#my builder: first just stick your hand through the bars :)

[cannibalisticskittles]

my builder is pissed at absolutely everyone inside this cell but they have never had any positive feelings towards yan whereas they Thought Miguel Was Their Friend (he came to their BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!) and pen was at soulmate-level, so. while yan definitely deserves a verbal beatdown, the one he receives is.... going to involve a lot of rage that is really meant for the other two that my builder isn't able to express towards them right now. but he's an asshole, so while it's technically misplaced, it's still deserved.

mentioning mi-an is also a terrible choice bc it just reminds her of how much of an ass he's been to mi-an, who is, by all accounts, a very nice girl. that just turns the rage back to full force. very "and ANOTHER thing!"

#my builder: sure yan. now that you've mentioned mi-an i'll help you escape. i'll even let you be the one to unlock the door. #my builder: first just stick your hand through the bars :) #and then of course when he does they grab his hand and start bending his fingers back #my builder: yan. yan listen. stop yelling and listen. i'm not gonna hurt you much. i just want you to know that i can. #my builder: as long as you stay put in that cell you're safe as houses. snug as a bug. all your needs taken care of. #my builder: but if you ever get free? #my builder: i will find you. i will bring you back here. and i will bury you so deep even the buzzards won't find your bones. #mtas #mtas spoilers #mtas yan #mtas pen #mtas miguel #which she's yelling at him for being a terrible boss and a shit person it's pretty normal #when it starts to delve into 'people would DIE if your plans worked and duvos swept in do you understand that? they would DIE.' it's... #still relevan bc while his part in this is smaller it still would have the same result. but everyone there knows he doesn't care. #miguel and maybe pen are the ones who that speech needs to be directed to #but. she can't look at them without also wanting to cry and she is NOT going to do that damn it she will cry #yan tho? no chance of crying when she sees him. he just sucks. 100%. #so he's the one who gets yelled at. he's the proxy for the points she's making

[inceptiondigital1]

one page website

One Page Website

A one-page website is composed of just a single page. Sites with just one page typically load all their content at the beginning or zone by zone as the server requires. This allows the user to engage with the site intuitively and effectively.

Portfolio websites are on the rise, especially single-page ones. You can also find this on product sites and apps with little content. The most convenient way for visitors to spend less time on a website is to display all of its content on a single page.

 What is a one page website?

Sites that consist of only a single page are known as one-page websites. Almost all single-page websites have menu bars like any other regular website. However, users don’t leave the website’s single page when they click the menu items. Instead, they are dropped at a predefined HTML anchor. AJAX, JavaScript, CSS3, and jQuery all contribute to this.

Creative businesses have recently become more interested in one-page websites. Many large corporations like to preview and preempt their large campaigns with single-page websites.

10 steps to create a one-page website on WordPress

It is common for websites to have multiple pages. Most websites have a home page, a contact page, an about page, and an informational page regarding the content and services they offer.

On the other hand, one-page websites present all the information in one place, often through several sections.

Let’s talk about how to create a single-page website.

Step 1: Get web hosting and choose a domain name (SiteGround, Bluehost, and link to homepage)

Most domain names you can imagine have already been registered since there are 1.3 billion websites in existence today. Before registering a domain name, make sure it doesn’t violate any existing uses, as that could lead to arguments and create a new name.

Choosing a domain name that accurately represents a company or brand on the internet

Select a web host and domain registrar after you have selected the perfect domain.

Do Something to Make Your Name Stick in People’s Minds

Make your website’s domain name unique.

Step 2: Install WordPress

To install Word Press, choose between the two options listed below. Your Blue host control panel will be your first port of call.

Select the My Sites button.

Create a new site by using the Site New option.

Two highly suggested website builders have appeared as new windows.

Under the Word Press tab, click on the Start Building button.

Fill out the Admin Data Form

Your program will be installed in a matter of minutes by the installer.

Once you’ve finished, go to the side navigation menu on the left and select the My Sites tab.

To manage a site, click Manage Site after hovering over it.

Go to the sub-menu and choose the website of the list.

Click the “Install Now” option in the Word Press section to get started.

Click the install button after hovering your mouse over it.

Choose your preferred language for Site Configuration, then click Plugins.

Click the Install button after you have completed the configuration process.

Go to the Installations tab at the top of the page and select the appropriate structure.

Locate the Word Press installation domain and click on the link.

Step 3: Clean up WordPress installation (remove unnecessary plugins, pages, etc.)

Get Rid of Unwanted Plugins and Themes

Do not forget to keep everything up to date.

Destroy any previous revisions of your posts

Optimize Your Images and Delete Unused Media Files

Restore the functionality of any damaged links.

Keep your information current.

Step 4: Choose a theme and pick a template

You can include animations, parallax scrolling, picture sliders, custom blocks, and navigation in addition to high-end design features. In Word Press, one-page themes are the best way to accomplish this.

Identify the required functions.

Select a theme that is responsive across a variety of devices.

Test the theme’s speed and delivery.

Compatibility with browsers.

Step 5: Customize and add branding elements (color, font, logo, favicon, tagline, header, footer, etc.)

Fonts the one-page website also includes the fonts used by the company. Brands use fonts carefully in logos, websites, and email templates to convey their personality and values. As with colors, font components share emotions and characteristics. Understand the meaning of the fonts in these logo designs.

Taglines These are two of the world’s most famous catchphrases. In branding, an iconic slogan serves as the focus. A meaningful tagline can elevate your brand’s image. The purpose of brand messaging is to convey information about your brand’s distinct offering.

Colors are so important to websites that some companies have registered trademarks for their distinctive color schemes. Use a wide range of colors in your palette, as this will let you achieve a unique look while expressing your website’s message.

Logos are an absolute necessity for any business. Without a symbol, it isn’t easy to locate a brand. Having a brand symbol should be a priority.

An effective header sets the tone for the entire website. It comprises the top portion of a website.

Website footer adds information and navigation options to the bottom of web pages. These are critical decisions due to the prominence of footers. Visitors to the website can see them easily.

A favicon is a small graphic image that appears at the top of every web page. They appear in the address bar and tabs to remind users of the identity of a website.

Step6: Install plugins according to expectation

The software adds new functions to an existing program without altering the program’s code. Programmers use plugins to update programs such as audio, video, and web browsing. At the same time, the user remains in its environment.

There are three ways to install WordPress plugins.

Automated plugin installation: WordPress has a built-in plugin installer that allows you to install any plugin in the Plugin Directory.

Install the plugin via WordPress Admin: The easiest way to create a new plugin is to upload your local zip archive.

Installing manual plugins: Some plugins will need to be uploaded manually via SFTP.

Step 7: Upload and edit content (text, infographic, table, video, call to action, etc.)

Graphic text is just an image, and HTML text used on your website can also be referred to as “live text” due to its ability to be fully edited.

An infographic helps to describe a subject clearly by visualizing data with as little text as possible. Infographics are visual representations of information.

The table is a logically organized collection of data with rows and columns (tabular data). You can use a table to look up values that represent the relationship between different data types.

Video clips are an excellent way to tell a story, so you should post them on your website. Video can engage your website visitors for a more extended period.

 Step 8: Create a sign-up form

Use Web Sign-Up Forms to sign up.

Just click the link to create a sign-up form.

Assign a name to the document, choose a list of the added contacts, and select the fields you wish to collect.

The frequency field had adjusted.

Click Save to save your changes.

Select and Get Code Add the code to your website by copying and pasting it.

Step 9: Add legal information (disclosure, terms, about, contact information, etc.)

For legal and ethical reasons, disclosure pages are essential. As soon as you become aware of a conflict of interest, you should notify your website’s audience.

A website that offers a service must have formal terms of service. Protect your legal interests by clearly outlining how your service works, any conditions you may have, and other critical factors.

People with specific requests may prefer to use the contact page. Whenever a customer calls in with a concern or a question, they should call this number. The staff will provide contacts.

Step 10: Integrate social share buttons on your one-page website

The social share buttons on your site enable viewers to share your content with their social media connections easily.

Exposure of the brand

Increase website traffic.

Providing better customer service

Increase your market reach

Free advertising

Step 11: Optimize (On-page SEO, responsive/mobile friendly, user experience, table of content)

The term on-page SEO refers to everything that has been done on a single page website to enhance its search engine ranking.

Using Google’s mobile-friendly ranking, we can determine if a website works correctly on mobile devices. It had a significant impact on public opinion. As a result, Google would not show your website in mobile device searches such as tablets and phones if it thought unresponsive.

In the process of using a product, service, or system, feelings and emotions are evoked, referred to as the “user experience.” Subjectivity is associated with each individual. As a result, not every user will have the same experience because they think, feel, perceive, behave, or respond in the same way.

OPTIMIZE TABLE content reorganizes table and index data storage to save space and improve efficiency. Depending on the storage engine, each table may require different modifications.

One page website vs multi-page website

One page website

Multi-page website

There is a logical progression with distinct sections on the website.

You can create unlimited pages, links, and sections.

Users prefer scrolling down rather than clicking links to get information from the website.

Promote the best keywords and links with high-quality SEO content.

Great for responsive design websites and easier to adapt to mobile devices of all sizes.

The audience will grow by posting a portion of the content on the website.

One page website design

A single-page website design demonstrates order, simplicity, and precision.

Keeping an information-rich site and a navigational system congruent is difficult.

Visitors to the website attest to an easy and practical experience.

List of single pages website builders

The best way to create a webspace is by using a one-page website builder.

1.     WIX

A great one-page website builder should be easy to use, personalize and optimize.  

You have complete creative control over the creation of a unique page.

This service gives you everything you need to be successful in the internet world.

2.     ZYRO

Zyro is the one-page website builder for any project or business, no matter how big or little.

This exciting option is jam-packed with impressive features that will serve you well.

In terms of stunning templates, hosting, and domain names, Zyro takes care of everything.

3.     WEEBLY

The decade of experience that Weebly has makes it stand out from the rest of the pack.

Weebly is one of the top platforms for creating a single-page website that offers expertise and experience.

 While creating a commercial or personal single-page website.

The best part is that Weebly has everything you need to be as creative as you want.

Single page website examples

Sydney Pro

·  The website gives you the tools to build stunning, elegant, and polished websites.

·  The theme’s numerous customizable design choices

·  Make it simple to create a website that meets your specific requirements

Zambo Tulum

·  They provide a teaser page to promote new development that helps to attract buyers

·  The website includes all necessary information that gains the reader’s interest

·  Also, generate opening doors for sales.

Single page scrolling website

1) Balsoy streamline:

Users can easily navigate Balsoy’sstreamlined one-page website

 The menu bar stays put at the top.

 Users will find sections with product information as they scroll down the page.

2) Epic

They provide accurate, compelling stories written by accomplished authors, all on a single-page website.

Users can either click the buttons or scroll down to find the anchor links to the one-page website of the page.

One Page portfolio WordPress theme

1: OceanWP

WordPress builder page integration.

Responsive design for mobile designs.

Multipurpose.

2: Neve

Excellent theme builder with all technical skills.

You can personalize and customize these themes according to your preference.

Compatible with e-commerce stories

Best one page WordPress theme

Sydney Pro

The website gives you the tools to build stunning, elegant, and polished responsive websites.

 The theme’s numerous customizable design choices make it simple

 It helps to create a website that meets your specific requirements.

#one page website

[maggotzombie]

LIEBE LIESE: ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠɪɪ - ℬ𝒶𝒹𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓉 ℬ𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽

→ CHAPTERS LIST — CHAPTER VI: UNDER PRESSURE WORDS: 6,3k TW: Lots of alcohol, swearing, some fluff, family drama! A/N: Here we are! Thank you so much who stuck with me. I don’t really know why this took such a long time, but I want to gives special thank my in-house German queen, @hinagiku0 (you’re the best, I love you for still talk to me everyday), and the best beta out there, @itmejado (really, I can’t thank you enough for making my stories even better!). So here it is a very long chapter to compensate lol HEADS UP: German dialogue is marked with “[  ]”.

‘I WONDER what Henry’s up to’, the woman thinks.

She frowns. Having just come home from work, Liese is exhausted. But she doesn't feel like being alone tonight. 

The first person she thinks of is him and she’s even more surprised by the fact that she misses him!

‘So much for getting my hopes up, huh?’, she scoffs, searching for her phone.

She smiles and lets him know that she’s going to get ready.

After a quick shower, she puts on warm clothes and makeup. The simple pin-up look goes well with the color of her hair and Liese realizes it’s been a long time since last she wore red lipstick.

To get there faster, Liese calls an Uber and, oh how she regrets it. It’s chillier than usual tonight and sitting in the cold Tube is nightmare-inducing. However, having the Uber driver hitting on her all the way is also not the best...

Liese clearly isn’t keen on a conversation but he insists on it. To make things even worse, it’s Friday night and there’s traffic. So the doctor practically leaps from the car when the man parks in front of the pub.

The Builders Arms is a big pub but it’s packed. Well, again, it’s a Friday night, and it looks like there’s a match of some sort going on.

Running her eyes through the crowd, Liese quickly spots Henry’s broad shoulders and begins making her way towards him. His back is turned away from the entrance so he doesn’t see her but his friends sure do.

The three men staring at her don’t tear their eyes away as she approaches the small group. However, they seem disappointed, but not surprised, when the doctor goes straight towards Henry, resting a hand on the actor’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Hey,” She greets, a warm smile spreading across her lips.

He turns around to look at her. “Hey you,” Henry wraps an arm around her waist as she gives a friendly kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint mark of lipstick on it.

“Sorry, it took me so long to get here,” The woman starts, backing up to look at his face. Then, she reaches out to rub off the red imprint of her lips from his skin. “The traffic was awful tonight.”

“It’s okay. You’re ravishing,” Henry says and she smiles but, before she could say anything, one of his friends clears their throat. “Oh, sorry, let me introduce you to my mates. This is Mark, Juan, Roger, James, and my brother, Simon,” She shakes hands with each man he introduces, smiling. “This is Liese.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Liese says.

“You, too,” Roger says. “You’re really pretty,” He adds and he would give Henry a pat in the back if he wasn’t across from him at the table.

It doesn’t stop the man from shooting him a glare. “Thanks,” She chuckles.

“Please, have a seat,” Simon says from beside his brother and Henry pulls the chair for her. “Heard a great deal about you lately,” He then says and Liese smiles at him.

“All lies,” She says, making them chuckle. “I’m as bad as they come.”

Although she feigned normalcy when greeting him, it didn’t go unnoticed that Henry just introduced her to his brother, a part of his family – and, of course, a bunch of friends. They’d known each other for less than a month; it was a huge deal.

The woman makes a mental note to kill Henry later.

“What will the lady have?” Mark asks and they look at him. “Wine?” He suggests.

She almost snorts for two reasons: his suggestion and what he called her. But, hey, she must be nice.

“Wine is for priests, love,” Liese jokes with a smirk. “I’ll have a pint, thank you very much – Oh, and the menu, please. I’m starving.”

Henry chuckles at his friends’ reaction and signals to the bartender. “Alright,” Mark nods. “I like you already,” He decides and she winks at him playfully.

“It’s the match over already?” The woman asks, trying to make conversation.

“No,” Juan replies. “Halftime,” He explains.

“Oh,” She says.

Her pint is placed in front of her alongside the menu. She orders a burger with French fries and mozzarella sticks. When the waiter leaves, she can finally take a drink.

“Hm, rugby. Of course,” Liese says to herself as she looks up at the flat screen everybody has their eyes locked on.

“Not a fan?” Simon asks, leaning on his elbows to look at her.

“I don’t know much about it, to be honest,” She replies, mirroring his position.

All the eyes snap in her direction. “Are you serious?” Henry asks in disbelief.

“No. I’m a football kinda woman, you know that,” The woman shrugs and he chuckles.

“That’s true,” He nods.

“Where are you from, Liese?” James asks and she looks at him before glancing back at Henry.

“I really don’t look British, do I?” She narrows her eyes.

The man laughs. “No, you don’t,” He shakes his head.

“Well,” Liese looks back at his friend. “I was born and raised in Hampstead but my family is from the Land of Poets and Thinkers…” She replies humorously.

Everybody chuckles, except Juan. “Which is?” He asks.

The woman looks at him in disbelief. “Deutschland!”

“Germany,” Some of the guys say at the same time as her.

“Oh,” He nods. “That doesn’t make sense,” Juan shakes his head.

“Cmon!” Liese throws her hands in the air in frustration. “I’ll give you some names: Nietzsche, Marx, Adorno, Horkheimer, Kant, Goethe, Beethoven, Bach, freaking Einstein, even the Grimm Brothers,” She ticks each name on her fingers.

They laugh and Henry rests his arm on the backrest of her seat. “Okay,” Juan nods, fairly convinced.

“I could go on,” The woman says. “And that’s just the ones on the top of my head.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve made your point.”

She nods, sipping on her drink and leaning back on her chair. Henry’s hand squeezes her shoulder fondly.

“Do you still live in Hampstead?” Simon asks.

“Nope. I’m on the other side of the river, at Brixton,” She replies and they start to boo her.

“Ah, you’re from the south,” James makes a disgusted face.

“Yeah, I know,” The woman shrugs off. “I did grow up on this side of the river, though!” She points out. “But the south it’s not that bad, guys,” Another round of boos. “Plus, it’s closer to work,” She adds.

“Now, don’t try to defend your side, South,” Mark mocks, taking a sip of his beer.

Liese chuckles. “Where do you work?” Roger asks and she looks at him.

“At St. Thomas’ Hospital,” She replies.

“Are you a doctor or a nurse?” James inquiries. “Or neither?”

“Doctor. A&E and pediatrician,” Liese explains.

“It means she’s smart,” Henry brags, sipping his beer and resting back on his chair.

“Yeah. I think we got it from the list of poets and thinkers,” Juan mocks.

She winks at him playfully. “You got it, baby,” Liese smiles.

“So, I got a question,” Mark starts and she nods for him to proceed. “Why the silver hair? I don’t see many doctors looking this cool.”

“I lost a bet to my younger brother,” The doctor replies. “A football bet,” She adds and they seem incredulous.

“Seriously?” James asks.

The woman shrugs. “Yeah. It’s just a thing we do.”

Their conversation dies when the second period of the match starts and the male attention drifts back to the TV. Although rugby is not Liese’s cup of tea, her eyes are fixed on the flat screen as well. She doesn’t know the rules and there’s a lot of tackling going on but she doesn’t mind. This is way better than being alone at home.

“Bärchen!” The shout from not so far is enough to make Liese sigh.

“I’m sorry,” She whispers to Henry, who’s heavily engrossed in the match.

“Huh?” He glances at her with a frown and she shakes her head slightly.

Roger grimaces at the shirtless man coming their way as Liese simply waits for her brother to get to her.

“Drunk guy alert,” He says and the woman rolls her eyes.

“[I knew it was you, Bärchen!]” Her brother says with a huge smile, standing beside the woman.

Her jaw almost drops to the floor when she looks up at him to find the man shirtless, displaying his tattoo collection on the rippled muscles for everyone to see.

“What the fuck?” She asks in disbelief. “[Why are you shirtless, asshole?]” Liese stands up.

He quickly wraps his arms around her and she groans without patience. She’s very aware of multiple sets of eyes staring at them but mostly the stench of alcohol coming from her brother.

“[Alright, let go of me],” She taps his back.

“[I’ve missed you],” He pulls away.

“[You literally dropped me off at work this morning],” She points out, spotting their friends over his shoulder at a table in the far back.

“Mate, you can’t stay here shirtless,” A worker says, looking at her brother.

“I’m taking care of it,” The woman reassures before turning to her table. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” She says before pushing her brother away.

“Who’s that?” James asks as they watch the woman escorting the shirtless tattooed man away.

“No idea,” Henry replies, trying not to feel as jealous as he already is.

His eyes linger on Liese from across the bar as she greets other men, scolding at a particular one and her brother, who’s pulling a shirt over his head.

The looks she received from men and even a few women on the way to the other table doesn’t go unnoticed. In fact, there are a few men still staring at the silver-haired woman and Henry suddenly feels the need to establish territory, which is incredibly stupid of him, but a basic instinct.

“[Weren’t you supposed to be babysitting tonight?]” She asks her brother, hands on her hips.

He shakes his head. “[Who are you here with?]” He asks, looking back at Henry’s table.

“[Do not deflect, Otto],” Liese says.

“[Is the guy you’re hooking up with?]” He continues and Henry glances back at them quickly.

“Otto…” She warns.

The man narrows his eyes. “[Hold on. Are you fucking Superman?]” He looks back at his sister with a smirk and she punches his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. Their friends laugh. “Goddamn, woman,” Otto hisses, rubbing the spot.

Liese sighs, looking back at her table. “Come on,” She says, starting to move away. “Don’t embarrass me,” The woman adds quickly.

“When do I ever embarrass you?” He asks, following after her, his German accent very thick as if he was in Germany all his life.

The woman glares back at him. “How about a few minutes ago when you’re half-naked in front of everyone? Or just now, asking if I’m fucking Superman,” She asks ironically.

Otto nods. “Got it,” He says, and for the first time tonight, he takes a proper look at his sister. “You’re very pretty tonight.”

The compliment is delivered just as they stop at Henry’s table and all the attention is back on them.

“Thank you,” She replies before addressing the other men. “Gentlemen, this is my brother, Otto...” The woman starts. “Otto, this is Henry, his brother, Simon, and his mates, Juan, Mark, James, and Roger,” She introduces them.

“Nice to meet you,” Her brother says, shaking their hands as Liese sits back down, shooting an apologetic look to Henry.

Brad looks at Otto with a funny expression. “You have an accent,” He points out.

He snorts. “You too, mate.”

“No. I mean, your sister doesn’t have one,” Brad clarifies.

“That’s because you’ve never pissed her off,” Her brother chuckles and Liese simply takes a sip of her beer, refraining from commenting on it. “Hey, is it cool if my mates and I sit here with you guys?”

For some reason, everybody looks at Henry as if it’s his decision.

“Yeah. Sure, mate,” The actor nods.

“Sweet,” Otto turns around and his sister quickly looks up at him.

“Don’t –,” She��s cut off by his loud whistle, exactly what she was trying to stop. “[Dear Lord],” She murmurs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Henry’s soothing touch is what eases out the stress a bit and she smiles at him.

Otto motions for his friends to come over and they quickly abandon their table. He takes a seat next to Liese and she shoots him a murderous look to which he simply grins. The blonde man introduces Nick, Josh, Pete, and John when they arrive.

Thanks to the still-ongoing rugby match, they simply sit and start to pay attention to it. Liese knows her brother is not interested at all in the match, just like her, but he pretends to watch it just so he can avoid her confronting him.

The woman’s stomach grumbles when a waitress brings her food and she sighs happily, picking up the heavy burger. She’s aware of Otto’s eyes at her food and she doesn’t even take the first bite before he asks for one.

“This looks good,” He points out, looking at it suggestively.

She glares at him but gives him the burger anyway. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Liese asks, looking at the size of his bite when he gives her the burger back. He shrugs off. “You’re unbelievable.”

She takes a bite and Otto takes the burger again, giving it back without another huge chunk missing. Liese literally has two bites of her burger before she gives up and lets her brother have it. Ignoring her craving for the oily meat, she tries to satisfy herself with the French fries and mozzarella sticks.

A hand reaches out for her fries and she slaps it away. “Don’t you dare,” The woman seethes.

Her brother chuckles. “Want another one?” Henry gently asks.

