have told Joan not to talk that way. Not that Joan would have listened.

It was unnerving to be in the rear guard during the retreat. Every time Joan glanced over her shoulder to check if the Burgundians were still in pursuit, they seemed to be getting closer. There was nothing between her and them except for a small stretch of land that became even smaller with every passing minute.

The drawbridge was already lowered for the army when they reached Compiegne. Joan and the rear guard stayed on the far side of the moat in an attempt to hold back the Burgundians while the rest of the army hurried across the drawbridge as fast as they could.

And then, while Joan was busy thumping Burgundian soldiers over the head with the butt of her sword, Tikki heard a terrible noise.

The drawbridge was being raised.

The rear guard was trapped outside.

As soon as the drawbridge had closed on them, their opponents swarmed and surged around them, laughing and jeering.

“Well, now, la Pucelle, how about that! Your people have abandoned you to die!”

“May as well surrender, no?”

One of the Burgundians spat at her feet. “Go on, witch, surrender.”

“Let's hear it, then! Surrender!”

“Surrender, vachère, and maybe we won't kill you for a day or two.”

Joan glared at them all, her head held high and her sword still in her hand. “I would rather die.”

“Oh, come now, bitch,” another voice said, this one almost directly behind her, “your pride will do you no good when we send you to hell.” A hand clamped around the back of her pauldron, and Joan was yanked backwards off her horse. There was more raucous laughter. A knight, obviously a nobleman from the quality of his armor, rode up from the ranks to look her over. His face was stony and cold like it had been chiseled out of marble.

“Joan la Pucelle,” he said, and in his heavily accented French the name sounded hideously like a hiss. “On behalf of my lord Count John of Luxembourg, you are now my prisoner.”

Joan had been right. Her “year and a little more” was up.

Joan's time as a Burgundian prisoner was excruciatingly long. After she had been taken captive, her armor and weapons had been confiscated, along with a golden ring she had been gifted by her parents. Tikki and the Miraculous had only escaped confiscation because she had slipped the earrings under her doublet while the guards weren't looking. She took to pinning them to the aiguillettes of her doublet, where they would be safe and out of sight. When she had been their captive for about a month, she made an escape attempt. It only succeeded in earning her a larger number of guards.

Tikki did her best to keep Joan's spirits up. The poor girl seemed to have been broken by her defeat. It was almost impossible to get her to smile. Tikki phased through walls, snuck around the fortress, spied on conversations, whatever she could manage that might give her news of what was happening in the ongoing war. She didn't relay most of it to Joan, but she did report when she heard news of France's attempts to get her back. She got a slight smile from her charge when she reported that Charles was doing everything in his power to ransom her from her captors. It was the happiest Joan had looked in weeks.

They moved her to another fortress in July, and to the castle of Beaurevoir in August. It was at the castle that Joan met John of Luxembourg's aunt, also named Joan, who had apparently stood as Charles' godmother in 1403. The noblewoman took a liking to Joan, and fought very hard to keep her nephew from selling her to the English—Tikki overheard several conversations between the two that made it sound like John was losing out on a very large sum of money for holding out on ransoming her. Joan appreciated her kindness, but would rather have been released then kept in Burgundy's hands indefinitely. She said as much to Tikki multiple times.

And then Joan of Luxembourg died in mid-September.

It didn't take long after that for John to begin conducting ransom negotiations with the English. Tikki had no choice but to relay the news to Joan when her charge asked what was to become of her. Joan scowled.

“I would rather die than be in the hands of the English,” she said.

She almost did die, once. Her second escape attempt was far more dangerous than her first; she attempted to jump out the window of the room where she was being kept, which was three floors off the ground. She survived somehow, but the tradeoff was that the number of her guards was increased again. Tikki feared what she might attempt if she actually ended up in English hands.

In November, Joan was sold to the English for ten thousand livres, and taken to the secular prison in Rouen.

#drabble #mbb2k17 #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #la pucelle et la coccinelle

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