Her mood shifts like a bipolar person and Liese smile, looking up at him. “No, it’s fine.”

“You sure?” He raises an eyebrow and she nods.

“Thanks, though,” She says.

“[That’s disgusting],” Otto murmurs from her side, mouthful.

Liese rolls her eyes before looking back at him. “[Dude, if you don’t shut up, I’ll make sure you don’t have kids ever again],” She threatens.

Her brother chuckles. “[You’re so whipped],” He keeps teasing. “[But he looks whipped, too],” Otto adds.

“Shut up, Otto,” The woman groans, too tired to deal with his bullshit.

“I’m serious,” He insists.

Something happens at the rugby match because everybody cheers and Otto stops teasing his sister, trying to understand what happened. While they watch the game, the men at the table express several emotions with curse words in each sentence.

Liese finds it amusing because they were trying to be very polite and gentlemen with her earlier, avoiding any kind of dirty word or term to not offend her. Now, they’re simply being themselves, without caring about anything. Or they simply forgot about her.

Even Henry, who doesn’t cuss a lot outside the bedroom, has expressed quite a few unpleasant words towards the referee out of discontentment.

It’s completely alright, though. The woman is probably the same or even worse when it’s a football match. As of now, she sips her beer while watching them have some fun.

“FUCK YEAH!” Roger shouts after the referee ended the game, guaranteeing England’s win.

The whole bar cheers and the man looks back, finding Liese’s eyes on him, an amused smirk on her lips. She snuggled closer to Henry during the game and now she’s pressed to his side. Her right foot is propped on her chair and she’s resting a hand on the actor’s thigh, while he has his arm draped over the back of her chair.

Experience taught him to be discreet with relationships, but Liese isn’t giving a single fuck. They were in the Daily Mail last month.

The doctor raises an eyebrow at Roger’s sour expression. “What?” She asks.

“Sorry,” He says meekly.

“What for?” Liese frowns.

“I think I got carried away with the match and forgot about the lady at the table,” The man explains.

She chuckles while Otto and their friends laugh loudly. Roger seems very confused with the reaction to his apology and the other men stare at them with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“Who’s this lady and when is she coming back?” Otto howls.

“You guys don’t know Lis. This woman is crazy,” Nick says, shaking his head.

“I just met them, idiot!” Liese rolls her eyes.

“Are you trying to impress someone, Bärchen?” Josh asks with a grin.

“Nein,” The woman shakes her head slightly, drinking her beer. “But it looks like I’m about to,” She points out.

“Well, let me tell you a few things about the… lady,” Her brother’s best friend starts.

For the next few minutes, the guys rave on and on about the woman, somehow trying to point out how she’s not a lady.

Henry shifts on his seat. Jealousy is the feeling of the moment. He’s not very fond of four unknown men talking about the woman he’s with, saying things he doesn’t know about her. The simple fact that they know her for longer is unnerving.

“It’s not because she’s my sister, but Lis is like… The baddest bitch I know,” Otto says and I look at him with an amused expression on my face. “I’d take her to every college party I went to.”

“Weren’t you ashamed of bringing your big sister to a party?” Simon asks.

He shakes his head. “The opposite, actually. I wouldn’t beg her to come because she always said yes from the start, but Bärchen was, and still is, the first person I’d call,” Her brother explains.

“Hadn’t you graduated by the time he got into college?” Henry asks the woman.

“Ideally,” Liese nods. “But med school takes forever sometimes. I was starting residency when Otto got into college so, technically, I still was a student,” She says. “And I’d always say yes because med students are fucking boring and never have some fun.”

“Anyway. We’d party so much. Bärchen would drink the same amount of us if not more,” He continues. “In the next morning, she was the one taking care of five or six dudes, I included, in the ER. Hooking us to IV bags or pumping stomachs, as if she had a perfect night of sleep instead of partying with us,” Otto shakes his head, looking at his sister with admiration.

She chuckles. “Alright. You guys are being too nice,” She says. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” John dismisses quickly.

Liese tilts her head and raises an eyebrow, staring at them. “Well, if you’d be so kind as to check out a few bikes for us…” Nick suggests nonchalantly.

Josh scolds him and Pete nudges his arm in a scolding manner as the woman laughs. “See? I knew it!” She grins. “I’ll take a look at my schedule and let you know.”

Her brother nods. “How many siblings do you have?” Roger asks.

“We’re five. Four men and her,” Otto replies.

“So you’re daddy’s little girl,” Juan says.

Some men cringe at that, Henry included, but some laugh, and Liese can’t help but chuckle along. “Please, don’t say that,” Simon says.

“Yes. Dad sometimes pampers me as the only daughter,” Liese replies. “But I know better than waiting for a special treatment being one out of five.”

“Pampers?” Otto asks with sarcasm. “You’re downright spoiled rotten by dad, Bärchen.”

“Am not,” She counters and her brother gives her a pointed look.

“The man nearly died when you moved out and, to refresh your memory, he’d call you multiple times a day or randomly show up at your apartment,” He says.

She tilts her head in thought and slowly nods. “Okay. I might be somewhat spoiled,” The woman agrees. “I’ve just realized he stopped showing up since I moved,” She points out.

“Maybe he doesn’t have a key,” Her brother suggests. “At least he won’t give him a heart attack,” He nods his head towards Henry.

“[Dad doesn’t know about him],” She says in German so only Otto could understand but Josh did too.

“Huh?” The actor asks with a frown.

Otto looks at him and smirks before taking a sip of his beer.

I chuckle before starting to answer. “Since I moved out of my parents, dad would randomly show up at my apartment. Usually in the mornings. He wanted to check if I was okay and would make me breakfast.”

“Spoiled,” Her brother says under his breath and rolls his eyes, earning a slap on his arm.

“He had a spare key, so he’d let himself in,” Liese paused. “He wasn’t happy when I started having guys over…” She trails off and a collective “ooh” feels the table. “Then I lectured him about privacy and boundaries.”

“Did that work?” Simon asks.

“No,” The guys laugh. “But he found out he enjoyed the element of surprise.”

“And being a total creep,” Her brother adds.

“Instead of waking me up, and my company, with a scare, he would sit in the corner of the room or at the end of the bed and watch us sleep,” The guys cringe. “I’ve got used to it pretty quickly but my dad is a big, burly, German guy so it was funny to watch grownup men nearly having a heart attack at the sight of him.”

“How many guys came back?” Brad asks.

“Three,” The woman replies.

“And you guys?” Roger asks Otto.

“Ah, now that’s fun,” He smirks, standing up. “I’m gonna take a piss,” He announces.

A few guys look at Liese. “It’s okay. I’m not offended by that. We’re already established that I’m not a lady. I grew up around men and I’m always around you bunch,” She clarifies.

Her brother says something in German that makes Liese’s jaw drop and Josh laugh loudly. Otto has a massive grin on his face and flinches away from the woman when she reaches out to grab him, nearly stumbling on his own feet. Then, she proceeds to profess multiple curse words at him.

Her angry gaze turns to the man still laughing at the table. “[What do you know about that?]” She asks him, not bothering to switch back to English.

“Bärchen…” Josh gives her a knowing look. “What do you think?”

“[Did that asshole tell you?]” Liese points at Otto, who’s watching from afar.

“No,” The man shakes his head, not giving too much so the others wouldn’t have a clue about what they’re talking about and it’s working.

It’s pissing Henry off.

“[If I ever hear you thinking about it, I’ll kill you],” She threatens.

“Hey. I didn’t bring it up!” Josh defends himself.

“What’s the matter, Bärchen?” Otto smirks from a safe distance.

“Fuck you,” The woman seethes at him.

Eyebrows shot up at her words. “Oh, he’s dead,” Nick shakes his head.

“You can speak German?” Roger asks Josh curiously, after watching the exchange before him and Liese.

“Nein,” The man replies humorously. “Their four-year-old niece speaks better than I do, but I can understand them.”

“Spit it out, Josh,” Liese demands after her brother disappears inside the bathroom.

He was in the middle of drinking from his beer. Instead of swallowing, he inhales and the shit is done. Josh chokes on the beer and spits it at the table, starting a coughing fit.

The woman grimaces. “Not literally, idiot,” She says, throwing a napkin at him. “What happened?” Her tone changes from angry to worried.

“What’s going on?” Henry asks, frowning.

“I don’t know,” Josh starts and coughs a few more times. “He said he couldn’t come tonight and he was all excited, saying he’d get Bobby…”

“Two hours later he showed up, smelling like a bottle of whiskey, and nearly punched me when I asked about Bobby,” John goes on.

Liese groans, covering her face with her hands. “Not this shit again,” She mumbles to herself. “Thank God I have white hair ‘cause this is draining my life force!”

“But he’s not drinking anymore,” Nick points out. “He’s been nursing this pint since he spotted you and that’s warm by now.”

Liese nods along, realizing it now. The pint is full.

“Who’s Bobby?” Henry asks and the woman looks over at him.

When she opens her mouth to explain, Otto appears in the corner of her eye. “I’ll explain it later,” She says. “Not a word about it,” She glares at the others.

“Hi! Can I have a towel?” Josh asks the waiter. “I made a mess, I’m so sorry,” He grimaces apologetically.

Her brother refuses to sit next to her again, knowing he’d suffer for his comment earlier. So he switches seats with Nick. The poor waitress manages to clean Josh’s mess and blushes profusely at his sexy smirk.

“Dude, don’t you have a movie or something coming out anytime soon?” John asks Henry, finally bringing the inevitable Hollywood topic to their conversation.

Henry thinks for a bit. “Yeah, yeah. Mission Impossible is coming out shortly,” He nods.

“Finally,” Simon adds.

The actor chuckles at the comment. “Yeah, finally,” He agrees.

“Oh, shit. I’ve seen the trailer for it! It looks so amazing, mate! When can we watch it?” Josh pipes in, excited.

“Thanks, mate. Uh, I know for sure that the world premiere is gonna be in Paris, 12th of July, to be exact,” He says.

‘That’s close’, Liese thinks to herself.

“But I’m pretty sure there’s a premiere here too, I just don’t know the date. The promotion for this film is gonna be massive,” Henry finishes.

“When are you leaving for it?” His brother inquires.

“Officially, in a couple of weeks,” He replies.

‘Wow’, the woman is impressed by the information she’s hearing for the first time in forever.

“But I have meetings with Dany and there’s a couple of events that I have to go before it, so I’m flying to America next week and just gonna go from there.”

Liese sees the glances she gets from her brother and Josh from the corner of her eye. She simply licks her lips and takes a sip of her pint, acting as if she always knew about everything Henry said.

She can’t help but feel like an idiot that has been strung along all this time. Sure, they’ve never put a label on their relationship but he obviously has been keeping that information for a long time and now the actor slapped an expiration date on whatever they have going on.

However, the woman doesn’t let this affect her night. Everybody drinks and talks with a chill atmosphere around them, but Liese can’t ignore the other pressing issue: Otto’s family drama. She wonders how much longer her brother is gonna play pretend.

So she asks it. “[Otto, for how long are you going to pretend everything is fine?]” The woman bluntly asks.

Even though he’s now sitting across from the table, everybody understands it’s a private conversation since they switch to German.

His whole demeanor changes. “[If we pretend there isn’t a problem, it’ll disappear, right?]” He says sarcastically.

“[Sure. You can also stare at the bottom of a whiskey bottle for the rest of your life but that’s alcoholism],” She replies in the same tone.

Otto sighs and brings his hands to his face, pressing on his closed eyelids. Josh tries not to pay attention to their conversation but he’s equally worried and also curious to know what’s going on.

“[Iris is acting up again, like the fucking maniac she is],” Her brother confesses.

“[Yeah, we already established that you have the worst taste for women],” Liese points out. “[What’s she bitching about now?]”

“[She doesn’t want to allow my daughter to spend time with her fucking father because I date ‘whores and I don’t want my child around this kind of people’,]” He makes air quotes.

Just talking about it angers Otto. His blood boils at the stupidity his former-hookup pulls to make his life a living hell.

He rolls his eyes and his nostrils flare. Suddenly, he feels too sober to deal with it without exploding, so he gulps at his pint, regretting it immediately as the beverage has warmed up to room temperature.

His sister, on the other hand, laughs. But it drips with sarcasm.

“[What a fucking hypocrite],” She shakes her head at it.

“[Tell me about it],” Otto murmurs, searching the waitress with his eyes. “Hey! Could you bring another one to me, please?” He asks in English. “And an Irish Car Bombs,” He orders.

Eyes turn to him at his specific request and Liese shakes her head slightly at Josh.

“Make it two Irish shots,” The woman pipes in and she notices Henry’s glance at her.

“One pint, two Irish Car Bombs,” She repeats to make sure.

“You got it, sweetheart,” Otto nods.

The waitress nods and quickly walks away, blushing. Josh elbows the German guy and gives him a dirty look, making Otto shrug off.

“[What are you going to do?]” Liese brings back the pressing issue.

“[I don’t fucking know!]” Her brother seems desperate. “[I can’t reason with that bitch because she’s beyond it but I want and need to see my daughter as I have the right to].”

“[You can serve her],” She suggests and Otto visibly stiffens at her words. “[Just like she served you for child support that you were already paying],” She points out.

“[Uh, I don’t know about that],” The man hesitates. “[This seems too much. I want to keep my relationship with Iris amicable].”

Liese stares at him like he’s demented. “[Amicable? What’s fucking amicable in that relationship, Otto? She’s literally forbidding you to see your own daughter!]”

“[Still won’t do it. That’s the deep end],” Her brother shakes his head.

Before the woman could say anything else, the waitress came back with their drinks. She quickly set the full glasses on the table before walking away with another blush, now caused by Josh’s wink.

“Stop that,” Liese says to him.

“What?” He asks.

“She’s working. She doesn’t need another man-whore making her night harder.”

“But I’m not doing anything,” Josh complains, smirking.

The woman gives him a dirty look, taking the shot glass. “Bet?” Otto suggests and her eyes turn to him.

“You sure?” A smile starts to creep on her face. “I’m shit at football bets but this,” She makes a face. “This is my shit. To this day, you’ve never managed to beat me,” She points out.

“Yet,” Her brother corrects her. “Tonight is gonna be different,” They clink their shots.

“I don’t know about that,” She tilts her head slightly, tapping the glass on the tabletop as Otto mimics her movements.

Quickly, money piles up in front of John. “Anyone want to bet on my mate Otto to boost up his confidence?” The man asks and Liese throws her head back in laughter.

“You all suck,” Otto scowls at their friends.

Nick explains what they’re betting on and most of Henry’s friends don't believe that the woman can chug down the drink faster than her brother, the actor included. In the end, they’ve gathered two-hundred pounds in total.

“I get a share of this, right?” Liese points to the cash.

“Of course,” Josh winks at her and raises his fist for her to bump.

“There’s no way you can beat him,” Simon interjects, shaking his head in disbelief. “He’s twice your size,” He points out as if it’s a valid point.

She chuckles. “Watch me,” The woman says, picking up her shot glass again. “There’s still time to give up,” She raises an eyebrow at her brother.

“Just do it,” Otto shakes his head.

“Alright. Don’t cheat, you little shit,” She says.

They clink their drinks and tap them on the table again, before eyeing John to do the countdown. After dropping the shot inside the Guinness pint, it’s game. Both of them rush to bring the glass to their lips and chug the drink down faster than the other as the people around cheer.

As announced, the woman beats her brother easily and she puts her glass down with a small smile, licking the foam from her red lips. Their friends celebrate along with James and Juan, who also betted on Liese, as the others look at her in shock.

“I want to marry you so badly right now,” Mark says to Liese.

She chuckles and Otto gives him a dirty look. “With the little faith that you put in me, I don’t think so.”

At the mention of a wedding, some of the guys realized they have wives at home and called it a night. Their table collectively decides to ask for the check to leave.

Josh suddenly disappears as they make their way to the door and Henry gets stopped to take photos with fans. While he does his thing, Liese waits for him, who stays behind with his brother, at the entrance of the bar.

The sound of her laugh makes the actor glance at her and there she is, with the most genuine smile on her face, looking at his friends while sandwiched between Nick and Pete. Her sparkling eyes look up at Nick as he says something and her form shakes with another laugh, her head resting back on Pete’s shoulder.

“Henry, can I take one, too? I’m a big fan!” The female voice makes him look back.

He smiles, momentarily ignoring the scene outside. “Sure.”

Then, he quickly excuses himself and joins the group with Simon. “Oh, no,” Liese says as Mark finishes his story.

“Yeah,” He nods, his lips in a thin line. “But everything is fine now,” He smiles again.

“Well, I’m so sorry about that,” She adds. “You can let me go now - thank you,” She says to Nick and Pete quickly and untangle themselves from her. “There’s a bunch of assholes still in practice. The good ones are rarely seeing patients. Usually, they start to teach. But, in the name of good professionals, I apologize,” The woman continues.

Mark chuckles. “Don’t sweat,” He shakes his head slightly.

“Well, I should go,” Brad starts.

The goodbyes start. Henry’s friend says Liese is great and she says the same to them. They also bid their goodbyes to the woman’s friends.

“There’s one of you missing,” Juan points out.

Pete looks around. “Where the fuck is Josh?”

Liese scoffs. “Where do you think? He’s either coming back with the waitress or her number,” She says after hugging Roger.

They chuckle but agree with her. “Lis, I can drop you off,” John offers as the designated driver for the night.

Her petty self nearly gets the best of her, but she thinks before replying: “It’s fine, John. Thank you, though.”

The man nods and then Liese starts to bid goodbye to them. When Otto opens his arms to hug his sister, she clutches a fistful of his hair. The man hisses in pain as she pulls his head down to her height but he chuckles when she whispers a threat in his ear. She hasn’t forgotten about what he said earlier before sitting across from her to not get punched.

Well, it doesn’t work.

Suddenly, Josh materializes himself as if he was with the group the whole time. Liese turns to him and scowls, in a big sister mode.

“What?” He asks.

“Do not fuck the girl,” She chides.

There it is: his lips pull in a huge grin. “I won’t,” He starts. “Not tonight, at least. But I got her number,” He confesses.

Liese rolls her eyes as the men roar in laughter at her right guess and swat his arm. Either way, she pulls him for goodbye and he plays a chaste kiss on her cheek. For Henry, his lips lingered way too long on his girl.

Everybody parts way and Liese is left alone with Henry and Simon. She hugs his brother and tells him how happy she is for meeting him. He reciprocates all the compliments, adding a few of his own, before getting into an Uber.

“Did you drive here?” The woman looks at him, after what seems like a long time.

“No, I walked,” He replies. “We could get an Uber too,” Henry suggests.

“I’d prefer to walk if you don’t mind,” She tilts her head slightly.

The man nods, motioning her to go ahead. “By all means,” He says and they walk side by side, however, without touching.

After a while, when they’re away from the crowded bar, she sighs with a content smile on her face. “Thank you for letting me come,” Liese says, honestly, looking at him. “I didn’t want to spend the night alone.”

“Of course,” He nods again. “You okay,” He adds as notices her petite form shivering slightly.

She shakes her head, dismissively. “Just a little cold,” The woman replies, looking straight ahead. She halts when Henry’s buff body blocks her way and looks up at him with a frown. “Wha-?”

Liese is cut off by the man pulling his beanie off and carefully puts it on her head. Her heart flutters and she smiles at his focused frown as he adjusts the hat.

“There you go,” Henry says with a nod.

She stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips against his before he could blink again. He becomes stiff from the sudden move but relaxes when she giggles.

“You’re something else,” She whispers against his lips.

Henry smiles and wraps his arm around her to keep her warm before they resume the walk.

* * *

— CHAPTER VIII (COMING SOON)

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fic #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x ofc #liebe liese #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt #august walker #detective marshall #walter marshall #captain syverson #cpt syverson #syverson #clark kent #superman #napoleon solo

[arzuera]

Here you go to help your writing itch ^~^ A scenario where Malroth and the builder seem to have something more then just friends and don't seem aware of it yet the townsfolk obviously see it and are betting on who realizes it first and makes the first move

I thought I posted this one but apparently I didn’t. I’m so sorry!

Malroth caught the Builder as she fell off a block stack about twenty feet up. One that she built so that she could get the ‘lay of the land’. Whatever that meant. The hair on the nape of his neck was on end with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “What the hell was that? Why did you ever think that was a good idea?”

“Would you rather me climb a mountain and fall off of that? Seriously, this was way easier.” the Builder had a cheeky grin on her face as she spoke. “Plus this isn’t the first time I’ve done it. You just didn’t notice because you were always fighting monsters.”

“Why am I not surprised by that?” Malroth stated as the Builder hopped out of his arms with minimal effort and pointed to the north.

She chuckled at his response. “I think we’ll need to make a bridge up on that cliff to make everything easier to traverse. C’mon! Let’s get a better look!” The Builder snatched his hand and pulled him off to where she wanted to go.

“...and they are off again,” said Bonanzo as he watched Malroth and the Builder go about their bizarre day. “Seriously, how are those two not a thing, yet? It’s obvious that they love one another.”

“Because despite having a quick wit, they both are surprisingly dense,” Rosie replied with a smirk as she watched them as well. “I wonder who will realize it first?”

The bearded man laughed heartily. “Definitely the Builder. Once her mind gets goin’ it’ll hit ‘er like a punch from a werecat.”

“I don’t know... Malroth’s instincts almost never prove him wrong. One of these times he’s gonna put two and two together...” Rosie said with a smile.

A loud crash was heard and both Rosie and Bonanzo looked up to see the Builder being chased by Malroth with a wickedly mischievous smile on her face.

“GET BACK HERE!” the dark-haired youth roared.

“HAHA! NEVER! You’ll never take me alive!” the Builder yelled with glee. Once she was a fair distance away, she pulled out a large stack of dirt blocks and built a long single stack straight up.

“Dammit, not again!”

“Hehe! You can’t get me up here!” she jeered before sticking her tongue at her best friend.

Malroth glared at the Builder atop her dirt stack. “Did you seem to forget that I’m the fucking God of Destruction? I’ll just demolish the damn thing!”

Bonanzo snickered. “Ten of Lillian’s homecooked salads that the Builder realizes it first.”

“One week of you taking on my chores that Malroth figures it out first,” Rosie replied.

“‘ow’s about ten drinks at the bar if Malroth is the one who does it?” Babs cut in as she joined everyone in watching the pair.

“Oooo... this little wager is beginning to get interesting.” the bearded man stated just as Perry sidled up with Wrigley.

“I’ll wager some cabbages on the Builder!”

“Mind if I join in?”

More and more people on the Isle of Awakening joined in, with the pot growing bigger and bigger with each new person.

Another loud crash had everyone looking over to see Malroth looking flabbergasted at the Builder. Her dirt stack was entirely destroyed.

Save for one block.

She stood upon the floating dirt with pride. “W-what? How??” Malroth flailed his club while gesturing to her and her nonexistent dirt stack.

“Mal, we’ve been hanging out, building and destroying things, for a long time. If you, seriously, didn’t think that I don’t take your destructive mannerisms into account when we work together then you need to get the scallywinkles out of your brain.” the Builder said while smirking victoriously.

“Wait... So you’re saying that you figured out my destructive range?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Just by hanging out?!”

She giggled. “Yes~. I did!”

Malroth’s eyebrow twitched in irritation before he collected himself and shot her his own smirk. “Oh well. that doesn’t really matter since you are trapped up there.”

The victorious smirk vanished on her face for a moment as she took in her situation. “huh... I guess you’ll just have to catch me then.”

“Who says I’m going to catch you? If you fell then you damn well deserve it for dropping that bucket of starfish on me!” Malroth said as he glared up at his best friend with his arms crossed.

“We’ll see then won’t we?” the Builder replied as she stepped off the floating block and began to fall.

Malroth swore as he dashed under her growing shadow and caught her with ease. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I knew you’d catch me.”

“I hate you.”

Bonanzo chuckled. “Well, this is going to be fun. Regardless who wins.”

“Agreed. For now, we’ll just have to wait and see.” Rosie said as Malroth and the Builder looked up the hill to see the crowd that had formed.

“Why the hell are you all watching us like that?” Malroth called out and everyone scattered without a word. Leaving the Builder and God of Destruction bewildered. “Weirdos.”

#malroth #malroth x builder #dqb2 #builderoth #arzuera #fanfiction

[chubbyreaderwriter]

Bite Me

Elizabeth/The Countess x Plus Size/Chubby Reader x James March

Imagine: Elizabeth and James are both attracted to you and each of them want to have you for themselves.  

Word Count: 1.25k

Warnings: none

Masterlist

You were a friend of Will’s and he had introduced you to Elizabeth when they were engaged. She was instantly intrigued by you and wanted to know more about you but couldn’t ask too many questions or Will would be suspicious. Will invited you over to the hotel many times after that, for his exclusive fashion shows, which is where you met a lot of interesting, and maybe slightly crazy, characters. 

You’d met James when Will gave you the okay to go wandering around, after all the ‘guests’ in the hotel weren’t allowed to kill anyone anymore. Not until the Cortez passed the 100 year mark anyway. You'd followed a couple of people up onto a higher floor and you were looking around until you saw a room at the end of the corridor, room 64. It was open a little so you decided to look into it. Normally, you never would've done this, terrified you were invading someone’s privacy but there was something telling you that you should do it. 

Hesitantly, you pushed the door open with your hand and stepped inside, “Hello? Is anybody there?” After getting no response, you walked further inside and saw that it appeared to be a pretty normal room, which was a little disappointing but you weren't sure what you were expecting. You turned around only to be face to face with a man who was giving you a strange look. Startled, you jumped back and put your hand over your chest, “What’s wrong with you? You don't sneak up on people like that, are you out of your mind?” Instead of waiting around for an answer, you hightailed it out of there, practically running down to the reception and out of the doors. Will saw you so desperate to leave so he asked around what had happened. 

The next day, you'd received a phone call from Will begging you to come back to the hotel so he could explain some things to you. You were confused and a little scared but you had nothing better to do and at least it would be an interesting experience. When you arrived, you saw Elizabeth again and she smirked when she saw you, walking over to you, “Hello darling, back so soon? Maybe we can-” Her hand was holding yours while her other one was rubbing over your arm before you cut her off, “I’m sorry Elizabeth, but I’m meeting Will today and I don't want to be late.” You gently took your arm away from her and shuffled away, Liz snickering at the way you rejected Elizabeth before she even prepositioned you. 

Will had told you about the hotel’s past and all the people in it and that the guy you met was James Patrick March, the builder and owner of the hotel. He told you about the ghosts, including him, and that Elizabeth was a vampire or something similar. You had just stared at him, thinking he had gone crazy, until James suddenly appeared in front of the two of you. Out of shock, you slapped him across the face and ran away. James chuckled, “That girl is just full of fire. I love it.” 

Liz, who had been watching everything, managed to get to you before you ran away and helped to calm you down, being one of the only normal humans left in the hotel. You had to swear not to tell anybody about it and you didn’t, but you were sure that you were never going to go back to the hotel. That was, until Elizabeth showed up on your doorstep asking to take you out for dinner. You figured it wouldn't hurt, not thinking much of it. 

The whole way through the dinner, Elizabeth was asking you personal questions about your life and was just kind of watching you eat, not eating anything herself. It was very strange but you felt weirdly comfortable in her presence. When the two of you had left the restaurant, you weren't sure how she convinced you to go back to the Cortez with you but you were. You walked in, Elizabeth’s arm linked with yours and she smirked when she saw James standing at the bar, glaring down at the two of you. 

You were even more confused to how she got you to agree to go to her room with her but when you walked inside, you saw James standing in the middle of the room. You looked between him and Elizabeth, hoping it wasn't something to do with you. Elizabeth spoke first, her arm holding you close, “What are you doing here, James?” “My dear, I rarely get cross with you but you knew I wanted her for myself!” Elizabeth rolled her eyes at James, “Don't throw a tantrum, find a new girl, (Y/N) is mine.” 

You gulped when you heard your name being mentioned. While you were very flattered to have two attractive people fighting over you, it didn't make the situation any less awkward, especially when it was a ghost and a vampire. Elizabeth pulled away from you to step closer to James, the two of them glaring at the other. You took this opportunity to run out of the room, heading to the bar where you met Liz again. You sighed as you slumped down onto one of the bar seats, “Tough day, sweetheart?” You shook your head, “I’m not sure tough is strong enough a word for what just happened. Elizabeth and James were fighting over me and I have no idea why...You don't think they're fighting over who gets to kill me, do you?” Liz smiled, “Oh no dear, it’s obvious they want you as a romantic partner.” 

You spat your drink out when you heard Liz say that and she was already calming wiping the bar clean as you sat in your chair, not knowing how to feel. You stayed there for at least a couple of hours, talking with Liz about your life and her life as well. She told you about how she came to the Cortez and how Elizabeth helped her to become her true self. It made you see Elizabeth in a different light but you were still wary of James, with learning about his past of being a notorious serial killer. 

When you were ready to leave and go home, you noticed how late is was and that you were a little drunk. Liz made you stay for the night and helped you to one of the empty rooms. She made sure there were no ghosts or any of Sally’s disturbing friends in the mattresses before helping you get into bed. When Liz closed the door to your room, she already knew that Elizabeth and James would be stood behind her, “I don't know what you plan on doing with that girl but you two fighting all the time is going to want to make her stick around even less.”

Liz walked away, leaving Elizabeth and James standing side by side in front of your door. James smirked as he turned to face his wife, “It would appear we have a little competition at hand, my dear. I must warn you that your exquisite looks will not tempt me to give up this time.” Elizabeth scowled as she took a drag of her cigarette, “Bite me.” James stared at your door for a few more moments, a joyful expression on his face while Elizabeth walked away to do some planning of her own.

A/N: should I make this a series?

#ahs #ahs x reader #ahs x plus size reader #ahs x chubby reader #Elizabeth x reader #the countess x reader #Elizabeth x chubby reader #the countess x chubby reader #Elizabeth x plus size reader #the countess x plus size reader #chubby reader #x chubby reader #plus size reader #x plus size reader #james march #james march x reader #james march x chubby reader #james march x plus size reader

[stillness-in-green]

Shigaraki Birthday Week, Day 6: cake

If Magne wants cake, she’s going to have cake.  That it’s a good team-builder is just icing.   (Contains one extremely vague reference to Shigaraki’s backstory, but it’s not even the really big part.  Otherwise spoiler-free through Kamino.)

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

Magne considers the facts thus: 

           -Kamino has got everyone a bit down. Lost the kid the boss wanted, lost the big boss, lost the hideout, their names are out there making their way around the wanted lists and the bulletins.  Well, hers had been making those rounds already, but the League of Villains has jumped her up the charts the same way All Might retiring will do for that fiery Endeavor and the rest of the top ten.  

          -The boss has been working much too hard since Kamino.  He started out moping, like anybody would if they lost a parent (or whatever it is that All for One was to him), but pulled out of it nice and quick and then threw himself into planning.  Expand the group, find new safe spots, get that new power he sent Kurogiri after.  It’s good that he’s keeping busy—being rudderless and adrift is just about the worst feeling there is—but overwork is a problem too, and with Kurogiri and All for One both gone, there’s no one in the group that can do much to talk him down.  

          -Her birthday is this weekend, and if she can’t spend it with her friends—what with being on the run from the police—she can at least spend it with her new group.  And why not?  Being at the top of the Most Wanted list, that’s a thing worth celebrating, and it’ll bring the group closer together.  Working well together’s an essential part of pulling off a job, and with their numbers down—at least for now—they could all do with some team-building.

          -She wants cake.  And who doesn’t like cake?  It’s a bit gauche to plan your own birthday party, but then, she doesn’t have to say it’s for her birthday, now does she?  

…Fate is not feeling quite so amenable, unfortunately.  Twice is reeling in a new recruit and Spinner’s laying low—the most recognizable in the group, poor thing, at least as long as he’s insisting on the Stain cosplay. Dabi’s playing Mystery Man instead of Mystery Date, worse the luck, and Toga’s still off on whatever errand she’s playing at that’s got her texting from a burner phone instead of her little cute pink one.  

Mr. Compress, the dear, is completely on board.  He also makes stealing a cake a complete breeze.

———–      

“Do you think Shigaraki-kun is more of a chocolate or a vanilla person?”

“That’s hard to even contemplate, isn’t it?  Well, if I were to hazard a guess between the two, wouldn’t it be chocolate?  Isn’t vanilla a bit plain for a villain?”

“But there’s so much you can do with vanilla—what about one of those fruit cakes, with all the strawberry?”

“Strawberry seems more like little Toga’s preference, doesn’t it?”

“Then what do you think?”  

“I prefer pastries, myself. One of those delightful French confections with more layers than a stack of bank notes.”

“Haha!  That’s so you!  Then how about cheesecake?”  

“Might that be a bit rich for our dear leader?”

“He’s not that childish.  And I’m not walking out of here with finger-food.”

“How about that one, then?”

“With all the powdered sugar?  And him in all black?  He’d never get it out!”

“Now who thinks he’s childish?”  

“Childish or not, you know it’s Kurogiri doing their laundry.”

“I’m not sure anyone’s doing his laundry.  Hmm.  Perhaps this one?”  

“Oh!  Cute!”  

“But not too cute?”  

“No, that’s a good one. Let’s go with it.”

“Decision made.  Then let the heist begin!”

“It’s already most of the way finished, isn’t it?”  

“Let me have this, please.”

———–      

Shigaraki knew they were coming.  Mr. Compress had texted.  He’s a stickler for details like that: you can’t expect to carry off a successful heist if you don’t work out the details, apparently.  Shigaraki’s sitting against the wall waiting when they come in.  

He didn’t know they were coming with cake.  

It looks like an average-sized thing to him, not that he’s got a lot of experience, squared-off into ruthlessly clean edges that show off the alternating dark and cream layers.  The top’s covered with a chocolate icing and drizzles of bright red glaze over the kind of “casual” arrangement of raspberries and blackberries and a couple of pale yellow macarons that means somebody with tweezers probably spent an hour agonizing over exactly how to put down every last piece of it.  

He looks up from the cake to Magne and Mr. Compress, both of them staring at him expectantly—he can just sense it on Mr. Compress, even with the mask on. 

“Is this a joke?”  

“Rude!” Magne huffs, leaning her magnet bar against the wall, where it sticks to a pipe with a clang, and dragging over a crate to sit on.  “Call it a housewarming present.”

“You must admit, our new surroundings could use the color.”

The color makes my eyes hurt, Shigaraki thinks, but that’s too petulant to say out loud, so he doesn’t.  Instead, he opts for, “We’re not going to be staying here long-term.”

“Perhaps not, but we are here for now,” Mr. Compress replies amiably, pulling out a marble and materializing himself a very familiar chair.  

“Did you steal that from the bar,” Shigaraki says, tone flat and disbelieving.  

“At the time, I preferred to think of it as ‘reserving a seat.’  And now that the bar’s gone, it’s just salvage, isn’t it?  I’m waiting for a chance to surprise Kurogiri with it, so keep it under your hand, would you?”

Magne tries—she fails, but she tries—to muffle an undignified snort of laughter; Shigaraki just glares.  

“Shall I get us started?” the magician asks with a lilt of good cheer, and an outdoor café table complete with plastic tablecloth appears between the three of them.  Magne sets the cake down and pops the clear plastic lid off of the box.  

“This is stupid,” Shigaraki says, standing up.  

“Why, because we don’t have utensils?  Actually—”

“You brought a table with you; you obviously brought utensils too.  That doesn’t make it less stupid.”  He turns to go back to the trashed office he set up shop in when he and Kurogiri found the place.  I don’t have time to play around like this.  I’ve got to show Sensei I can—

“Honestly!”  Magne’s voice is tart; when he turns to flash her a glare, she does—Good—flinch back.  But after a few tense seconds, she follows up by sitting up straighter and jutting out her chin.  “Enjoying the spoils is part of being a criminal, Shigaraki-kun!”  

All right, it’s good that his League isn’t made of cowards, but this is still stupid.  

“She’s quite right. And being on top means you get first cut.”  Mr. Compress brandishes a knife that’s much bigger than anything you’d need to cut a cake with, especially the one they brought.  “Won’t you show us how it’s done?”  

Shigaraki pauses, scowling at his own hesitation as much as their familiarity.  

“It’s good to let your followers do as they like sometimes, Tomura.  If you enable someone’s happiness, you become associated with that happiness.  In turn, your followers look for ways to return the favor.  And just as moments of injustice can poison a mind, so can happy memories become totems that will drive people to their best efforts.”

Sensei talked a lot about how to handle followers, especially after he lost to All Might. Shigaraki got sick of hearing it, honestly, and it turns his stomach to have it come back now.  But if I go back to the office I’m just going to stew on if I should have done it or not.  

“Are the masks an issue?” Mr. Compress asks, and slides his own halfway off, blinking one warm brown eye at Shigaraki and giving him a sly grin.  “I’ll have to take if off to eat, of course; so you won’t be alone.  And we’re hardly in a position to take you to task for how you wish to present yourself to the world.”

Magne jabs him once in the ribs, looking unrepentant when he yelps, and smiles up at Shigaraki from her crate when Mr. Compress rubs his side and compresses his mask down to marble-size.  

“Come have a bite with us,” she says, direct.  “If only the heroes get to enjoy themselves, why even become a villain?”  

“If you were going to pose rhetoricals like that, we should have stolen wine, too,” Mr. Compress complains, but allows himself to be shushed and begins setting out plates with poor grace but reflexive flourish as Shigaraki walks slowly back over to the two of them.  

He stares down at the cake, trying to remember the last time he even ate something like this.  A restaurant or something, right?  Sensei took me out after the whole thing with the cruise liner.  

The restaurant looked nicer than the crumbling plaster and the leaky pipes on the walls here. But he had to pretend to be normal there, and he itched the whole time.  Just the memory brings his nails up to his neck, and he indulges the habit as he reaches up and gingerly pulls off Father.

Mr. Compress and Magne don’t even pretend not to stare; the former holds up his hands disarmingly when Shigaraki meets his eyes, but the latter just tilts her head, taking in the sight of him.

“You know, at this point I was expecting worse?”  She laughs to herself and hands him a plate.  “Come and eat.”

She didn’t turn away. It pulls at something inside him, a memory of people’s eyes finding him and then sliding away like he was one of those yokai that would follow you home and rip you to pieces if you made eye contact.

Huh.  Sounds nice.  

He slides Father into his pocket and takes the plate.  

He doesn’t end up finishing the cake slice.  

…But he does take all the macarons.  

#shigarakibirthdayweek #shigaraki tomura #bnha magne #mr. compress #sako atsuhiro #my writing #boku no hero academia #bnha #ficcing

[athenagc94]

Gust and Piper - Beginnings Pt. 3

Part 3 of my story with Gust and my builder Piper.  Please enjoy! I’m also posting the story here on AO3!

You can read the first two parts here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air was muggy when Gust ventured out that evening.  Smothering.  This is why Gust hated the summer.  Everything was so damp.  His clean button up was already sticking to his back as he made his way down to the lower part of town.  He grimaced and tugged uncomfortably at his collar.  The air conditioner at the Round Table was broken the last time he was there.  Hopefully, Django had commissioned one of the builders to fix it.  He couldn’t imagine how unbearably hot it would be without it.

Music and laughter poured through the open windows of the Round Table as he approached.  A sizable crowd was already milling about inside.  He checked his watch.  It was only seven and things were this rowdy.  He stifled a small groan.  The struggles he endured for his sister.  He braced himself as he pushed through the doors and into the fray.

He saw Albert seated at the large table in the center of the room.  People surrounded him from all sides and they all seemed to be talking at him at once.  Gust grimaced.  His desire to go home was growing and he’d just arrived.  Albert looked up from his drink as Gust approached them and a wide smile broke out across his face.  “Gust,” he exclaimed as he slipped out of his seat, “you finally made it.”

“You said the party started at seven,” he mumbled, “and it’s seven.”  Albert slung his arm across his shoulders and pulled him close.  He recognized the distinct flush in his cheeks and smelled the alcohol on his breath.  Albert had already tucked a few drinks away at this point.  Perfect.

“I’m just glad you made it.”  His eye fell to the neatly wrapped present in Gust’s hand.  “Did you get me another gift?  I’m already wearing the new bow tie you got me.”  He gestured to the floral printed fabric around his neck.  “I think Sonia is feeling it.”  

Gust rolled his eyes and handed him the gift.  “This is from Ginger.  She wasn’t able to make it this evening.”  Albert regarded the gift fondly.  “She wanted me to wish you a happy birthday in her stead.”

“That sister of yours is really something.  She knows how to make a man’s birthday special.”  The muscles in Gust’s jaw tightened.  He knew Albert was a bit of a womanizer.  He’d accepted this about him years ago.  Albert went through women like tissues.  He was fickle and harmless.  Still, Ginger was his sister and he felt the protective older brother in him kick into gear.

“Weren’t you just saying something about Sonia?”

Albert’s eyes brightened.  “Yes, yes, I think she’s finally warming up to me.  I might make a move this evening.”  Gust relaxed.  Good.  He didn’t want to have that awkward conversation, not yet.  “By the way, did you want a drink?”

Gust glanced at his watch.  Five minutes past seven, only another fifty-five minutes to go before he could go home.  “Sure,” he sighed, “it’ll be on me.  Duvos punch, right?”  Albert didn’t respond and Gust turned back to him.  He was looking at Sonia, who waved him back over to the table.  A sultry smile played on her lips and he watched Albert melt.  Gust shook his head.  “I’ll be back.”  He didn’t wait for a response as he made his way to the bar.

He ordered his drinks, his fingers drummed along the bar top as he waited.  A distinct laugh cut through the chatter and noise in the bar and Gust looked up.  Across the room, Remington and Piper twirled to the music coming from the jukebox.  Their steps were clumsy and off beat, but they appeared to be having fun.  Gust cradled his cheek in the palm of his hand as he watched them.  Piper’s hair was thrown up in her usual top knot and she was still wearing those god awful coveralls.  Gust was sweating just looking at her, but the heat didn’t seem to bother her.

Django cleared his throat behind him.  He slid the drinks across the bar and Gust collected them.  “Thanks.” He stepped away from the bar and headed back towards Albert.  The dark haired man in question was currently huddled in a one on one with Sonia off to the side.  The longer they spoke, the closer the pair got.  Gust immediately backtracked, both glasses still in hand.  Nope.  He was not dealing with that this evening. 

He nabbed a spot near the end of the bar, away from the bustle of the crowd.  He traced the lines in the woodwork as he nursed his drink.  The party continued around him.  Laughter, merriment, dancing, it should have been contagious, but the longer Gust sat sipping his drink the more alone he felt.  No warm welcomes.  No one approached him for a conversation.  It was like he was witnessing the party through glass, but no one saw him on the other side.  He swallowed the bitter taste that was forming in his mouth with another gulp of alcohol.

“Hey Gust.”

He glanced over his shoulder as Piper slid into the seat next to him.  “When did you get here?”  She wore a kind smile as she waved Django over.  “And why are you sitting all alone?  You should be with Albert.”

“Albert is too busy wooing Sonia in the corner,” Gust said around the rim of his glass, “I’d rather not get in the middle of that.”  Piper glanced over at the pair in question. Sonia giggled as Albert’s finger danced up her arm.  If possible, they’d gotten even closer.

“That man and his women,” she shook her head at them, “and just the other day he was asking me to get him a copy of Journey to East for Ginger.”

Gust nearly spat out his drink.  “He what?!?”

Piper slapped a hand over her mouth.  “Oops, I don’t think I was supposed to say anything,” she chuckled, “I forget you two are related sometimes, you’re nothing alike.”  Gust scoffed.  Oh, they were a lot more alike than people gave them credit for.  Ginger was a force to reckon with when she was in a bad mood.  It made his usual temperament look amicable by comparison.  “But I’m sorry about that.  I guess I should have asked you about it first.”

“Whatever,” he took another sip of his drink, “I’ll just tell her the book actually came from you.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Piper pouted at him, “I just managed to get my hand on a copy.  It was Albert who wanted to get her something.  I just helped, that’s all.”  Gust rolled his eyes.  Just like she’d helped his father gather the materials for his competition.  She just loved helping people, didn’t she?  “I don’t want to get involved.”

“Well, you should have thought about that when you gave him the book.”

“Probably,” she brushed off his sharp tone with a shrug, “but he asked for my help and I helped him.  Next time, I’ll be sure to consult you before I do it.  Don’t want to hook up your best friend and sister without your consent.”  She shot him a teasing wink.  Gust tried to hide the surprise on his face with a sneer, but her attention had shifted.

The Civil Corps brats congregated on the other side of the restaurant. Remington and Arlo were still swaying with the music, drinks in hand.  Arlo chatted quietly with Nora, who appeared to hang on his every word.  Whereas Remington chatted idly with Aadit. On the outskirts of the group, Sam was practicing her balancing act on one of the bar stools while Phyllis looked on with mild concern.  The smile fell from Piper’s face   “I think that’s my cue.  I should head back over to them before Sam gets herself kicked out, again.” She chuckled and gathered her drink.  “Did you want to join us?  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance.”

Gust sniffed and glanced down at his watch.  Eight o’clock.  Finally.  “And you won’t.”  He polished off the rest of his drink and pushed it away.  The Duvos punch sat untouched on the bar.  He grimaced.  What a waste of gols.  “I’m actually heading out.”

Piper looked taken aback.  “Already?” She furrowed her brow at him.  “But the party just started?”

“I’m a busy man, Piper,” Gust slid out of his seat, “I spend my time on the tasks I actually need to do.  I don’t have time for such frivolous activities.  I have more important things to worry about.”  His shirt was still clinging uncomfortably to his back.  

Piper arched an eyebrow at him.  She looked like she wanted to say something, but she spared him whatever lecture she had in store. A small, albeit amused, smile slid back across her face.  “Well then, good luck with your important tasks.”  She offered him a small wave.  “But if you change your mind and decide to have some fun, you know where to find us.”  And with that, she headed back towards the jukebox.  He watched her tug Sam off the bar stool with a shake of her head.

Gust clucked his tongue and pushed out of the restaurant and into the quiet streets.  He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed towards Central Plaza.  The night air was thick and damp and he found it hard to catch his breath, but he kept walking.  He was on edge.  He knew this would happen if he went to the party for longer than five minutes.  Albert would get distracted by a skirt and he’d be left to his own devices.  It's how these events always panned out for him.  He could be alone in the comfort of his own home.

He paused at the foot of the Wishing Tree.  He remembered the stories his mother used to tell him about the Wishing Tree when he was a kid.  If you stood under its magic leaves, you could make a wish, and if the tree liked you it would come true.  They were juvenile and overly simplistic tales.  Even as a child, he’d rolled his eyes at the prospect.  Still, as he stood there staring up at the canopy of leaves, he found himself closing his eyes.

He didn’t make a wish.  That would be childish.  He just hoped.  He hoped that he could escape the monotony.  The longer he stayed in Portia, the more apparent it came that he didn’t belong.  This was no longer his home, it hadn’t been for a while.  He’d come back to support his family and he planned on making good on that, but one day, he hoped to leave and return to Atara.  He’d chase his dream again.  One day.

↢↢↢↣↣↣

“Welcome back.”  Gust hummed in response as he brushed past Albert’s desk.  He’d just finished his birthday lunch with his family.  Ginger had insisted they have lunch together.  You don’t turn 28 everyday. What a silly justification.  He had told her such.  She told him he was boring.  It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that.  She then gave him one of her well-rehearsed pouts.  So, naturally,  they compromised and had lunch as a family.

It was bland and uneventful, as all their family meals were.  His father and Mint were too engrossed in a conversation on Portia’s infrastructure to pay him any mind, which was the norm these days. Ginger gave Gust and Russo another update on Journey to the East.  Gust feigned mild interest and spent the rest of the meal staring at his plate and holding his tongue.

“Did you have fun?”

Gust gave him a sour look.  “What do you think?”

“Fair point.”  Albert threw up his hands in defeat and turned back to his work.  Gust busied himself with gathering some new drafting paper.  He had a few ideas bouncing around in his head that he wanted to get down on paper before they disappeared.  “By the way, Piper stopped by while you were out.”

“Did she?”  Gust tucked a few rolls of paper under his arm. She’d probably stopped by to deliver another round of materials for South Block.  That girl was on top of her game.  They were weeks ahead of schedule and she played a major role in that.  Still, she was able to work on side commissions for the rest of the town.  He was beginning to think his father was just throwing random projects at her, so the rest of them had time to catch up with her demand.  “What did she want?”

“She dropped off a birthday present for you.”

Gust paused.  A birthday present.  For him?  He’d never mentioned his birthday to her.  “And how did she know when it was?”  He glared evenly at Albert, who was making a point of looking anywhere but him.

“I may or may not have mentioned it at my party last week.”

Gust sighed.  He wondered if that was before or after he made out with Sonia, then he remembered that he didn’t care.  “I don’t need a pity gift from her,” he scoffed, “she didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Piper tries to give everyone a present on their birthday,”  Gust could hear him roll his eyes.  “So stop being a brat and come grab it before I eat it myself.”  He gestured to the small parcel on his desk.  Gust instantly recognized it.  A take out box from the Round Table.  He huffed and crossed the room, drafting paper forgotten, and took it.  “Smells like she did her research.”

Gust clucked his tongue and made his way back up the stairs.  A small note was taped to the top of the box.  He recognized the A&G stationary.  She must have written it here.

Gust

Happy Birthday! Sorry I couldn’t be there to say it in person, but I’m a busy gal and ore isn’t going to mine itself (because someone just HAD to have aluminum for their South Block designs.  Yes.  I’m glaring at you right now, deal with it.) Anyway, try to make the most of your special day! I know Ginger was excited to spend it with you.  You don’t strike me as a big party guy, but if you want to celebrate, you know where to find me!

Piper

P.S. Ginger also told me you didn’t like ice cream. Who doesn’t like ice cream, you monster?!? But hopefully, this tickles your fancy instead.

Gust snorted and flipped open the lid of the container.  A slice of Django’s famous apple pie was placed neatly in the box with a fork.  The familiar scent of apples and cinnamon lingered in the air.  A small birthday candle had been unceremoniously stuffed in the crust.  Gust smiled.  That annoying giddy feeling was back.  He wanted to hate the feeling, but a part of him had grown to like it, which he’d dwell on later.

He speared the tip of the pie with his fork and stuffed it in the mouth.  The buttery crust melted on his tongue.  He hummed contentedly, a warm fuzziness swelling in his chest.  Apple pie always reminded him of his mother.  It was her specialty when he was growing up.  It was one of the few desserts he actually liked.  Piper did do her research.  He turned his attention back to his drafting table, fork still poking out between his lips.

He’d received only four gifts today.  His father had left him a new set of paints on the kitchen table this morning with a hastily scrawled note wishing him a good birthday.  Practical. Gust had been complaining about the fraying edge of his old umbrella, so Albert had a new one commissioned for him.  Practical.  His sister had given him a handmade necklace made of shells.  Very her and he’d certainly wear it.  And now Piper.  Her gift wasn’t extravagant.  Her gift wasn’t useful, but it provided him with something that the others hadn’t.  A fond memory and a genuine smile.

#mtap #my time at portia #mtap gust #mtap albert #mtap builder #alcohol mention

[ericsonclan]

Pinterest Perfect

Summary: An overheard conversation leads Prisha to wonder what she'd want her own wedding to look like someday.

Read on AO3: 

Sophie and Marlon were eating lunch together in the break room when Prisha came in, planning to grab her coat before heading out for the day. As she passed by the table, she overheard some of the conversation they were having.

“Absolutely no meatballs at our wedding,” Marlon declared, taking another bite of his meatloaf.

“Really? I would have had you pegged as a meatball sub sorta dude,” Sophie replied, chewing on a carrot stick.

“Had a bad experience as a kid. Scarred me for life,” Marlon shivered before returning to his food.

“Well, we both know my number one rule…”

“No clowns,” the couple said in unison, fist bumping with a smile.

Prisha watched the conversation with amusement. She’d heard of this game the two of them liked to play: listing things they should and should not have at their wedding. It was some sort of ongoing joke between the couple, to continue casually planning their wedding even as they weren’t engaged or anywhere near that sort of thing. “Tell me, Sophie,” Prisha began, putting on her coat. “Do you think it ever could have been a real possibility that Marlon would arrange for clowns to come to your wedding?”

“Can never be too careful,” Sophie waggled the end of her carrot stick before popping it into her mouth. “Clowns show up when you least expect them. They’re sneaky that way,”

Prisha chuckled at her friend’s logic. “Well, you two have a good lunch. I’ll see you tomorrow,”

“Bye, Prisha!” the couple called in unison before returning to their mock wedding plans.

Prisha smiled to herself as she headed out to her car. Planning out their wedding so causally with no actual arrangements in place. Those two really make quite the pair.

---

Once she was home, Prisha found herself lost as to what she would do with the rest of her day. It had been an unexpected half-day at work, the builders coming in early to begin work on improvements to the bar. Perhaps she would finally get around to clearing out her inbox. Sitting on her couch, Prisha opened her laptop and began the monotonous but rewarding process. A few minutes into the process, she accidentally clicked a Pinterest notification that popped up rather than the email she’d intended and was whisked off in a separate tab for the website. Prisha glanced with mild interest at her feed. She hadn’t used Pinterest in a while, mostly referencing it for inspiration when decorating her apartment as well as providing the occasional healthy recipe.

It was so easy to get sucked in again with all the aesthetic, perfectly framed images. One in particular caught Prisha’s eye: a girl in a white sundress standing in a field of sunflowers. The girl’s short blonde hair reminded her of Violet’s. As Prisha gazed at the picture, a thought wandered into her mind. That sort of looks like a wedding dress. As soon as the thought coalesced, Prisha felt her cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Immediately she closed her computer, standing up to get the tea she’d been considering. Beginning the electric kettle, she tried to think of other things to distract herself, but her thoughts simply kept returning to Sophie and Marlon and that lighthearted wedding conversation they’d been planning. They made the whole discussion look so easy, so natural.

Prisha poured the hot water over her packet of Earl Grey, warily eyeing her laptop as it lay upon the couch. There’s nothing wrong with daydreaming, is there? Hesitantly, Prisha returned to her computer, opening it back up. The screen immediately displayed Pinterest again. As she clicked on the search bar, a menu of suggested searches popped down with several categories. Desserts, sunsets, DIY furniture… weddings. This site is reading my mind. Prisha gulped heavily before clicking on the Weddings option. What sort of rabbit hole had she let herself wander into?

There were endless ideas for weddings on Pinterest: color schemes, flower arrangements, wedding gowns, cakes, there seemed to be an infinitesimal number of things to take into consideration when planning a wedding. Scrolling through the feed, Prisha found her eyes drawn to the wedding dresses first. There were so many options, so many different styles. Long, short, fitted, flowy, the fashion choices seemed infinite. Prisha gazed at a fitted mermaid, lace dress for several seconds, entranced by it. Could I pull something like that off? The woman in the photo appeared to have a similar body type. What would Violet think?

Violet always seemed to like whatever Prisha was wearing. There hadn’t been a single time where she’d said anything against a single one of Prisha’s outfits. Truth be told, she probably didn’t think about fashion very much, but her eyes did light up a certain way when she noticed Prisha was wearing one of her favorites: the cranberry red cocktail dress, that one pair of jeans that always did wonders for Prisha’s butt, her warm grey cardigan that was extra snuggly on cold nights. Whatever Prisha chose, she wanted it to make Violet’s eyes sparkle in that way.

I don’t know why I’m talking as though this is an inevitability, Prisha scolded herself. Marriage wasn’t even something that either of them had put on the table. But rather than continuing to scold herself on the likelihood of this even happening, Prisha found her mind back on the wedding dress train. Would they both wear dresses? She’d never seen Violet in a suit before. The girl didn’t own anything fancier than a jean jacket. Prisha found herself liking the idea of them both wearing dresses more and more though. Perhaps in different styles so they’d both stand out. Violet could wear something comfortable, maybe one of those cute shorter dresses with the pockets. They didn’t have to both be in white either. Prisha wondered how a cream dress would look against her own skin. There was a particularly lovely gray dress that she quite fancied too…

Amongst all the wedding dresses there were a myriad of other wedding ideas too. Prisha found the outdoor weddings to be the loveliest. It would be beautiful to be married under the trees with the natural light breaking through the branches and scattering upon us. Then at night we could dance under the stars. There were several photos of trees covered in twinkle and curtain lights. Such a simple touch truly brought magic with it. After coming across a particularly lovely photo of just such an arrangement, Prisha finally bit the bullet and made a secret board for herself so she could keep track of her favorite photos. Scrolling back up a ways, she collected several other pins that had caught her eye before returning to the point where she had been.

There were so many elaborate weddings, ones that looked as though they would be massively expensive. I believe we’d both want to keep things simple, Prisha thought to herself. A small ceremony with only our closest friends. Things like the cake and the bouquet could be kept simple as well. A white cake, classic, with some flowers curling round its tiers. Violets would be too on the nose and probably just irk Violet. Prisha didn’t see any cakes with them, but she wondered to herself if it would be possible to decorate a cake with morning glories. After all, Violet was her Morning Glory, it would be lovely to have that special name be celebrated at their wedding.

I’m smiling like a fool, aren’t I? Prisha thought, feeling the expression tug at the corner of her lips. No matter. It wasn’t as though there were anybody about to see her giddiness. Should we both have bouquets or just one of us? Would we walk up the aisle together? One at a time? Prisha supposed with all these things it would come down to what worked best for them. She’d never really considered being walked down the aisle, but Prisha supposed that if her father weren’t there to walk her down the aisle as would likely be the case, she’d rather do it on her own or not at all. Violet on the other hand… Would Louis walk her down the aisle? Prisha chuckled aloud at the thought. She knew Louis would be absolutely ecstatic about that idea. He’d probably fight off anyone else who tried to take the role, though Prisha didn’t think Mitch or Marlon would put up much of a fight.

Ringbearers, flower girls… Willy could be the ring bearer. Prisha was quite fond of the boy. Then again Violet was very much attached to Tenn. Why not both? Then A.J. as the flower boy. Probably not, Prisha thought with a smile imagining the chaos that would ensue with those three together. But it’s certainly an entertaining thought. Bridesmaids and brides.. men? Why not both? That seems to be the theme of this whole ceremony, Prisha thought wryly. Clementine and Louis were most likely to take the positions of honor among the wedding party, making the toasts and planning the bachelorette parties.

Ruby and Omar would likely take on the catering for the wedding while Renata handled the cake. Prisha was sure come hell or high water, Ruby would get involved in other aspects of the wedding as well: dress shopping, flower arrangements, wedding decorations. Considering how excited Ruby got during themed nights at Ericson’s Diner, that excitement was sure to rise tenfold for a wedding. Thinking of their friends and coworkers getting involved in wedding prep filled Prisha with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Prisha could just imagine all of them coming together and helping make this dream a reality. Perhaps I should look at rings next.

The sound of the front door unlocking had Prisha jumping off the couch in fright. Violet stood in the doorway, a to-go bag in one hand and the key to Prisha’s apartment in the other. She looked apologetically at her girlfriend. “Shit, did I scare you? Louis asked to switch shifts with me so I got off early. Picked up some food on the way here. Figured we could make a night of it, have an early dinner, but if you’re busy-”

“Not at all,” Prisha declared, closing the tab and slamming her laptop shut. She threw it off to the side where it landed upon a beige pouf she kept off in the corner. “What sort of food did you bring?”

“Thai. Figured we’d switch things up,” Violet closed the door behind her and walked over into the kitchen, beginning to take out the various boxes of food she’d carried within the bag. Prisha came over to help her. Violet glanced up and a shy smile crossed her face before she looked away.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Violet paused. “You’re wearing the earrings I got you,”

Prisha’s hand came up instinctively, brushing against one of the earrings. It had been a six-month anniversary present: a gold pair of earrings, a moon and a star. Prisha knew they were far nicer than anything Violet owned herself. “I love them. They match with everything too,”

Violet nodded. “I thought they would,” She glanced over at the television. “So… Cutthroat Kitchen tonight?”

“Sounds perfect,” They’d soon found the show to be the perfect combination of strategy and chaos to keep both of them entertained. After grabbing their food, both girls settled down on the couch, ready for a night of relaxation. Raising her legs up, Violet put them across Prisha’s lap without another thought. Prisha smiled. Violet had been so nervous about physical touch when they first started dating. It was nice to see how far they’d come together.

Running her hand absentmindedly along her girlfriend’s leg, Prisha glanced over at her abandoned laptop. The board she’d made for herself seemed like a faraway dream now. But being here with Violet, Prisha knew it wasn’t simply a fantasy for her. It was something she wanted, not quite yet, but someday. And every day with Violet made that someday feel closer and closer. With that thought in mind, Prisha grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

#twdg #twdg violet #twdg prisha #twdg privet #twdg sophie #twdg marlon #twdg marlie #fanfic #ericson's diner au

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 49 - The Blood-Soaked Tower

Chapter Rating: Mature Warnings: Canon-typical violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort Chapter Summary:  Rosslyn and Alistair enter the Tower to save everyone they can.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3

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Almost immediately, the stench of the dead overpowered them. Alistair groped in the darkness for the wall so he could brace against it, pushing up his visor as he retched. Around him, he heard the sounds echoed in the others, and at last Rosslyn’s voice, wry but strained as she declared they should have asked Greagoir for a torch.

“I – I can help,” Amell stuttered, and whispered something under her breath.

Warm, yellowish light like a candle grew from the crystal at the point of her staff and chased away the darkness. But then they found what was causing the smell, and she screamed. Not six feet ahead of them, a pile of corpses lay rended and bloody, torn apart like broken toys beside the splintered remains of the Circle’s inner door. The low light turned their already tortured expressions into something grotesque, locked in their last final desperate cries as their hands reached out to the gate for the help that hadn’t come, that must have stood by and listened to the screams and done nothing to at least attempt a rescue. Rage coiled in Alistair’s gut, squeezing his revulsion into something colder, harder, which had no name. The bodies looked small in the dark, but only once Rosslyn knelt down to examine the closest one did the full disparity of size become apparent.

“No more than twelve,” she muttered. “All the injuries are to the back, days old – they were running away.”

He stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder as she turned her frown towards the door. With all the armour in the way, he doubted she could feel the press of his gauntlet, but the weight was there nonetheless. Her breath came steady, shallow, every muscle still as she collected herself to move on. There was a clink of mail as she straightened.

“The apprentice dormitories are along here,” Amell managed. Her eyes, wide and liquid black in the low light, were still fixed on the bodies.

“Why is it so dark?” Alistair’s voice was brittle.

“There aren’t any windows on this level. One the candles burned down…”

“Ser Cullen, is there a defensible position somewhere nearby – somewhere we can get the survivors to congregate?” Rosslyn asked, staring straight ahead. Whatever grief welled in her had drained away, and the tightness at the corners of her eyes now was only the steel of her battleblood, the keen rush of calculation that allowed her to take in the whole engagement and decide life and death without compassion.  

“I asked a question, Knight-Lieutenant.”

“Your Ladyship…” Cullen swallowed. “Yes. “There’s… the library, further on this floor, or the refectory upstairs. It can house everyone.” He paused. “But wouldn’t it be dangerous? What if we corral the mages and they turn out to be maleficar?”

Amell shot him a withering look. “What do you mean, ‘corral’? Are we just sheep to you?”

“What? No! That’s not what I said –”

“Sounded like it.”

“We’re here to save as many people as we can,” Alistair interrupted. “And the best way to do that is to keep everyone in a secure location while we clear the halls. Any mages left that haven’t yet become abominations aren’t likely to. We should get moving,” he added quietly to Rosslyn. “Try and do some good before Greagoir comes in on his high horse.”

“Or before anyone else has any bright ideas about how to deal with mages,” she agreed. She leaned into him for a brief instant of reassurance before she sighed and turned back towards the darkness. “We stick together, sweep the place floor by floor, keep our eyes open.”

The corridor was silent, deserted. The same unnatural pressure that had weighted the air outside magnified as they made their cautious way through the apprentice dormitories into the depths of the tower. In every room, the remains of battles stained the walls, gore and burn marks and shattered pieces of furniture. Every so often Cullen or Amell would point out smears on the floor that marked the destruction of a demon, but those were too few when counted next to the number of the dead.

And not one templar among them, Alistair noted with a frown as they cleared the last of the long dormitories.  

The high-arched ceilings recounted their footsteps, their buttresses visible above their little bubble of light only as brief, thrown shadows against the ancient stonework. If not for the crisis at hand, Rosslyn might have paused to examine the patchwork quality of the architecture, the recent facing upon Imperial Tevene upon the solid, sure foundations of the original Alamar builders. Their time slipped away more with every moment, however, and took an uncounted number of lives with it, so she pushed them on through the empty foyer that led down to the cellars, towards the first glow of light they had seen that wasn’t their own.  

And yet, the library was empty as well. The light came from complex runes carved into the ceiling, positioned into clusters over the long reading tables. Piles of books still sat open on the polished wood, next to scattered chairs and ink-splattered notebooks, as if the researchers had not even had time to put down their pens before being forced to run. The question was only which direction they had chosen.

“How do we reach the next level?”

Amell pointed. “The stairs are past the Librarian’s office.”

The door was barred.

Alistair knocked. “Anyone alive in here? I promise we’re not demons, we bring word from the Knight-commander.” For a moment he listened, picking up whispers and movement through the wood, and then stood back as a bolt scraped back and the door swung open.

Three templars greeted them, as well as a dozen or so human and elven mages crammed onto a tiny dais at the centre of the room. Many were children. The air held the stale, sour odour of any small place where people have been forced to cohabit for a period of time, and the inhabitants looked exhausted. A barrier shimmered over the door at the top of the stairs, which had also been blocked with a pile of bookshelves and a sturdy desk, shunted onto its side and pushed as far up the steps as it could go.  

“Maker’s breath, you really aren’t demons are you?” The leading templar lifted his visor to reveal a man with a trimmed moustache just entering middle age. “We’ve been trapped in here for over two days, getting by on conjured water and roast rats. Knight-Lieutenant Dunn – this is Knowles and Owen,” he added.

“This is Prince Alistair and Teyrna Rosslyn Cousland,” Cullen supplied.

“More and more surprising! I hope you’ll forgive the informality – I didn’t recognise you.”

“Have you come to rescue us?” one of the smaller children piped from the corner. They sat in the arms of an older mage who eyed their weapons warily, like a dog that has learned the shape of its master’s stick.

Rosslyn pursed her lips and didn’t reply. “What do you know of what’s happened?” she asked Knight-Lieutenant Dunn.

He shook his head. “Must have been, what, five days ago, six? The alarm came down from the upper floors to say something had got loose, so I ordered most of the lads up to lend a hand. To be honest, we thought it was a drill – they close off the gate, fight a few fires, and then everything’s fine and dandy. And then demons appeared in the hall. We got what kids out we could, and pulled back here when they broke through into the library. We might’ve held them with more numbers, but…” With a half-glance behind him and a subtle nod towards the corner of the room, he took Rosslyn and Alistair aside. “What’s the word from outside?” The set of his mouth confirmed what he did not say: he knew the Right had been invoked.

Alistair cleared his throat. “We’re here to find First Enchanter Irving – the knight-commander said he would only listen to him.”

“I wish you luck with that, Your Highness,” the templar replied. “Irving was on the upper levels, and we haven’t heard anything in days. I’d be surprised if anyone is still alive up there.”

“If we find any survivors, we’ll be sending them to you,” Rosslyn said. “They’re to be kept safe.”

“I understand, Your Ladyship. We’ll try and keep everyone calm.”

“Thank you. Hold out a little longer, and we’ll see an end to it, without bloodshed.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

Stepping around him, she nodded and called to Amell, who had bent to talk with the apprentices and offer them some comfort. Perhaps she had also told them about the Right of Annulment, but Rosslyn didn’t pry, only offloaded a packet of dried meat from her pack and slipped it into the knight-lieutenant’s hands.

“The children first,” she instructed.

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

Cullen was already helping his fellow templars clear away the barricade. One of the eldest apprentices lowered the barrier. She offered a nod and a faint, trembling smile as the party passed, and once they were through the door followed Knight-Lieutenant Dunn’s directions and retreated to the library.

“Maker’s blessings, Your Ladyship, Your Highness,” he said, lingering at the door. “You do your job and I’ll do mine – I don’t want to have to say I failed in my duty.”

Alistair managed a grimace. “Neither do we.”

The level above the library opened out into a narrow space with doors leading off in many directions, cluttered by shelves and not much else. It clearly served as a spare storage space for those items that weren’t considered important enough to be properly locked away. There were windows, tiny and high up on the walls, but they only let in enough light to deepen the shadows in the corners of the room.

The demon attacked them without warning. It boiled out of the wall behind them, a towering mass of flame and molten slag pulled into a rough shape not quite human or animal. Its first swipe caught on Cullen’s shield as he leapt to defend Amell, and a shriek of rage like tearing metal bubbled up from somewhere deep inside its body.

“If we weaken it enough, it’ll be pulled back into the Fade!” The young templar shouted. “Karyna, stay behind me – don’t let it touch you.”

With its path to the mage blocked, the demon whirled on Rosslyn and Alistair. It had no eyes, but its blunt head lowered as if it were peering at them, assessing as it advanced. Rosslyn didn’t give it time to come to any conclusions, and struck forward, bashing it with her shield to expose its side for the cut of her sword. Talon sang as it descended. It remembered the depths of the cave it knew before its forging, the cold dark and the rising water, and gleamed as it bit deep. The molten flesh crumbled around the blade like pumice, its roar this time one of pain instead of rage.

“It doesn’t like the cold!” Rosslyn cried as Alistair made his own strike on the demon’s opposite flank.

“Oh – I have a spell for that!”

The fight did not last long after that. Between the flurry of ice spells and the precision strikes of the warriors’ swords, the demon stood no chance. It got a lucky hit against Alistair’s shield that sent him sprawling with a cry of pain, but bit by bit it chipped, and crumbled, until Cullen thrust one final time into its armpit and it collapsed in on itself like a fire exhausted of fuel.

“Are you two alright?” Rosslyn asked as she knelt to help Alistair to his feet.

Across the room, Amell jumped as Cullen brushed her arm. For an instant, she leaned towards him, but reeled back with a reluctance born of habit. Rosslyn knew the feeling well. She turned away to run a critical eye over Alistair, ignoring his worry for her when she realised he favoured his left shoulder.

“It’s fine,” he told her. “Pulled muscle.”

“And we have three floors to go. Enchanter –”

Something scraped on the stone behind them. As one they turned, weapons raised, and were greeted by a tired-looking man in mage robes, with a mark on his forehead in the shape of a sunburst.

“Owain?” Amell lowered her staff.

“Enchanter,” the Tranquil replied in a flat tone. “You remember me – and you, Knight-Lieutenant Cullen. I am not familiar with your companions.”

“They’re – Owain, what are you doing here? Didn’t you try to leave?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “But when I encountered the barrier on the library door, I thought it best to return to work. The stockroom is in a state not fit to be seen.”

“We have bigger things to worry about,” Rosslyn interrupted. “What do you know about how this began?”

Owain turned to her, unbothered by the sharp edge to her voice. “There was a large explosion on one of the upper floors,” he said, as if reading from a book. “The templars stationed here and in the apprentice rooms went to investigate. Soon after, demons came to kill or capture the mages on this floor. I was in the stockroom and they did not see me. I suppose I should count myself lucky.”

“Why are they taking the mages?”  

“I do not know. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.”

Alistair frowned. “Niall?”

“He came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla,” the Tranquil explained.

“But that’s to protect against blood magic, isn’t it?” Amell rubbed her forehead. “Wynne mentioned it to me. If there are blood mages involved in whatever’s happening, we’ll need the Litany to stop it.”

Rosslyn bit down on a curse. She had seen the power a single blood mage could command, and the memory of it sent a cold shiver across her shoulders. There could be a thousand summoned demons between them and any help First Enchanter Irving could offer, if he even still lived, and an army of undead and abominations besides, enough to easily overpower three warriors and one mage with only so much strength between them. And yet, duty bound them now, just as surely as the blocked path behind them. The tower’s architecture would be their best defence, its narrow corridors and curving walls able to act as a shield against superior numbers and ranged magical attacks that relied on line-of-sight to cast with accuracy. They would have to move quickly, and try to reach the source of the destruction before it could spread plaguelike and overwhelm them.

Having watched Amell set a healing spell in Alistair’s shoulder and with orders for Owain to go down and meet the rest of the survivors in the library, she led the way across the shadowed hall, aware of each discordant ring of their footsteps on the stone. Talon all but hummed in her hand, resonating with the nearness of the Fade and eager for another taste of ichor. As the walls closed in again, they found bodies sagged against the walls or lying crumpled on the floor, with blood staining cloth and armour both. Any one of them might rise in an instant, without warning, ungainly but fast enough that Rosslyn nevertheless kept watch out of the corner of her eye. The lack of flies betrayed the unnatural nature of the deaths, and the silence set her teeth on edge.

They made it to Irving’s office unscathed. With most of the mages already defeated or beyond reach, few demons had ventured to the lower levels, and the undead that ambushed them had been new, the spirits unused to their host bodies and the constraints of the physical world. This meant their skirmishes had been sporadic, but the rest granted by the First Enchanter’s quarters was no less welcome, as the spells and protections laid on it would repel all but the strongest demonic energies. As long as they remained quiet, nothing would trouble them.  

Rosslyn laid a hand on Amell’s shoulder as she passed her the waterskin, comforting her as best she could. The enemies they had cut down were recognisable, and considering how many people were as yet unaccounted for, there would likely be worse encounters ahead. Cullen sat a careful distance away, checking his gear. He had taken off his helmet to breathe more easily, and as he ran a distracted hand through his hair, his freed curls bounced against his sweat-damp forehead. Rosslyn stepped around the desk trying not to think about how much older than her he might be while still looking so young, and nudged her elbow against Alistair’s side.

“Anything useful?” she asked.

He turned away from the bookshelf. “Not really. Spellbooks, that sort of thing. There’s a map on the wall that says we’ve got two floors left to clear before we get to the top, which isn’t entirely comforting.”

“At least we’re halfway.”

“See?” He grinned. “That’s what I love about you, you’re always so optimistic.”

“And is that the only thing?” Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then to the others, and back.

“Maker, no. But we don’t have time for me to stand here and list everything.”

“I’ll have to ask again when this is over, then,” she teased, with a growing smile.

A scream from outside cut off Alistair’s answer. They raced out of Irving’s office, weapons drawn and armour hastily jammed into place as a young man in mage robes careened down the stairs to the next level, ducking just in time as a templar blade cleaved the air above his head. He saw the party ahead of him, focussed one the Sword of Mercy etched into Cullen’s armour, and screamed again.

“I’m not one of them! I swear it!”

Rosslyn stepped around him to face the group of advancing templars. Their movements were jerky, disconcerting, and she raised her shield.

“Lower your weapons!” she called. “We’re not your enemy, we’ve come to help.”

The templars paused, wobbling like puppets.

“Do not listen to such lies,” purred a catlike voice from the shadows. “Is your faith so weak that you would submit to the tricks of demons?”

A woman stepped out behind the group of templars. The robes of a revered mother hung from her shoulders, but something in the shine of the thread made her hard to look at. Her smile was too wide, too sharp, her limbs ever so slightly out of proportion.  

“That’s a demon,” Alistair growled, stepping to Rosslyn’s shoulder.

Amell was already winding a spell between her hands. “It’s enchanted the templars. If we can get to it, then –”

“There!” the demon shrieked, cutting her off. “You see! They are hiding a blood mage in their midst!”

“Brothers, please –!” But Cullen’s voice was drowned in the sound of the templars’ charge.

Rosslyn and Alistair drove forward. Their shields butted against blank face plates and their swords flashed in the momentary advantage. One templar went down. The next took his place before he had even hit the floor. Amell hurled an ice spell into the throng, and then another, until Rosslyn, beating back two enemies at once, snarled at her to focus on the demon instead, and slowly, they were pushed back. Even bewitched, the templars had the backing of a lifetime of training, and they had the advantage of numbers, as well as the demon to bolster them as they struck out again and again. Amell’s magic was wearing it down, confusing it, but the templars served it absolutely, energy and bodies both, and every killing blow only made it stronger.

“We need to clear a path!” Rosslyn shouted. She opened her mouth for more orders, but in that instant a greatsword curved down over the edge of her shield. She raised her arm to block, but the movement came too late. Her armour stopped the blade from slicing her flesh, but the impact reverberated down to the bone and she staggered back with a cry. Someone called her name. She blinked and shoved forward again with a snarl, driving through the disorientation to bring Talon up in blunt arc that cut into the templar’s groin.

The fight after that became a haze of pain, and raising her sword even to her shoulder lit fire along her nerves. And still, she hacked at anything that strayed into her line of sight, teeth bared behind the Falcon helm, desperate only to keep her footing as bodies piled up before her. At one point, she felt a flash of magic through her veins, dimming the ache in her muscles and the agony in her arm, and she pushed through, just in time for an unearthly shriek to lance through her skull. The last of her enemies fell, leaving her a clear view of the demon, shocked of its illusion now and impaled upon Cullen’s sword. Arms caught around her waist as she sagged. Gloved fingers scrabbled at her chin to loosen the strap and get her helmet loose.

“Rosslyn – Rosslyn.”

“Huh?”  

The demon was flaking, falling away like wood ash in the wind.  

“I can do it through the armour, it’s fine,” someone was saying, and she rolled her head to the side to find Amell feeling along the length of her upper right arm.  

“It’s just a hairline fracture,” Amell told them. “I can heal it, but it will be weakened. It shouldn’t be used for any heavy lifting for a while. At least as far as you can,” she added, with a rueful glance at their surroundings.

“Do what you can with it,” Rosslyn grunted.

Alistair was still holding her. “That’s twelve templars accounted for, including Dunn and the ones we passed on the way here,” he calculated. “How many would have been in the tower when the gate was shut?”

“Shifts have a full complement of thirty-three.” It was Cullen who answered, his gaze low on the bodies of his fallen comrades, on the blood congealing on his sword. “The number should have been greater, if mages could do this.”

“Demons did this,” Amell corrected, still pushing healing magic into Rosslyn’s arm.

“And who let the demons out?”

“It doesn’t change out plan,” Rosslyn interrupted, before another argument could start. “We have to find this Niall, and then whoever is behind this.”

“Umm…”

They had forgotten the mage the templars had been chasing. He huddled against the wall like a rabbit watching for a hawk, not quite ready to trust them but flicking his gaze from Amell, to Cullen, to the pile of dust that was all that remained of the demon.

“Did you mention Niall?” he asked.

Rosslyn frowned at him. “Do you know where he is?”

“We got separated…” The young mage shook his head.  

“What happened here?”

“Uldred,” came the reply. “It was Uldred. He told everyone Loghain was going to help free us of the Chantry, and in return we would be supporting him. Some said they wanted to stay neutral, and then the fighting started. He rounded everyone up and took them to the Harrowing chamber, but I don’t know what he’s doing to them.”

“Just when I think I can’t hear more bad things about Loghain,” Alistair scoffed. “How well do you know this Uldred, Enchanter?”

“Not well,” Amell answered. “He’s one of Irving’s aides.”

“Is he powerful?”

“He’s maleficar,” Cullen interrupted. “Who knows what he’s capable of.”

Rosslyn’s focus was still on the mage they had rescued. “What’s your name?”

“Godwin,” the mage answered. “Please, I didn’t do anything, I’m not one of them. Niall had a plan to take the Litany of Adralla to First Enchanter Irving, but there were so many demons. He’s still up on the next level somewhere.”

“Will you come with us?”

Godwin stared. “Are you mad? There’s too many of them to fight – I thought I’d, uh, find a cupboard instead and just be very, very quiet.”

“There’s a group of apprentices hiding in the library,” Amell offered. “We cleared all the demons between here and there.”

“Uh… no, I don’t trust –” He glanced at Cullen. “I mean, I’d rather stay here.”

“Suit yourself.” Rosslyn shrugged, and winced. “Just make sure you stay hidden. We don’t want another abomination sneaking up behind us.”

Godwin squeaked at that, but nodded. Then he cleared his throat again and wished them luck with a tentative smile and a mention that he had seen Niall put the Litany into a pocket before they were separated. The party didn’t look back as they climbed the stairs, as grim determination settled over them once more.

“I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this,” Alistair confessed to Rosslyn quietly a little while later. They had stepped from yet another narrow corridor into a high, vaulted room that must once have served as a common area or refectory, until something had stormed through like a dragon on the rampage and cast the now-shattered remains of the furniture against the walls. The aftereffects of whatever magic had caused the destruction raised gooseflesh even under all their layers of armour, and the silence boomed like the pause that hangs between a flash of lightning and the oncoming roll of thunder.

“South Reach was worse,” she told him, her eyes keen on the shadows.

“We’ll be out of it soon,” he said, almost to himself. “I, for one, am looking forward to a long, hot bath.”

“With bubbles?” she asked.

“And lavender-scented soap, and maybe even one of those painted wooden ducks to keep me company.”

She chuckled. “Those are children’s toys.”

“Ah, but I am a prince,” he pointed out. “If I have painted toy ducks, it’ll start a trend.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” She sighed and dropped her voice. “How do you think our friends are holding up?”

Alistair glanced over his shoulder. “Honestly, not well. This is their home – they know these people, and…”

“They’ve fallen on opposite sides of a very old argument,” she finished for him. “It’s only going to get worse. We need to finish this quickly.”

They trudged on. What little could be seen of the sky outside showed the hours passing as they carved their way through those remaining in the tower and slowly lost hope that they would find more survivors. Pustules of what looked like raw flesh grew like mould on the walls, oozing and growing bigger the closer they stepped to the fourth floor, and every inch increased the latent hum of magic in the air. Rosslyn lost count of the number of abominations that fell to Talon’s edge. At the base of the stairs to the tower’s final floor they found Niall’s body crumpled against a wall, and only managed to fish the litany from his pocket after facing down a blood mage who came at them with half a dozen demons dancing at her fingertips. The parchment was faded, the writing smudged in places where the mage’s blood had soaked it, but Amell read it with confidence, memorising each phrase at one reading. It would have to do as their only secret weapon, because there was no doubt anymore that Uldred knew they were coming. They rested, tended their wounds, ate and drank what was left of their supplies, and moved on.

Nothing attacked them on the fourth floor. The fittings here were richer than the ones they had passed below, more comfortable and more decorative, and the windows were bigger. Late afternoon sun lit the brightly coloured spines of dozens of books and intricate Antivan carpets, and stands of polished swords that stood in racks next to spare shields blazing with the templar Sword of Mercy. It might have been a cosy scene, if not for the tang of metal that coiled at the back of the throat, and the growths of flesh that bulged even more thickly out of the walls. The air was hot, and ripe, and utterly still.  

They found the remaining templars at the foot of the last set of stairs up to the Harrowing chamber. Only a few were left alive. They had been stripped of their armour and thrown into a cage of light, their bodies broken, their minds fled. Babbled words grated through chapped lips, and they did not react to the newcomers, not even when Cullen called them by name and tried to smite the prison wall.  

“Poor buggers,” Alistair muttered. There was a hard line between his brows, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

Rosslyn touched his elbow, remembering what he told her about almost being made a templar. “There’s only one way to help them now.”

“Right. Let’s get this son of a pig and be done with it.”

Uldred was waiting for them. The body of a mage lay unmoving at his feet, and a sickly kind of smile split his face as Rosslyn and the others barged in behind their shields. His baldness made his age difficult to decipher, but he held himself with the absolute confidence of a man in complete control of his surroundings, the very picture of hubris. A crowd abominations lurked behind him, grim distortions of people with melted skin, standing guard over the handful of mages who were left to be put to whatever torture he had in mind for them. An older man was among the group, dressed in finer robes than the others, and his mouth fell open as he watched the four approach, whether to shout a warning or simply out of shock.

“We’re here for Irving,” Rosslyn declared. With her helmet covering her face, the words echoed in her ears.

“Are you now?” Uldred replied, and smiled so all of his teeth were visible. “I must admit, I’m impressed you made it this far. I sensed my demons fall, my prey escaping, the eddies of the disturbance ringing through the Fade, and who is it who comes? Why, the pernicious Falcon of Highever and the bastard brat King Cailan decided to make a prince. I’ll get accolades for ridding Loghain of the two of you.”

“Is he your master then?” She edged away from the door, towards the captured mages.

“There are no more masters,” Uldred snapped. “No more chains. But wait, what is this – Irving’s star pupil.” He advanced, dark eyes fixed on Amell. “You’ve seen how it is for mages, out among the wide world. The fear, the contempt. You’ve seen how unjust the Chantry is to people like us. But you don’t have to suffer like the rest of them. You could join me. I could teach you to –”

Cullen stepped in front of her, sword raised. “You won’t touch her.”

“Don’t be so crude.” Uldred swept his hand to the side like he was swatting a fly, and without warning the templar was picked up by some invisible force and flung across the room.

“No!”

The abominations lunged. Amell was beaten back by the swipe of long, malformed claws even as she tried to push past them to reach Cullen. Rosslyn and Alistair flanked her, catching the blows on their shields, but they were outnumbered, and these abominations had been draining the lives of countless mages for days. Even with more ice spells to slow them down, they barely seemed to feel the wounds inflicted on them.

Uldred ignored them.

“We all knew you fawned over her,” he sneered, prowling towards Cullen. He raised his hand, bringing his prey to his knees in prison of crushing light. “Following her movements like a cat watching a mouse. Did you think we didn’t notice? You and all the others, leashing us, forbidding our true potential.” He squeezed his fist and Cullen cried out. “Did you like what we did to your friends? They proved most interesting diversions.”  

“Uldred, stop it!”  

He turned at that, his face twisted into a sneer all the more sinister for the evenness of his voice. “Uldred? He is gone. I am Uldred and yet not Uldred. I am more than he ever was. I offer you one last chance –”

“No!” Irving interrupted from across the room. His teeth were bared with the effort to speak through whatever enchantment was holding him. “You must stop him. He’s building an army – going to destroy the templars, and then –”

“Enough! You’ve said too much, old man, and I wasn’t talking to –” His words cut off in a yell as Amell used the distraction to douse him in fire.

For an instant the abominations fell back, disorientated. One screeched as Alistair severed its arm, the sound cut off when Rosslyn lunged and cut out its throat, but before they could turn and press their advantage, the flames licking at Uldred’s robes flickered, then dimmed until there was nothing left but the scent of charred cloth.

“Some people can be so stubborn. Resistance, everywhere I go.”

The mage raised his hands again, curling his fingers into claws. A force gripped their limbs, burning through their veins and slowing their movements, and the abominations advanced once more, their horribly broken mouths pulled wide in anticipation –

And then the pressure was gone. The world swam into focus again, along with Amell’s voice, chanting low and melodic from behind a shimmering green barrier. Rosslyn raised Talon and cleaved through the nearest abomination, no longer caring about the ones that closed in behind her. Uldred was the goal. Without him, the rest would flounder. She ducked under one outstretched claw and bashed another aside with her shield, but even running flat out, she wasn’t fast enough to stop him. His form was shifting, growing, his robes tearing at the shoulders and across the waist as his body morphed into the true form of the demon sharing his soul. Chitinous black spikes burst from his skin, his teeth sharpened, and as Rosslyn pulled her sword back to strike, his eyes bled scarlet and any trace of the man he had once been succumbed in a bellow of rage. The creature turned to the attack, conjuring a ball of dark energy in one fist, and in the instant Rosslyn’s blade would have pierced its throat, it hurled the spell at her feet.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair x cousland #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #cousland #the falcon and the rose #cullen rutherford #amell #broken circle

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Remnants, Part IX

Chapter Summary: This chapter is transitional, so bear with me. I’ll be borrowing some ideas from the NATM movies, but mostly doing whatever I want to the plot to make it more Ahk-centric. Part X will be the final, action-packed chapter, but I do have an epilogue outlined, too. 

Part I,  Part II,  Part III,  Part IV,  Part V,  Part VI,  Part VII,  Part VIII

Story Summary: You are in the midst of formulating your dissertation, but you’ve hit a wall. Your doting aunt, Rebecca, has a solution that brings you face to face with Ahkmenrah, Fourth King of the Fourth King. As the connection between you and Ahkmenrah grows, and as the secrets of his ancient tablet unlock, the once-king will find himself faced with a difficult choice.

Thanks so much to @kitkatcronch  @kpopperotp12  @seafrost-fangirl  @sassystrawberryk  @perfect-rami  @txmel   @limabein   and  @rami-malek-trash for reading : ) If anyone else wants added to the taglist, let me know. I’ve greatly appreciated the feedback!

Warnings: None

It was mid-April, and you smiled as the sun warmed your skin. Although the air still held a chill, it was clear from the budding trees lining the courtyard that summer would soon make an appearance. It had been a particularly brutal east coast winter, and even though the thought of summer brought forth deep pangs of nostalgia, the sun was a welcome change.

“Okay, Y/N,” Chelsea said as she flicked a long strand of hair over her shoulder. “One more time from the top.”

 You began the introduction to your thesis defense for the tenth time that afternoon. In two weeks, you would be in front of a room of both your current and potential peers delivering your defense. The details of your work had drawn a lot of curiosity, so your chairs warned you that it would be a full house. You felt your work as a TA prepared you pretty well for addressing a full auditorium, but you knew that you probably wouldn’t sleep properly until this was all over. To secure job offers, your delivery needed to be stellar.

 In addition to professors, a variety of museum directors and field experts, including the museum director of Cairo, were flying in to listen to your defense. Thanks to Ryan, your name had become familiar to the director in Cairo, and he began to closely follow your publications. If your defense went well, you could be fielding offers not only from all over the states, but globally.

 After Ryan’s six months in Africa, he transferred to The University of Sydney to finalize his thesis and finish his PhD. You always had a hunch that he’d return home, and you sent a text congratulating him, wishing him the best. He’d responded something similar and that was the last you had talked to him in a while. As much of a presence as Ry once was in your life, it was shocking how quickly you could put a person behind you.

 Unless, of course, you were still in love with that person. Despite Ahkmenrah’s last words and his desire to no longer see you, your feelings had not waned. The days did get easier, and you were actually prone to smiling and going out with your friends, but when it got quiet, when you ran out of things to keep your mind occupied, your mind flooded with your memories of him.

 It had been eight months since you had seen Ahk, nearly double the time you had actually spent with him. That was one of the reasons you knew your feelings were real, unlike anything you had experienced before. Normally, like with Ryan, when someone was out of your life, they were just that—out. You thought of them less and less until you never thought of them at all. That was the nature of life—people came and went, just like in that verse from the “Prufrock” poem by T.S. Eliot: “In the room the women come and go. Talking of Michelangelo.”  

 You still had to work every single day to keep thoughts of Ahkmenrah at bay.

 Chelsea finalized her markings in your notebook and handed it back to you.

 “I really think you should stick to opening with that in-depth description of the Nile—the sight, the sound, the smell—it’s riveting. It sets up the scene for the Egyptians acceptance of Akhenaten’s proposal—one river that gives life, one god that gives life.”

 You nodded, drawing a star by Chels’s note.

 “I’ll rework the PowerPoint tonight. Can I buy you dinner as a thank-you?”

 Chelsea laughed, “You don’t need to keep feeding me. I’m happy to help. God knows you’ve proofed enough of my papers over the years.”

 You grinned and shrugged your shoulders.

 “Does that mean you aren’t hungry?”

 Chelsea shrugged into her backpack and said, “Hey. Let’s not get hasty now.”

 The two of you giggled together as you decided on a place for dinner.

 * * * * *

 After latching your door and sliding the deadbolt into place, you dropped your backpack by the coffee table and headed to the fridge to grab a water. You wanted to make Chelsea’s suggested change to your PowerPoint presentation and then settle in to do yet another round of edits.

 You nearly had each slide memorized, but when you got to the part of your presentation that challenged your field’s previous notions about Egyptian royalty and argued that the emergence of monogamy in marriages made for a natural evolution to Akhenaten’s monotheistic cult, you paused, your mind swirling with thoughts of Ahkmenrah and his parents.

 You knew once your mind began swirling with memories of Ahk that your proofing skills were rubbish after that, so you shut your laptop and made a cup of tea, sipping it while you watched some light television.

 This was your nightly routine; the more you could push away your thoughts of Ahkmenrah and the museum, the easier it would be to fall asleep.

 You settled into bed, and after about a half an hour of tossing and turning, you fell asleep.

  ~ ~ ~

The cat in your lap purred, its sleek, warm body a welcome weight. You smiled as you stroked the fur behind its ears, noticing that the cat was curled tightly in your lap, settled on your white linen dress that fluttered around your ankles; golden bangles intermixed with brightly colored beaded bangles adorned both of your arms and jingled pleasantly as you moved.

 As you looked up from the sweet creature snuggled on your lap, you smiled as you took in the scene before you. Below, the Nile sparkled in the sun, its lifegiving waters reflecting a deep blue that reminded you of a stormcloud plump with rain. Palm trees littered the banks, grouped in clusters that shaded the grass underneath.

 A strong, but soft hand, one that you knew well, slid over your bare shoulder. Your eyes closed to your husband’s loving touch, his fingers eliciting goosebumps as they slid down your upper arm.

 “Still so sensitive to my touch, love?”

 “Mmm,” you hummed, eyes still shut as Ahkmenrah’s presence enveloped you.

 “Would you like to join me for the meeting with the builders? They believe they have figured out a way to extend irrigation channels into Fayyum to revitalize the fields there.”

 “Oh? That’s excellent news!”

 Ahkmenrah returned your grin, reaching to take your chin in this hand, his fingers grasping the point to tilt your head up. He leaned down for a kiss, sweet, at first, but with a quick swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip, it occurred to you that it was odd for the king to be visiting you mid-afternoon.

 You licked across your lower lip, relishing in the taste of him.

 “Is there something else that you wanted, my king?”

 “I missed you,” Ahkmenrah said with an earnestness that squeezed your heart.

 “I always miss you,” you said, gently prodding your sleepy companion until they leapt off your lap, allowing you to stand and stretch before turning to face your husband.

 You slid your hands up his biceps and locked your eyes onto his. His eyes were particularly blue today, not unlike the Nile. Words weren’t needed as you looked at each other, love etched across both of your faces.

 Ahkmenrah pulled you close to him and closed his lips over yours once more. Soon, you were lost in the passion of the kiss, in the way his body felt against yours, and in the warmth that radiated from his love.

 ~ ~ ~

You gasped as you bolted upright, sweat pooling at your lower back and across your temples. It was the third night in a row that you had this same dream and its vividness continued to overwhelm you. Similar dreams had plagued you over the months, but there was something about the clarity and the purity of emotion within this dream that made it much worse than the others.

 The tears were already formed and as you laid back down, they silently spilled onto your pillow. You knew that no matter the results of your dissertation, you would have to put distance between yourself and Ahk.

 When you loved someone, sometimes you really did have to let them go.

 * * * * *

 Normally, you weren’t one for big parties, but the laughter and spontaneous emission of congratulations along with the buzz of the bar, the clang of glasses, the din of the band in the next room, were all a welcomed cacophony. You hadn’t a clue how many drinks had been bought for you and even worse, consumed by you, but you were the happiest you had been in months.

 You passed!

 You earned your PhD and you had a small pile of job offers to sort through, although you already knew which one you were going to take. It wasn’t quite as much money as some of the others, but it was your dream; and even better than fulfilling your dream, you would be able to give something back to the person who had helped you in your hour of need.

 After you had presented your defense, as you were shaking hands with Dr. Omar Gamal, the director of the Museum of Cairo, an idea took shape and you weren’t ashamed to think that it really was brilliant.

 As you finished the drink in your hand, you gathered everyone’s attention to announce that you were taking the job in Cairo. Cheers erupted and you couldn’t stop grinning as your friends and family took turns congratulating you and peppering you with questions.

 What you didn’t tell anyone was that you already knew exactly what you were going to do once you got there, thanks to Ahkmenrah’s papyruses and your journey through his memories. If you couldn’t be the one to bring happiness into Ahk’s life, then perhaps a reunion with his parents could.

 * * * * *

 By early September, you were well settled in Cairo. Finding Merenkahre and Shepseheret proved to be easier than you expected. In the basement of Cairo’s museum, there was a repository of unidentified mummies, most proving to be average Egyptians who had just enough money to build a decent tomb.

 Apparently, as a final insult, Kahmunrah had buried his parents as commoners to ensure their afterlife would be the opposite of the glorious affair normally reserved for the royals. To Kahmun, a life without luxury was the true punishment, so you really weren’t shocked to find that he did bury both of his parents together. Of course something like love wouldn’t have been valuable to him.

Villains. In the end, they’re all the same.  

 At first, Omar thought you were crazy, and you thought that you were going to for sure get fired. One of the most prominent kings of the Middle Kingdom and his beloved wife were Unidentified Mummies #17 and #18? Impossible.

 But after extensive tests, you were able to prove that the ages and the causes of death matched that of Merenkahre and Shepseheret. What you weren’t able to do was reveal your exact source. It took a lot of cross referencing and circular explanations, but Omar was diverted when you made your proposition for an exciting new exhibit, and even more diverted when you made your proposition to reunite Merenkahre and Shepseheret with their son, Ahkmenrah.

 Omar’s dream was to return all major Egyptian exhibits to their homeland in order to declare them property of the Museum of Cairo. Lending them out to travel the world was one thing, but it was a true indecency when colonizers were the ones who still owned what was taken from the Egyptians’ land.  

 You had sketched up a proposal of showing the three layers of royal Egyptian life—the throne room, the Royal Wife’s garden, and the prince’s chambers. The only hitch in your plan was that to raise the funds for a permanent exhibit in Cairo, you had to build the exhibit at the British Museum of Natural History. If they held the first rights to display, they would fund a permanent exhibit in Cairo.

 The British Museum could also secure the rights to display Ahkmenrah because the American museum was willing to trade Ahk for the mummy of Ahmose-Meritamun; the Americans would then be able to create a female-centric display, something they had been looking to do to showcase the prominence of women during the Ancient Egyptian empire.

 The only thing left to do was to ensure that Larry and Rebecca helped to keep your surprise—when Ahkmenrah was ready to be moved, he should know only the scarcest of details.

 For the first time in a long time, everything was going according to plan.

 * * * * *

 After Omar popped the top of the champagne, the cork skittered across the floor and you and your team laughed as you held out glasses out to catch the bubbly alcohol.

 Merenkahre and Shepseheret’s exhibits were a smash hit. Your PR team had been hyping the return of Ahkmenrah next month to complete the triage of Egyptian royals and opening night had already been sold out.

 The current exhibit of Merenkahre and Shepseheret had been featured in multiple publications and the detail of each layer of royal life had cemented your place as one of the top anthropologists in the world. You never forgot that you owed it all to Ahkmenrah, and you never forgot that you were really doing all of this for him. Within the next month, he would be reunited with his parents.

 Your phone rang, its music invasive and interrupting the happy atmosphere.  

 You sipped the top of your champagne before it could overflow and checked the screen.

 Larry.

 Larry never called. He was a texter, and it had been a long time since you talked. He was still working as the night guard, but he started going to classes to get his teaching degree. Aunt Rebecca was proud of his initiative, and she had kept you up to date on his progress; had she been calling, you wouldn’t have thought twice about letting it go to voicemail and checking it later. But Larry calling . . . something wasn’t right.  

 “I gotta answer this—be right back!” you said as you moved away from the laughter and the even happier chatter.

 “Hey Lar—what’s up?”

 “Y/N! I’m so glad you answered. Look, I’m not sure how to tell you this, and he doesn’t even know I’m calling you because he’d probably sick those jackals on me if he did find out and we all know—”

 “Larry. You’re babbling. What’s going on?”

 “Ahk’s sick.”

 “Sick? He’s a regenerated mummy. He comes back to life in perfect health, perfectly restored. How could he be . . . sick?”

 “It’s the tablet. I think the tablet is . . . dying.”

 You had made your way to the end of the hallway where a large set of stairs led up to the display. You sat down, hard, on the top stair, your body numb, your mind whirring—you were so close to giving Ahkmenrah his parents back. He couldn’t be dying, for fuck’s sake. He just couldn’t be.

 “Tell me everything.”

#Ahkmenrah #ahk #ahkmenrah fanfiction #NATM #natm ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah imagine #ahkmenrah x reader #female reader #rami malek #rami malek's character #ahk x reader

[rosesisupposes]

Hey I saw you were offering fluff and I'm a hoe for Prinxiety, only if you feel motivated too though! Love your writing xxx

So, this may not be what you meant, but… I watched The Unicorn Store the other day and I loved it, and one of the characters’ names was literally Virgil. So in a slight mix-and-matched fashion, here’s that :D

The Store

Pairings: Prinxiety, Moceit (Paternal Royality, Paternal Roceit); brief moment of analogical if you squint.

Warnings: Self-doubt, reference to possible hallucinations; reference to abuse and miscarriage; also, minimal editing

Word Count: much longer than intended 4,434 words

Read on ao3

Roman, dearest Roman, grew up with a deep love for unicorns, and rainbows, and all things glitter. His imagination let him have wild and beautiful adventures with his pet unicorn. His name was Steve.

He drew him, over and over, hoping that if he just nailed it perfectly, his parents would understand, and finally see himBut while Pat and Dee indulged his stories and encouraged his art, it was clear they’d never really understand.

They did send him to art school though

He wanted to love it, wanted to meet all those people who thought like him, who saw the world like him

Unfortunately what he found was a mentor who’s best-known work was a photography series called Stick in a Box

In the final evaluation, they were asked to make a self-portrait

Roman’s classmates had beautifully composed but tiny charcoal drawings of themselves, lined up in neat 8.5x11 boxes

Roman’s drawing was technically perfect, too. But it was a charcoal of a unicorn on a hill, surrounded with stripes of purple, yellow, pink, green, red that stretched off the box, off the canvas, and onto the wall itself. As a final touch, he said a wish to himself and blew on glitter

Unfortunately, his mentor was… unimpressed. And Roman became an art school dropout, back in his dads’ house, shifted to the basement because his room had become a home gym

His dads were still supportive, though. They knew he’d bounce back. But it didn’t always help when they’d talk about “now that you’ve tried that” and “finding a new path”

Also, they kept bringing over their neighbor, Emile, who was Roman’s age. Emile has just started working with them at their retreat service for troubled and at-risk teens. And it’s not that Roman didn’t like Emile, it just felt like… they were prouder of him than their son the failure.

Okay, maybe Roman did dislike Emile.

So in a fit of… jealousy? Desperation? Roman announces he’s joining a temp agency. He’s going to have an office job. So, Dad, Papa, please make sure to purchase plenty of pens and graph paper as he will need them now. He even borrows Pat’s old office clothes. A bit outdated perhaps, but he’s professional now.

He starts at the ad agency/communications firm and damn does he look the part, he’s sure. Even if his work is boring. Even if the people are very caught up in very small concerns.

In the middle of the very, very beige cubicles, and the very, very dull conversations, Roman finds a letter. It has his name on it, spelled in glitter and rhinestones. And it invites him to The Store.

But he’s… he’s being professional now. He’s a businessman. He doesn’t care about frivolity like glitter. Right?

When the second letter arrives, still with his name, still with the same address, still with no signature… well, it might not be smart but he can’t help it

He goes to the address to find a lone, flickering neon sign that says The Store. He walks in to an elevator that has no buttons, but descends on its own. He walks through a pink-lit hallway to a curtain of rainbows, and finally emerges into a grand old room that’s been…. transformed. 

On one side: a gate closes off a clear space. On the other: several grand tables are arranged with fruit and hay bales. The back wall has a long bar and freezers of ice cream. And in the middle, a man stands with a slight smile and adjusts his bright purple tie and the shiny satin matching suit jacket.

“Welcome, Roman!”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been expecting you, of course. Though you are late, by several days. It’s rather impolite not to respond to an invitation immediately, you know.”

“What is this place?”

“It’s the Store. And I am the Salesman.” Roman notices what definitely looks like long strings of tinsel in the man’s dark hair.

“What kind of store?”

“The kind that sells  that and only that which you need”

“Which is?”

“Roman, don’t be ridiculous. You know what it is. You’ve known your whole life.”

The Salesman flicks on the huge screen above the door. Footage of graceful horses under rainbows, horses in meadows, horses sleeping… except they all have a beautiful, spiral horn in their foreheads.

“Unicorns?! You have real, actual unicorns?”

“Yes we do. And I contacted you specifically to make you this offer: we have a unicorn, just for you.”

Roman starts to tear up.  "Really? You do? For me? I was right, all this time? Oh my goodness, can i see her? Him? Them? Do unicorns have genders?“

“They do, if they want them. Yours isn’t here yet: you need to prove you’ll take good care of them first. A unicorn isn’t just a pet, you know. They’re a commitment. They will love you forever. Can you keep one safe forever?”

“I think I can,” Roman responds, though he’s still jittery and very glittery.

“Excellent! Here’s the first requirement, then,” the Salesman responds. He pulls out a shiny folder.  In it is a description of “Sheltering and Feeding Your Unicorn”

“Do you have space to accommodate a unicorn? Can you feed one? To qualify for unicorn ownership, you must first demonstrate that you’re able to provide for them.”

Roman thinks of his basement room with a wince. “Uh, not yet. But I will!”

“And can you demonstrate that you’re stably employed, able to continue providing?”

“I will do that too.”

He heads off in a whirlwind of giddy and righteous energy. He’s getting a unicorn. He’ll do whatever it takes!

First stop is the hardware store. He finds a man in the lumber section.

“Hello good sir! I am in the market for lumber.”

“Whatcha building.”

“A stable.”

“How big’s the horse?”

“Uh, not quite a horse, but um. Bigger than a pony, but you know, they can probably become whatever size I need them to be. Um, just your average small horse, I suppose?”

“Where you buildin’ it?”

“My bedroom”

The man stares, then picks up his radio. “Virgil, please report to the lumber department.”

“Will he be able to help me?”

The man doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and walks off

Roman wanders until he finds the worker with the nametag “Virgil”

“So, are you the builder?”

“Uh, what?”

“The man said you could help me.”

“Yeahhh, he definitely just said that to fuck with me. I’m not really a carpenter, I just do stock.”

“Well, you know more about it than me! Maybe you could try?”

Virgil stares down at Roman earnest smile, then finally sighs. “I mean, I’m gonna get paid, right? Might as well.”

He’s then the first to point out that Roman’s… ‘pony’ won’t want to live in his basement.

But in the backyard, there’s the slightly-rotted ruins of Roman’s childhood castle. It’s not structurally sound, but the space is good. And maybe some of the wood is salvageable. Roman starts kicking in the walls for good measure, and Virgil, with a strange fascination bordering on entertainment, joins in at his urging.

The hardest part is keeping his parents from asking about Virgil’s visits. Roman is very tired of being reminded that among his many failings, he doesn’t even have a partner. And the eagerness with which Dad and Papa ask about the ‘young man’’ who keeps visiting kinda makes it obvious they hope that’s why. In Pat and Dee’s defense, they’re not trying to be pushy. They just saw the conspiratorial smiles Roman kept flashing Virgil, and the bemused but amused smiles Virgil returned.

But Roman’s getting a unicorn. Who needs a boyfriend when the unicorn will love him more than any human ever could or has.

Roman returns to The Store. “I’m building a stable, and I have an appointment to go buy hay. What’s next?”

“Ah, good. Now that you’re building a home worthy of a unicorn, you need to ensure the full environment is appropriate. Here, hold this.”

The Salesman hands Roman a spiraled cone. It feels like ivory, but is far too heavy.

“Is this…?”

“Yes, a horn. They’re fragile creatures, but the weight of caring from one is all too real. Will your unicorn be surrounded by support and love? Is there a healthy family environment for them to come home to?”

Roman realizes that he’s not been on… particularly good terms with his dads. And it’s probably not all their fault. So he volunteers to join a weekend retreat: rafting and camping with the kids. And Dad, and Papa. And Emile

If there’s one thing Roman can say for Emile, it’s that he’s a really great trier. He’s not particularly good at paddling. He volunteers to pitch a tent on his own and…. Well. It got up eventually.

Roman’s helping two of the teens assemble their own tent when Pat calls out to get ready for Truth Circle. The girls snort  under their breath but call back to say they’re coming. 

“What’s truth circle?”

“Ugh, it’s so lame. It’s going around and sharing and they want it to be some deep shit. But I make up something every time and they can’t tell.”

True to her word, the young woman, sitting around the campfire, tells a tearful story of how her mom cut up all her tube tops and she just misses them, so much. A young man says he’s "so tired of assumptions just because i like loud music, and like knives, doesn’t mean i’m gonna attack my English teacher! I like my English teacher." 

To each pronouncement, Pat and Dee nod seriously, occasionally offering "Thank you” and “Good share”

Roman just feels worse and worse, knowing that all of these kids are probably laughing at his dads on the inside, so when they ask if he’d like to share anything…

“I’ve been working really hard lately, trying to improve my life,” he starts, and Pat and Dee are beaming, holding hands. “I really want to make it all worth it, you know? Because growing up, people kept wanting to not play with me, and every birthday I wished for the same thing: someone to love me, unconditionally. And I know I’ve been flighty, and selfish, but I’m finally at a turning point where all my hard work feels worth it. And It’s because I’m finally about to get the one thing I’ve always wanted: a unicorn.”

His dads’ faces drop. “Uh, kiddos, we’re gonna have a quick lil mini family circle over here, okay? Emile, you want to lead some campfire songs?”

Pat is the first to speak. "Ro, I was so happy when you told us you wanted to come, but this is just rude. This weekend is for the kids, why can’t you pretend to take it seriously?”

Dee puts a calming hand on Pat’s shoulder. “Roro, your dad’s right. If you wanted to make jabs at us for not getting you a puppy, you could have done that at home.”

Roman tries to explain. “No, I mean it, I’m working on getting one. I’m making a good home for it and everything. I wouldn’t lie about this!”

“Oh, and you didn’t lie about 'Steve’ eating all the cotton candy all those years?”

“That doesn’t count, I was a child!”

“And yet you’re still acting like one”

Roman is practically crying with frustration. “You know they’re the ones lying, right?” he whisper-screams. “All those kids. Just making up whatever bullshit they think you’ll accept. And I sit here, actually telling the truth, and you don’t believe me!”

Dee sighs. “We know they lie, Ro. Of course they do. Her mom beats her,” he gestures with his head to a girl. “His father passed away suddenly. Xe had a miscarriage. They just got out of an emotionally abusive relationship. They all lie, outrageously, and then suddenly one day they’re telling the truth because they trust that now no one will believe them when they’re actually vulnerable. But we know, and we’re there when they do.”

“Is that the problem?” Pat asks softly. “Were we just bad enough parents that you’re doing the same thing to us?”

“No, of course not!” Roman insists. He’s properly crying now. “I’m trying to tell you…” He trails off, seeing their disbelief. ��Fine. I’ll just… go. You guys can adopt Emile instead.”

In the background, Emile pops his head up. “Did someone call me?”

All three shout back, “NO!”

Roman stares at his dads for another moment, helplessly, then stomps off.

He fucked up. Now there won’t be a loving family environment. Now he’ll never get his unicorn.

He gets home and glares at the rainbows and Care Bears and streamers in his room, then starts bagging them up. All of them. All of the old drawings, and paints, and especially the glitter. Plus the hay he’d lovingly dyed rainbow, and the huge amount of carrots.

He throws them all in bags and goes to toss them in the backyard, when he can no longer hold it back and starts to cry. All these hopes he’d been building. All his childhood dreams coming true. All for nothing.

He hides in the grey basement all weekend, staring at the dumb assignment about a dumb vacuum for his dumb job. He was urged to make a pitch for the ad campaign, unless he wants to stay a temp forever. And even if he can’t get his unicorn, he’d like to create something again. But a vacuum? a “mystic” vacuum? What even is that.

On Sunday afternoon, he hears power tools from the backyard, and drags himself outside to tell Virgil he can stop working on the dumb stable now. But Virgil hasn’t just finished the stable. He’s decorated. 

And it is an explosion of color.

“Oh my goodness gracious,” he breathes, looking at all the rainbows painted up and down the walls. Drawings are pasted all around, with strings of tinsel everywhere. “Are these… my drawings?”

“Uh, yeah, you put all the materials out here, isn’t that why?”

“Did I put all these in those bags?”

“Well, no- your dads saw what I was doing and brought out their favorites of your art to add”

“They… like my art? But it’s all the unicorns, I thought…”

He brushes away a tear. His original drawing of Steve is here, a big red heart with a very spiky stick figure. And so is his high school masterpiece, a photorealistic unicorn rearing in the sunset.

Virgil scuffs a sneaker against the ground. Like the stable, he’s a little technicolor, splats of paint on his pants and shoes and face. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?”

“I… you made an art show of me. Of all I’ve done over the years. And you didn’t give up on this ridiculous project. Thank you, Virgil. I love it.” He stares, and suddenly grins. “Hey, any chance there’s some glitter left over? I have an idea.”

He prepares a gorgeous, glitter-filled presentation for the damn vacuum, and even makes it a demonstration of how well it works in one go. It’s the Mystic Vacuum. It’s dreams coming true. It’s an experience. 

But the working world does not care if employees are going through a coming-of-age realization. Cubicles are immune to your thinking-outside-the-box thinking. The 'safe’ presentation of terribly restricted gender norms gets the ad.

He comes home, a little crushed, but Pat’s there waiting for him.

“Papa, I fucked up. Again. I just… really suck at being a grown-up”

“Did you go for it, though? Did you try?”

“..yeah”

“Did you care about doing it?”

“…yeah”

“Then you’re doing great, kiddo. The most grown-up thing you can do is fail at something you care about.”

Roman sniffs, and hugs Patton tightly. “Thanks, Pop Star”

“Now, do you want to hear what Emile did?”

Roman struggles for a moment. “I’m trying very hard to be grown-up, but I really don’t.”

“No trust me. You do.”

Roman eyes him warily.

"When we were coming back from the campsite, he got tangled up in his own life jacket. And fell into the water because of it.”

“…really?”

“Mmmhmm. And… I may have taken longer than I should have to get him out because I had to not be laughing when I pulled him back into the boat.”

Roman chuckles, then laughs, and Pat’s laughing too.

And suddenly, Roman notices something.

“What are those on the wall? Are those my paintings?”

“Oh those? Yesirree!”

“Did you just put them up?”

“Of course not. They’ve been up since you sent them home in freshman year, sweetie.”

“…you didn’t help Virgil just because you felt bad?”

“Oh honey, no. We’ve always loved your art.” Patton ruffles his hair. “We just want you to be happy.”

Thanks to Pat, Roman shakes off his setback, and when he sees a call from Virgil, he picks up eagerly. They go out for dinner, Roman still in his glitter from the presentation. And it is… wonderful. Virgil is sarcastic and witty, and only ever seems to mock Roman with the same level of skepticism he gives literally everyone else.

Until he finally asks, “So, now that it’s done, when are you getting the pony?That’s the big secret, right, you’re actually buying a pony?" 

And Roman smiles and says, "Almost.”

“You see, I’m getting a unicorn.”

And Virgil stares a moment. Then he cracks a smile. “Cute, I get it. Like the pictures.”

“No, for real!” Roman tells him. “I’ve been working on this so that I can get a unicorn. I mean, I don’t know if I’m back in the running, but I think I fixed the family environment too so, hopefully.”

And now Virgil goes still. He’s concerned. 

“Um. So, where is this unicorn coming from?”

“The Unicorn Store,” Roman responds matter-of-factly.

“Uh-huh,” Virgil nods slowly. “And that’s definitely a real place.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there several times. It’s lovely, and the Salesman is wild.”

Virgil’s eyes are a little bit bugging out of his head now. "The Salesman?”

“Yeah, he gave me the steps I need to get my unicorn. Place to live, nice environment, prove i can support them, you know. Like pet adoption, but better.”

“You gave him your financial information? Ro, I know you’re really excited but… this sounds like a scam.”

“Why does no one believe me? It’s real, I swear. There’s even a hay-staurant.”

“…you say you’ve been there? Can I come see?”

“I don’t see why not”

But when they get there, nothing seems right. The entryway sign is gone. The elevator still moves, but it doesn’t open to a pink hallway. And in the room… the decorations are gone. The Salesman isn’t there. The screen is missing. And Roman… starts to doubt. Virgil isn’t surprised, but he’s worried. Roman looks so heartbroken… did he really believe in this? A grown man, thinking he’d actually get a unicorn?

“Ro, we should go. If you need help making sure that guy hasn’t used your info to, I don’t know, buy random things, withdrawing money… I can help.”

“No,” Roman insists. “No, he’ll be back. I’ll stay.”

“Roman, c'mon, don’t do this…”

“I know what I saw!” he shouts. “It was real!”

“I don’t doubt he did a great job with the showmanship, Ro. I believe you. But he’s clearly gone now, and… it might be time to assume he’s not coming back.”

Roman doesn’t turn, and Virgil sighs. He keeps hoping Roman will relent, but if there’s one thing he’s already learned about this man, it’s that he’s stubborn. So he leaves alone. And Roman waits until he hears the elevator leave to break down.

Virgil, walking out, feels something in his shoe. He checks - it’s hay. Rainbow hay. But he expected that - it was a scam, right? A well-done scam. He walks on.

Roman goes home and finds himself just sitting in the stable, dejectedly. It’s so lovely, and it made him so happy but… He knew he was a daydreamer. Had he really fallen for such a ridiculous thing?

Dee and Pat find him together, and sit with him in the stable. 

“It’s really well built,” Pat comments.

“And your art is lovely,” Dee says, fondly tracing a unicorn horn on the wall.

Roman sniffs. “It’s just a catalog of mania at this point. My slow descent into madness.”

Dee hugs him around the shoulders. “Roberry, you’re not crazy. You have a spark that is just… so unique. No one could hope to match the way you view the world. Hell, even I can’t. Neither can your Papa. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It means we’re just limited.”

“Is this some of that feel-d trip stuff you tell the troubled teens?”

Dee grins. “Nah, they never believe the sappy shit. This is just for you.”

Roman wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment.”

Dee and Pat object in one voice. 

Dee continues, “Hun, you are so loved. By us, by the people who meet you… You’re joy, Roman. You remind people of joy.”

“And that boy seems to really like you, too.”

Roman groans. “He definitely thinks I’m crazy.”

“Give him a chance, okay?” Pat asks, patting Roman’s shoulder. “He might surprise you.”

“He built this, didn’t he?” Dee asks, gesturing around. “He’s gotta like you at least a little.”

The next day, Roman goes back to the hardware store, looking for him. He searches every department, and all the back rooms he can sneak into, but nothing. No Virgil. He ends up sitting in the backyard, glaring at the stable, but still… hoping.

He’s interrupted one day by a very tentative knock on the back gate. And Virgil comes out, looking sheepish. 

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to disappear…”

“I was looking for you at the hardware store?”

“I got transferred, actually. Turns out having a full construction project to my name means your boy got promoted. I’m… sorry, about the store. I shouldn’t have left you so abruptly.”

“It’s okay. And congrats.”

Virgil sits in the stable next to Roman, and smiles when Roman leans over on his shoulder.

He’s about to suggest they get coffee when Roman’s phone starts ringing.

“Hello?”

“Congratulations, Roman! He’s arrived!”

“Who is this? Who’s arrived?”

“The Salesman, of course. And your unicorn. He is here in the store, waiting for you.”

Virgil stares at the phone. “That’s him?” he mutters. “Here, if he’s a scammer, let me talk to him, okay?”

“I… you’re sure? He’s there?” Roman asks. His heart is in his throat. What if it really all had been true? What if Virgil scares him away? “I came by, and you were gone…”

“We don’t set up the full store for just anyone, Roman. It’s not for him. It’s just for you. But you need to let me know if you’re serious about this unicorn. If you don’t want him, there’s a woman who’s qualified who needs him just as much.”

“I’m coming!” Roman interjects. “Don’t give him away, please! I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

He jumps up and is practically sprinting to the car, Virgil barely able to keep up. 

“Roman, can I at least come with?”

“Yes, sure, just don’t tell me not to go,” Roman says, practically vibrating with excitement.

The decorations aren’t fully back, but the sign outside is, at least. They descend through the elevator, and this time… the hall isn’t empty.

“Ah, Roman! You made it! And I see you brought… a companion,” the Salesman says, eyeing Virgil suspiciously. “He will, of course, have to stay out here while you meet him.”

“He’s really here?” Roman asks breathlessly. “My…?”

“Your unicorn, yes. I called you to say so, did I not? He’s right through those doors.”

“And I can meet him?”

“Yes, of course. You don’t have to take him home - as I said, another woman also needs him if you don’t want to anymore”

Virgil outright staring at the Salesman’s outfit. It’s blue today, all satin and rhinestones and tinsel. But still with a nicely-tied tie. The Salesman looks back, and adjusts his glasses. “Salutations.”

Roman approaches the doorway slowly, and eases it open. Rainbows spill out as he walks in, letting the door close behind him.

He is…. beautiful.

He’s there, in real life. A huge, graceful horse with a pearl horn and a shimmery mane. He wickers at Roman’s approach.

“Hi,” Roman breathes. “You’re… oh my god, you’re here. It’s Mr. Unicorn, right? Do you care?”

The creature nods.

Roman feels tears rolling down his cheeks as he reaches out a gentle hand to caress the beautiful thing’s nose.

“I’ve waited for you for so long. I wished for you every birthday. I would close my eyes and think 'send me someone to love me, unconditionally, for me.’" He smiles wetly. "I called you Steve.”

“And I…  I worried so badly that you weren’t real, because I needed you to be real. I needed you to really, really love me. But…” Roman looks into a pair of soft brown eyes, huge and understanding. They feel… familiar. 

“But I can’t bring you home with me. Because there’s a woman out there who needs you more than I do. And you are going to love her, okay? You’re going to love her and support her, and never judge her dreams. You’re going to make sure she knows you love her. And… and you make sure she never feels alone, okay?”

The unicorn nods, and nuzzles Roman’s chest. He wipes his eyes. “I’m going to hug you now, is that okay?” Another nod.

Roman throws his arms around the equine neck, breathing in the strange mix of lavender and sugar and sunlight that is the unicorn’s scent. A hair from the mane gets stuck to him, and easily breaks off. He tries to give it back, but the unicorn shakes his head. A memento. Just for him.

He turns to go, and sees the Salesman has entered, and brought Virgil with him. Virgil is staring, open-mouthed.

“Mr. The Salesman- I can’t take him. Please give him to the woman you mentioned, okay? She earned it, right?”

“She did. And since you no longer are a client, you can just call me Logan.”

Roman wipes his eyes, but holds tight to the single hair. “As long as he’s happy.”

“Will you be?” Logan asks. His face doesn’t betray any emotion.

Roman walks to Virgil’s side, and takes his hand. “Yeah, I think I will.”

fin

taglist:  @residentanchor @royally-anxious @bewarethegrammarpolice  @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse​ @thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty @max-is-tired @almostoveranalyzed

#Roses Writes Fanfic #the unicorn store #platonic prinxiety #roman-centric <3 #romangst #moceit #paternal royality #parternal roceit #roman sanders appreciation #roman sanders #ts deceit #deceit sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #it's important to me that you know i didn't change virgil's name from the movie

[alienduckpond]

Back in town - ch2 - Different Feelings

1 - Good Day

As Arlo introduces Ella to people around town, he contemplates how some of those people are making him feel

-~-

Sipping his drink as he leaned back against the counter, Arlo watched with a smile as Ella babbled happily with Sonia, Antoine, and Emily. It was kind of amazing to see how much twelve years away hadn’t changed her, while at the same time, it kind of had.

She had the same smile, the same laugh, the same blunt way of talking. But she somehow seemed a lot calmer and more together than he remembered her being, besides the whole throwing herself at him thing. 

When Gale had called out to them as they were crossing the plaza, and given Ella a list of shop owners in town to talk to, to help her settle in, he’d half expected her to hide behind him and go quiet, same as she had every time Gale had approached her as a child. But she wasn’t a shy seven year old anymore, and so had smiled and thanked him politely, actually making small talk with him before he’d hurried off to see Ginger. And when Arlo had led her into the Round Table for the lunch he’d offered her, she’d been happy to shake Django’s hand and join in with his jokes and laughter.

Until Sonia had seen her that was.

Sonia's happy shriek as she ran over to grab Ella and spin her round in a circle had drawn the attention of everyone in the restaurant, and Antoine and Emily had rushed over to join in too. And while Ella had seemed startled at first, she quickly relaxed into the happy bubbly person who’d jumped at him in the guild, and was chatting away to them like she’d just seen them yesterday.

He honestly didn't remember the four of them being that close before, he mused, swirling his drink. Ella had preferred to follow him around pretending to fight monsters rather than join in whatever safe game the other three were playing. But then, they had all been in the same learning group at school, being closer to her age than he was.

Django leaned on the counter next to him, and a quick glance showed him smiling indulgently at the group standing in the middle of the room.

"It sure is nice to see the young folk being so lively, don't you think? Makes me almost feel young again myself."

Arlo hummed happily as he watched them, content to stay sitting down. While he wasn’t that much older than any of them, the stress of being Captain certainly felt like he’d aged an extra ten years sometimes, so he’d take every chance to relax he could get.

"They certainly have energy," he agreed, draining the rest of his drink then setting the glass down on the counter. He noticed the paper boxes next to Django’s elbow and made a questioning noise as he pointed at them, picking them up at his answering hum, then pushing himself to his feet. 

“Thanks Django, I’ll be back later to settle the tab.”

“No rush my boy, take your time and make sure young Gaby there knows her way around town, and meets everyone she’s meant to. And be sure to bring her back for a proper meal sometime soon. I’d love to hear whatever stories she has from Barnarock.”

He nodded, then turned towards the group still standing in the middle of the floor. He caught Emily’s eye, who nudged the others to all turn to him, then lifted up the boxes and gave Ella a pointed look. She pouted but nodded, giving the others one last hug before joining him as he walked to the door.

“Aaaah, that was fun! I’m going to have to catch up with them properly at some point, but it was so amazing to see them! Say, who else is still here in town? Is Barb still here? And what about Ty? He always said he wanted to head to Walnut Groove and hit the stage. And what about-”

She cut herself off with a squeak when the door swung open as she reached for it, and he only just managed to shoot his hand forward and catch it before it hit her in the face. She slowly opened her eyes from her flinch to stare at the edge of the wood, less than a hand’s breadth in front of her, before yelping and stumbling back a few steps. He looked her over carefully, checking if she was actually hurt, before straightening to his full height and pulling the door the rest of the way open. Albert was standing on the step and looking up at him, startled.

“Albert,” he gritted out, acknowledging the other man, who winced and took half a step back as his shoulders hunched up.

“I’m sorry mate, I didn’t expect anyone to be right behind it. Are you ok Miss? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Arlo stared at him blankly, because no, fine, that was fair. He couldn’t really hold it against him, and Ella was already laughing anyway, and holding his arm as she leaned around him.

“No, I’m fine thanks." She glanced up at Arlo quickly, looking expectant, and he blinked at her before realising she wanted an introduction.

“This is Albert, he co-owns A and G Construction along with Gust. Don’t,” he warned her as she pulled a face, suddenly remembering how much they hadn’t gotten on before. Oooh, that was going to be fun.

She shot him a quick glare, looking like she’d bit a lemon, then closed her eyes to take a slow breath, before smiling at Albert and sticking out her hand. "Hi! I’m Gaby, the new builder, I just moved into the old workshop by the west gate. It’s nice to meet you.”

“So you’re the new builder are you?” Albert asked, reaching out to take the hand she’d offered him, and Arlo felt his shoulders tense at the distinct change in his tone. “Hello there. My company handles all the building and workshop upgrades in Portia, so I’m sure we’ll be getting to know each other pretty well soon enough.”

“Huh, I can upgrade stuff?” Ella asked, sounding interested, and he growled low in his throat when he saw the sparkle in Albert’s eye because Peach help him, no. No, he had to find some way to keep Albert from being alone with her, because there was no way, no way at all that he was going to stand back and allow that giant flirt to try and put the moves on his little Ella!

“I’ll come by with her later so you can explain Albert, but we were just leaving?” Arlo said, a hint of steel in his voice he was very grateful to see Albert picked up on, from the way his eyes darted to his face and he then swallowed.

“Ah, right. I’ll be seeing you around then.”

“Yeah, see you!” she chirped, seemingly oblivious to the tension between him and Albert, and walked ahead of him outside into the sunlight. He tried to breathe slowly and relax his muscles as he passed her one of the lunches Django had made for them, before wrapping his arm around her shoulders to start them moving. 

He chewed his lip as he thought over that interaction, trying to decide if he was being paranoid, or if it was even his place to decide who could or couldn’t flirt with her. But no, no he knew what Albert was like, and he'd seen the way his attitude changed when he realised she wasn't a tourist. And she was practically his sister, so he could at least warn her, right?

“Be careful of him,” he told her as levelly as he could as they headed down the main street. “He’s got something of a reputation in town.”

“Well, yeah, I can imagine,” she agreed, letting him steer her through the gate under the sky bridge into the park and moving to sit down in the middle of the grass facing Alice’s flower shop. “Co-owning a construction company must mean he’s pretty smart, and probably rich. He’s gotta be super nice too I imagine, to put up with grumpy old windy-pop.”

He sighed as he settled down next to her, watching fondly as she flipped open her box and started to dig in to her food, slurping up noodles loudly. 

“You shouldn’t call him that,” he chided gently as he pulled a napkin from his pocket and dropped it on her knee, before copying her less messily. “Gust had a lot going on back then, and he’s a lot better nowadays. Sort of. And you’re probably going to end up working with him quite a lot so you’ve got to at least try.” 

He didn't want to deal with a reemergence of their old, whatever it had been. Because while Gust was nowhere near as antagonistic as he’d been when they were young, he still seemed to struggle with ‘civil’ sometimes. And while things had improved a little right before Ella had left, with Gust actually helping her with the loss of her Ma and all, he could see her sparking up his old petty streak very easily. She looked at him flatly, clearly not believing him, and he decided he’d have to work on convincing her.

“And I meant a different kind of reputation,” he went on, raising his eyebrows at her and hoping she'd catch his meaning, but apparently she didn’t. She simply stared at him, eyes wide and curious and not even a hint of comprehension in them.

"Well what kind did you mean then?"

He hesitated, then sighed as he shook his head. He was starting to remember more about her, and how she’d been kind of oblivious about some things, and had had no interest at all in the ‘sappy stuff’ that the others sometimes played at. He watched her blink a few times, before shrugging and going back to her meal. It was fine, he decided. He'd just make sure to chat with Albert before he could try anything, make sure he knew how important Ella was to him, and how unhappy he’d be if Albert were to try and mess with her, or ignored his hints like he ignored Gust’s to stay away from Ginger. And then he’d try to have this talk with Ella again, after he’d worked out how to say... whatever it was he needed to say?

"Oooh, who's that? He’s so fluffy!"

Ella was staring towards the main street, and he looked over to see Oaks waiting by the metal bars, looking straight at him. He lowered his box of food and dropped his fork in it, and Oaks took the invitation to walk over.

“Hello,” Oaks said, giving a little wave at Ella, who waggled her fork back at him. Arlo cleared his throat, brows raised, and Oaks stood up a little straighter.

“Sorry to bother you Arlo, but Papa said there’ve been some strange monsters by the falls all morning, and he thought you should know.”

“What sort of strange?” he asked, starting to frown. While he trusted Abu’s judgement, his definition of strange covered a wide range of things.

“He wasn’t sure, but he said whatever it is is leaving big tracks, and smells mean. And it looks like the group of Mudcrabs on the other bank is smaller than yesterday.”

“Right,” Arlo said with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for telling me, we’ll make sure to check it out. Tell him to stay away from the falls for a while, I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Oaks nodded at him, though his attention was clearly on Ella, who had scooted forward and was ghosting her fingers just above the fur at the bottom of his cloak.

“Erm, hi?”

“Oh,” Ella squeaked, snatching her hand back as her head snapped up to face Oaks. “Erm, sorry. It just looks so soft. What sort of fur is it?”

“It’s ok, you can go ahead and touch it. It really is nice and soft.” Oaks grinned, squatting down next to her and sticking his arm out, fur side up. “It’s a bear skin, so I can match my Papa.”

“Your Papa wears a bear cloak too then?” she asked, her hand brushing along the fur, before her fingers sunk a little ways into it. Arlo started eating again, watching carefully. While he was pleased she was actually talking to Oaks without prompting, he wasn’t sure if he should be concerned by the slight blush on her cheeks, or the way she was looking up through her fringe at him.

“No. Papa is a bear.”

He quickly shoved a large forkful of spaghetti in his mouth to stop the laughter bubbling out at the completely blank expression that crossed Ella’s face. Oaks tilted his head to the side, also watching Ella as her mouth silently worked, her brows drawing together and her nose scrunching up. She stayed like that for a breath, before shaking her head and smiling again. She had apparently decided for now to ignore the entire issue that, based on what she’d been like as a child, he was certain was now bothering her immensely, and he’d be getting a million questions over later.

“Ok. That’s cool,” she said quickly, in what was definitely her ‘not dealing with this right now’ voice. “This really is nice and warm. Don’t you get hot wearing it?”

Oaks didn’t even blink at the abrupt change in topic. “Oh, no, see, it’s only really held on by this strap and at my fingers, so the rest isn’t actually close to my skin. Here, do you want to try it on?”

He froze, only half listening as Ella waved him off, laughing and leaning back and saying something else.

That had sounded an awful lot like flirting to him. And that was making him feel, something. 

Because while he would happily admit that Oaks was a fine, strong, dependable young man, who had grown up a lot in recent years, his opinion of him would always be clouded by his initial impression. That of a scruffy young boy covered in mud and not much else, barely speaking anything other than animal noises, who had scared Emily by jumping out of a bush holding a baby llama.

The thought of Oaks flirting with Ella, his little Beany Boo, was, well.

It was giving him a different feeling to when he’d thought Albert was going to flirt with her, that was for sure, but it still wasn’t a good thing.

But then, they didn’t look like they were flirting? he questioned to himself as he watched them, both wide eyed and listening intently as the other talked, but sitting back and giving each other plenty of space. And again, was it even his place?

He sighed silently as he listened to Ella laugh loudly at something Oaks was saying. It seemed he had a lot more to chew on than just his lunch.

-~-

3 - BooBoo Pouch

#My Time At Portia #MTAP #mtap arlo #mtap fanfiction

[countesspetofi]

I thought I'd like to share with you this little story that my family used to read aloud every Christmas. It's got all the mid-century holiday anxieties: fear of overconsumerism, distrust/dislike of the younger generation, distrust of technology, war toys, "I am a human being: do not fold, spindle, or mutilate," fear of loss of individuality, and a general fondness for complaining. I've tried to preserve all the old-timey formatting choices.

But we always got a lot of laughs out of it, and certain lines have become stock phrases in our family jargon. Plus, it flashes me back to two of my former jobs, assembling furniture and technical writing. Consider it our gift to you this holiday season, and you don't even have to assemble it yourself.

MERRY CHRISTMAS IN TEN PIECES

by Robert Yoder

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he has a home near the North Pole, where it is colder than a bathroom floor. But don't believe that story about his having a lot of little dwarfs who put toys together for him, singing as they hammer. Nobody puts toys together, until Christmas Eve. Toys come in sixteen pieces, with one missing, and are put together by a large band of Involuntary Elves who call ourselves Santa's Press-Gang Helpers. We don't exactly sing, either, although a certain low, ominous murmur can be heard rising from a million homes on Christmas Eve. Put it this way, kid: that ain't no dwarf; that's your old man, beaten down. The luckless peon bought the toys; now he is learning that he has to finish manufacturing them, too, and by one A.M. his mood will make Scrooge seem like Sunny Ebenezer.

The first thing your frightened eye lights on, in the store, is a nice little red wagon, and you think, in your fatuous adult way, that this is just the thing to brighten the young heart. If you weren't partially paralyzed by the fear that you were shopping too late, you would realize that if the kid wants a wagon at all, it isn't this chaste little model. He would want one twice the size, with demountable tires, a ram-jet engine, electric lights, an overdrive and a windshield wiper, at $79.75. The kid next door has had one like that for two years and uses it only to haul his good toys in. Then you see the rocket-firing antiaircraft gun and realize that this is the answer. While it will not do bodily harm, and is therefore a partial bust to start with, it is a realistic-looking little number, and you buy it, at an exceedingly realistic price.

About the hour on Christmas Eve when you are in mild shock for fear the thing won't arrive, the delivery man stumbles in with a large package that can't be anything else. Will you put it under the tree that way? Or will you have it out in the open, so the child may see this splendid sight first thing in the morning? Full of Christmas sentiment, you decide to expose the gun to full, gladsome view. So you tear off the wrapping. Here is a dial, here is a leg, here is a muzzle. You thought it would look like the model in the store, did you? Well, Santa has a little surprise for you. It's in pieces, and you are going to have to put it together. Merry Christmas, in at least ten pieces.

There is a sheet or folder of directions which could not get under your skin worse if they were in Spanish. They are written in the special language of directions, a mechanical gobbledegook achieved by writing the directions first in Ruthenian and then allowing the translation to curdle. A stop sign from the same mumbling pen would take 200 words. In the language of directions, "Close the door" would read like this: "Grasp door-opening device with right knob grasper and exert pressure outward until Panel A fills Aperture B. If scream is heard, other hand may be caught in opening." Along with being as turgid as possible, the directions are printed in a miniature type face known as Myopia Old Style, which is two sizes smaller than pearl and is otherwise used only to print the Declaration of Independence on souvenir pennies. Well, lying there in pieces, the gun looks like nothing at all; it's got to be assembled. The first line you encounter in the directions says: "Using ring grasper from Assembly Kit, grasp collector ring near tube spar tightening guide rod"... but, thank heaven, that goes with some other toy. Your own directions start out more simply: "Connect round opening at end of Feeder Spring A with hooked end of trigger lock restraining bar by placing round opening over hook and pressing." What'd he think you'd do - spot-weld it? (The answer, unfortunately, is that he expects more than that, but not just yet.) Now the guy begins getting esoteric.

"If retaining mechanism fails to admit trigger, horizontal opening of drum impeding stopper should be widened horizontally." He means if the damned trigger won't go into the guard, you got to cut more room, and sure enough, it won't. This is going to be the only gun in the neighborhood with a demountable (falling out) trigger, unless you fix it. If retaining mechanism fails to admit what it's supposed to retain, then it should never have left the factory, but it's too late for that kind of recrimination now. Getting a hammer from the basement, a good paring knife and a screwdriver, you manage to make the trigger go where it should, with one very bad moment when you think you've split the thing.

Well, the barrel, H, slides into place nicely; maybe things are beginning to go your way. The next step is to fit Firing Platform Z on Tripod, the Tripod being made by inserting Metal-tipped Ends of Legs into Sockets, which is child's play. Now all it takes is two bolts, L and M, which you slip into place with great efficiency. They must be firmly in place, the directions say, or gun will not swivel on Platform Z; you might say, it won't swivel on any platform. A neat little bag contained the bolts, and in it you find the nut for bolt L But half an hour later you are still rummaging through wrapping paper in a grim search for the other nut, the crucial nut, the nut without which, as the Latins say, nothing. You may have 128 nuts of assorted sizes in a jar in the basement, but you will not have one that fits Bolt M. That is a freak size used nowhere else in the whole panoply of American industry. It is part of a shipment the toy manufacturer bought up from the Uruguayan War Assets Administration.

it is 11:45 by the time you manage to make the bolt hold with a piece of wire wrapped around it, and if the kid looks at that part, he will feel sure this toy is something the firemen repainted for the poor. Meanwhile the house is grown cold, three of the Christmas-tree lights have winked at you by burning out, and your cigarette has fallen out of the ash tray and burned a six-dollar hole in the carpet. But the gun is starting to look like a weapon, and there can't be much more - only a couple of odd-looking metal pieces are left and a cardboard circle marked "Cosmic Ray Computer Dial."

One of the pieces of metal is easy enough to use. It's the missing plug, for lack of which the barrel has had that tendency to point to the floor like the tail of a whipped hound. The other is the crank with which the young gunner moves the barrel to keep on his target. You tackle the easiest job first - the computer is nothing more than two sections of light cardboard. "Bending tabs A, C, E and G," the directions say, "fit them into Slots B, D, F and H." The cardboard is a special kind which is a stiff as metal for a minute and then relaxes completely as you push, so that in twenty minutes you have four dog-eared tabs holding one crumpled dial marked with a little blood from the finger you cut trying to enlarge the slots.

Now you reach the part of the directions that tell you to fix on the telescopic sight. The diagram shows a handsome metal gadget coming to a square end, fitted into a ring fastened neatly around the end of the barrel. The only piece of metal you have left, outside of the crank, is a cotter pin. Even if you had missing part R, you would have nothing like missing part Q which fits into it. You ransack the wrapping paper again, in what the novelists call cold fury, but with no luck. Finally, with great self-control you smooth the wrinkled directions and read that jargon over again out loud. It is then that you come across Step 2. "In assembling Model A-200 Junior, our second-rate cheaper model for pikers, Step 2 may be disregarded," the directions say. "No sight comes with this model. There is, however, a cotter pin. You can stick it on the barrel with adhesive tape and play like it's a sight. It ain't much, but neither are you."

There is one final step - mounting the crank. "Slip Directional Crank 16 through Arm Y into Slot EE," the directions say. "When in position, give crank one quarter turn counterclockwise. Trigger should then fall sharply back into firing position." This is simplicity itself, and the only trouble is that if the crank goes through Arm Y, it misses Slot EE by a good quarter of an inch. The bitter thoughts that arise on Christmas Eve about the sleepwalker who bored that slot must visibly affect the temperature.

But the direction writer thought about this impasse, forehanded soul that he is. "It may be necessary, for best results - meaning, to make the thing work at all - to enlarge aperture in Arm Y. This can be done quickly and easily by using a 16.3 metal file without tang, a 13-oz. dinging hammer, and some Australian canoe-builders' flux." This is equipment the ordinary household would be just as likely to have as a Javanese blow gun and a guroo bird, and you know, as your thoughts profane the early Christmas air, that the only 16.3 file in the world is one resting in the manufacturers plant 850.3 miles away across the snowy landscape. So you gouge out a new Slot EE four times the proper size, the crank falls into place, wobbling foolishly, and the task is done. If it holds together until Christmas afternoon you will be agreeably surprised, and a glance at the clock tells you that won't be long.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. If there weren't, ugly mobs of maddened parents would rove the streets Christmas Day armed with bolts, pins, wheels and axles, and some toy manufacturer would end up assembled on Movable Rail A wearing Tar B and Feathers C, after a slight going-over with No. 16 emery paper and a common hydraulic half-knurled center punch.

#christmas #christmas story #Ikea #some assembly required #midcentury #Christmas angst #christmas traditions #family tradition #piker #consumerism #yes Virginia there is a santa Claus #santa claus #santa #vintage toys #christmas presents #it aint much but neither are you

[ckret2]

Rats Look out for Rats

Prompt: this was originally for @tfspeedwriting 12/1, Prompt 3: Hired assassin. But considering it took me a month and a half to write, I don’t think it counts anymore. Continuity: IDW, prewar Characters: Prowl & Rattrap. Guest appearance from Lockdown. Wordcount: 5300 Summary: When the Decepticons ask Rattrap to do one job too many, he runs to Autobot law enforcement to offer information in exchange for protection from the ‘Cons. At least, that’s the story the Decepticons tell Rattrap to tell Prowl. One last job—one last job, and one dead cop—and Rattrap’s outta this game for good.

"They said it would be easy money," Rattrap said miserably. He was mumbling directly into the surface of the enforcer's desk, both hands clasped over the top of his head. "Followin' a few guys, a hint of petty theft, a coupla deliveries where I wasn't s'posed to look in the boxes—nothin' worse! I knew what they were probably up to, but—but it wasn't my problem, you know? I wasn't the one shooting people. I was just tryin' to make an honest livin'!"

"'Honest.'"

"Tch—fine, a decent livin'. Decent as it gets when ya had to replace your hind legs with cheap wheels and still can't hide your tail in 'bot mode. How do you sound so monotone and so judgmental at the same time? Do you practice that? Is that a—a skill ya practice, here? You got your good cops, your bad cops, and your completely-neutral-but-vaguely-condescendin' cops?"

The officer that Rattrap was talking to, one Prowl of Petrex—and oh, boy, did he exemplify everything Rattrap had ever heard about Petrex—didn't even acknowledge the jab. "So. Stalking, robbery, smuggling—"

"Whoa whoa whoa, don't make it sound that bad! It's nothin' worse than petty misdemeanors, you've got my word." Rattrap lifted his head enough to give Prowl an earnest look. "But, hey, you wanna fine me, throw me in the slammer a couple weeks to pay off my debt to society? Be my guest, pal. Anythin' it'll take to get away from the 'Cons. I ain't even a 'Con, myself! Think they're crazy!"

"I'm not charging you with anything yet—"

"'Yet.'"

"—I'm just repeating what you told me," Prowl said, just as dryly and droningly as always. He wasn't even looking at Rattrap—his gaze was fixed on his datapad, fingers tap tap tapping away, no doubt taking copious notes on everything Rattrap said. No wonder the Senate had this guy on statistical analysis up until Orion dragged him into his crack team of hero cops (pfeh to that); based on the one comm call and fifteen minutes of conversation Rattrap had had with him so far, he had the personality of a calculator. He'd actually said, out loud, with his mouth, like he'd really done the math, that there was only a 2% chance anybody would walk into Prowl's office while Rattrap was talking to him. He should have a numpad instead of a light bar. "And you were okay with doing all that."

"Sure. Like I said: easy money. That ex-senator they got in their ranks's got a pile of shanix the size of Luna Two, and he don't care about givin' it away almost exactly as much as I do care about gettin' it."

"I take it you're talking about Shockwave and not Ratbat."

"Heh! Yeah, you got it. Shockwave's been bankrollin' me. Ratbat? Pffft." He shifted, laying his head flat down on Prowl's desk, staring at the wall behind Prowl's elbow. "All Ratbat does is sigh wistfully 'bout all the moolah he don't have anymore and wishes he did. You'd think him 'n' me would get along better—bein' a couple greedy beastformer Rats like we are—but nah, he's still all high-n-mighty. Hehn! Like he still thinks he's the king of Kaon and everyone around him is wallowin' knee-deep in the gutter."

Rattrap had to give Prowl this: he endured Rattrap's tangents with good grace and greater patience than most people Rattrap had met. The twitching of his elbow, however, suggested that he was still typing. "... You uh... you think that's relevant to your case, here?"

"Everything is relevant."

"Yeesh. Little intense—but okay, whatever you say. You're the cop."

"So what changed? There's an enormous change from 'rolling in easy money' to 'not only backing out, but also calling up a cop frequently seen in the company of Orion Pax, Decepticon hunter, to confess to petty misdemeanors and gossip about ex-senators.'"

"You think I offered to be your stool pigeon because you hang out with Orion Pax? I woulda called him up if I wanted to catch his audial."

"It's certainly not because I have a reputation for being open and approachable."

Rattrap let out a genuine laugh. He finally lifted his head off Prowl's desk, sitting upright. "You're self-aware, neutral cop. I like that."

And a little too savvy. Prowl was right: Rattrap had sought to speak with him because he was associated with Orion Pax.

Or rather, he'd been sent to speak with him because he was associated with Orion Pax.

"But—do me a favor and keep the big 'bot outta this, would ya? It's not that I don't respect what he's doing, takin' down as many 'Cons as possible, and all—like I said, I ain't one of them, I just take their money—but word on the street is he ain't too careful about how many pieces they're in when he gets them in to the station, you know what I mean? And I might not be wearin' their badge, but, considerin' what I've been doing for them..."

Without glancing up, Prowl cut Rattrap off with a swift, small hand gesture. It was the most expressive gesture Rattrap had seen him make so far. "I understand completely. He won't be involved in this at all. If things progress to the point where I need backup, I'll ask," he paused for a couple of seconds—even his typing paused—and finished, "Bumblebee, most likely."

Rattrap perked up. That was a new name. "You got a bugformer on the force?"

"No, that's just his name."

Disappointed, Rattrap said, "Ah."

"He's a car. About your size."

Rattrap scoffed. "We don't want the new senate to be too progressive, I s'pose."

"Sarcasm?"

Rattrap gave him a startled look. Did he really just—? "Nah, not at all."

Prowl said, "Hm," in a vaguely uncertain way that made Rattrap think he wasn't sure if that was sarcasm either. He really was a calculator in a cop car's body, wasn't he? No wonder Shockwave was wary of him. He probably thought Prowl was gonna horn in on his schtick.

"Back to my question. What changed? What made you come to me and offer to tell me everything you know about the Decepticons?"

Rattrap hesitated. "Okay. Lemme emphasize first that—that—I had no idea things were gonna get this bad. If I'd ever expected things were gonna end up like this, I'd never have agreed."

Prowl nodded once, stiffly, like a ratcheting joint clicking down and back up. "No doubt." Somehow, he sounded even more monotone.

"Pfeh. I bet all your informants say that, don't they."

"You're self-aware, too."

"Okay, okay." Rattrap slouched back in his seat and laced his hands behind his head. "Tell you what, neutral cop—if you promise to make a note in your unnervingly thorough report you've got goin' there that says I defended my honor fiercely, I'll do us both a favor and skip past all the excuse-makin' and face-savin'."

Prowl looked directly at Rattrap, for what Rattrap was sure was the very first time since Prowl had met him in a shadowy back alley and hustled him in through the back door. "I appreciate that," he said; and if he'd had slightly more emotional expressivity than the average text-to-speech program, Rattrap might have even believed he meant it. "So what's your story?"

Here was Rattrap's story:

The last and biggest job he'd done for Shockwave had been to sneak into a secure energon refinery, steal the access codes, and take them to the 'Cons. He'd thought that the Decepticons wanted to jack a few free cubes. That's what he'd been lead to believe—although they'd never told him that was what they wanted, they were always talking about how hungry they were, how worried they were about running out of fuel. Instead, the results...

Well, Prowl no doubt knew the results. He might've been one of the enforcers sent out to what was left of the refinery to try to pick forensic evidence off of the smelted workers.

And that was it for Rattrap. Forget the easy jobs for easy money. He'd been willing to go along with it as long as the Decepticons had him doing small jobs with small consequences, but now people were dying and energon refineries were exploding, and he was getting out.

So he'd done some snooping, found Prowl's frequency, and called him up. He could help—he could tell the 'Bots all sorts of things about the 'Cons—and in exchange, all he asked for was protection in case the 'Cons found out and retaliated.

That was the story Rattrap told Prowl.

It was true.

But here was the part of the story Rattrap didn't tell Prowl:

Between deciding he wanted out and contacting Prowl—which originally, he'd never intended to do—he'd gone down to Nyon to chew out Swindle for getting him into this fragged up game in the first place. Swindle had told him not to do anything hasty, not to walk away just yet—he'd get Rattrap one last job, just wait and see, with a very lucrative payout. Think of it as generous severance pay. And while Swindle had steered a great many people very, very wrong, he'd never steered Rattrap wrong—rats had to stick together, after all, and Swindle was certainly one in spark if not in body—so, begrudgingly, he'd let Swindle talk him into taking one last job.

A week later, Shockwave had called him in for his final assignment: take out Orion Pax's top supporter, the stiff white-and-black knockoff with the army-builder frame that seemed to be scowling just a step behind Orion every time he was on the news. Orion might have been the face of the new senate's war on Decepticons, but, Shockwave assured Rattrap, the vast majority of what passed as Orion's brain power was actually located inside Prowl's head. Without Prowl reeling him in, he'd be just another dumb jock cop who liked beating up suspects in dark alleys and then saying they resisted arrest in his reports.

Now. Rattrap was no moron. He wasn't overcome with misty-opticked patriotism at the sight of the enforcers' recently-adopted "Autobot" symbol. He'd been telling the truth when he said he was no Decepticon; but he was no Autobot, either. And he sure didn't think Cybertron would suffer with one less enforcer on the streets.

But if the enforcer that was being taken off the streets was, as Shockwave had suggested, a good ninety percent of Orion Pax Hero Cop's impulse control? Rattrap wasn't so sure he wanted to see that one, in particular, get the ax.

And that aside—Rattrap was no murderer. He was torqued off—no, more than that, he was horrified—that his info had been used to kill so many innocent refinery workers. He didn't want someone else's life on his hands, especially knowingly. Even a cop. Hell, especially a cop—if he was caught...

... But...

But...

But.

But.

But then Shockwave showed Rattrap what he'd pay him to do it.

And, well—Primus below—that changed everything, didn't it?

Rattrap and Ratbat didn't like each other, but they both liked the Decepticons even less. And rats had to stick together. If this was fishy—if Shockwave was gonna go back on this deal, or arrange for Rattrap to be found out later—Ratbat would know, and Ratbat would tell him. What Ratbat said, though, was that Shockwave was playing on the expectation that if Rattrap was greedy enough to take this job, he'd be greedy enough to take just one more, and just one more, and just one more, until he'd just-one-mored himself straight into the Decepticon army.

Shockwave didn't know Rattrap. Unlike Ratbat or Swindle, he didn't do what he did for the love of money; he was doing it to get his legs back.

He'd lost them a few millennia back—workplace accident. The medic who'd repaired him had fixed him down to his hips, then slapped a couple wheels on and called it a day. When Rattrap had protested—said he was supposed to have legs, said he wanted his legs, said he was a rat, it was even in the name—the hospital had told him that, in their professional medical opinion, wheels were an improvement on a rodent's haunches, and he oughta be grateful for them. And what did it matter if he wasn't mobile enough to do his old job anymore? Planting explosives for building demolition wasn't what one would call specialized labor. Anyone could fill his position. Just a dirty job for dirty 'bots.

Ever since, Rattrap hadn't considered his relationship with Cybertron to be what one might call cordial.

This last job wouldn't just push him over what he needed to get some back-alley surgeon to reconstruct and reattach his legs; it'd also give him the means to get off this stupid planet and find one where he wasn't gonna be judged for having as many limbs in one mode as in the other. At least in the GC he could be judged for something different for a change.

So he took the job. Okay. Just one more.

Here was the plan: Rattrap was to contact Prowl like he wanted to be an informant ratting on the Decepticons. He had permission to say whatever he had to in order to make it believable. Shockwave had long since reaped the benefits of all the old jobs Rattrap had done for the Decepticons, and he and his cadre of terrorists had only ever met Rattrap at neutral locations, so Rattrap didn't have any info Prowl could honestly use against the 'Cons. As long as Rattrap achieved these two things:

One, make sure that Orion Pax didn't get involved.

Two, make sure that Prowl agreed to protect Rattrap.

At the start, Prowl might keep a couple officers stationed around Rattrap's place at all times. Probably no more than that; he didn't have much pull without Orion to back it, and he wouldn't be able to turn to Orion for this case. Eventually it would be down to one officer. Shockwave was convinced—although Rattrap had doubts—that Prowl would put himself in the rotation of officers protecting Rattrap.

When Prowl was watching him, and only Prowl was watching him, a hired killer—nominally sent to dispose of Rattrap—would show up. Prowl would fight him. He would retreat, and Prowl, like a good little enforcer, would pursue. And the hired killer would lure him into a trap.

Now, Rattrap wasn't too keen on the whole "hired killer pretending to try to kill Rattrap" part. That sounded a little too likely to end in tears—specifically, Rattrap's tears, as he lay dying. Shockwave offered to let Rattrap meet the guy who'd be doing the job ahead of time.

They had dinner. He was a decent thug. Good lookin', too, in a patchwork kinda way. They'd lamented together over the costs of getting good bodymod work done outside of the official healthcare system; Lockdown even recommended a guy who did medical work for gladiators that might be able to handle Rattrap's repairs—don't let the constructibot alt mislead you; he's the best doc on Cybertron who's never been to medical school. Lockdown said he was saving up for his own ship to get work as an interstellar bounty hunter; Rattrap was planning to head to Hedonia when he was fixed up and all this was over. He invited Lockdown to look him up on Hedonia sometime down the line.

So, Rattrap was in.

And when Prowl said, "We're stretched thin right now; if I get Orion to pull some strings, I might be able to get two officers posted around your apartment at all times, but if you don't want to get him involved I can probably only manage to get one officer to look in on your place"?

Rattrap said, "Hey, that's fine. I don't need my place swarming with law enforcement anyway, you know what I mean? I think I can trust ya to make sure nobody's gonna get to me."

Waiting to be attacked was nerve wracking.

Even if he knew the guy that was gonna do it—well. What if Lockdown's hook slipped? What if he was a bad shot? Rattrap had no idea what kind of a shot he was.

What if Prowl decided he didn't need Rattrap's info as much as he'd originally thought, and decided to just... not worry too hard about keeping him safe? What if he didn't even have someone stationed outside anymore?

Rattrap had fallen into the habit of pacing in the evenings after dark fell—the time he thought it was most likely Lockdown would come for him. Rolling back and forth in a long figure eight through his filthy apartment, crumbs of dirt breaking up and discarded foil wrappers crinkling under his wheels. He cast green and orange shadows across the walls, illuminated by strings of light and a couple of lamps buried so thoroughly in his collection of things that he hadn't been able to scramble up to them to turn them off since he'd lost his legs. He figured nervously pacing was an appropriately in-character action for a 'bot who supposedly thought he was gonna get hunted down while only a single plucky enforcer stood between him and certain doom.

Whenever Rattrap glanced out the window, he never saw anybody standing guard. He told himself that meant that whatever officers Prowl had assigned him were good at their job, not standing out and all—but it still made him nervous.

Surely, though, Lockdown wasn't gonna attack until he was absolutely sure that Prowl, and only Prowl, was outside—right? Right. Right?

It was eleven nights in before his window shattered. Someone barreled Rattrap over; he crashed to the ground screaming. Please be Lockdown. "What're ya—hey!" Rattrap reflexively swung a fist at Lockdown's face. Lockdown held Rattrap down with his hook pressed to Rattrap's throat and leaned back. Rattrap's fist couldn't even reach his face. "That ain't fair."

Lockdown grinned crookedly. "Half my job is about making things as unfair for my target as possible."

"Okay—point." He tried, unsuccessfully, to wiggle out from underneath Lockdown. His wheels squealed against the floor as he spun them uselessly. That probably had to look good to any officers watching from outside. "So how're we gonna do this? You pretend I actually managed to slip free and chase me around the room a couple times 'til siren-butt shows up?"

"Naaah, I'm not letting you up."

Well, that was disappointing news. "Yeah? What if it takes him a while to get in here? He's gonna be suspicious if you've got me pinned for a while and don't take the opportunity to kill me."

"Oh, I don't need to worry about that." In his hand, he raised— That was a gun. Why was he pointing a gun at Rattrap's head. "See ya."

"See ya?!" Rattrap crossed his arms over his face. Lockdown snagged his hook around a wrist and tried to tug Rattrap's arms back down. "Whaddaya mean, see ya?! What's the gun for! I thought we was on the same page!"

"Yeah, we were," Lockdown said. "But when Shockwave heard you were planning to make a run for Hedonia—"

"You told him?!"

"—he decided there's no point in paying out if you're not gonna eventually come back to the 'Cons for more jobs." Lockdown successfully tugged one arm away from Rattrap's face. Rattrap wrapped his other arm more tightly over his forehead. "Prowl's my target, but I get a nice bonus if I take you out too."

"H-hold on! What's Shockwave payin'?! I can beat it! Or, or pretend I'm dead, and we'll both pay ya—"

"He's paying me with your bank account info."

Rattrap's jaw dropped. "... I hate how clever that is."

The gun jammed into his mouth. "Sorry about Hedonia." Rattrap squeezed his optics shut.

Lockdown's weight suddenly disappeared. Rattrap's optics flew open again, and all he saw above him was the ceiling. He turned toward a noise just in time to see Lockdown and Prowl tumbling back his direction. He scrambled out of the way, crabwalking/rolling backwards.

Watching Prowl grappling with Lockdown was somehow one of the most terrifying things Rattrap had ever seen. Not because of his fighting—Rattrap was actually pretty confident that Lockdown could take him—but something about his face. His eyes were wide and his jaw was set tight, and he should've looked angry but he didn't, and somehow that was more disconcerting than having a furious cop twice Rattrap's height in his apartment would've been.

Lockdown got a hook in one of Prowl's doors; Prowl pulled his knee to his chest and kicked Lockdown's shoulder, and Lockdown's hook snapped off in Prowl's door. He drew back, hesitated as he glanced at Rattrap, and retreated out the window. Prowl rushed to the window and leaned out, watching which way Lockdown went.

Lockdown had dropped his gun.

Rattrap picked it up.

Maybe it wasn't too late. If he killed Prowl himself, threw himself on Shockwave's mercy, and gave some bunk about seeing how awful the Autobots' noble enforcers were up close and wanting to get rid of them, maybe Shockwave would let him sign up as a full fledged Decepticon. He didn't want to be a Decepticon, hell no, but it was better than being dead. He could empty out his bank account in a couple of minutes—buy a bunch of scrap he didn't need, maybe a mountain of lottery tickets—an empty bank account would buy him some time if Lockdown came back and Rattrap told him there was no longer a bonus for him to claim—plus Shockwave might believe Rattrap’s professions of allegiance if he could check and see Rattrap no longer had any funds to get himself off-world. It was a long shot, it was a gamble, it'd mean several more millennia before he could get his legs back; but Primus what was the alternative? If Rattrap warned Prowl that this was a trap, admitted he'd been in on the setup, and begged for some real protection, he'd get hauled to some Autobot secret prison and beaten to death. The only other option was running for his life. Once Prowl took off after Lockdown, Rattrap would only have until Lockdown had lured Prowl into the trap and killed him to pack his things and run, and Rattrap might've been more familiar than most with Cybertron's underworld—both the figurative one and the literal one—but there were more Decepticons in dark corners and subterranean tunnels by the day, and it wouldn't be long before one saw him and reported back to Shockwave.

Running wouldn't work. This was his only chance. He had to kill Prowl—now, right now, before he jumped out the window and ran off and Lockdown killed him instead—

Prowl did not jump out the window. He turned around.

Rattrap froze, gun pointed at Prowl's chest. Prowl looked at the gun, then Rattrap's face—his expression was ice cold, his gaze so sharp it seemed to pierce straight through Rattrap’s head.

Then Prowl pointed at the floor and snapped, crossly, "Gun safety."

Rattrap almost dropped the gun. "What?"

"Gun safety," Prowl repeated. He reached forward and pushed the gun barrel down, so it was aimed between their feet. "Never point your gun at something you aren't interested in shooting. There's no point in trying to cover the window if there's someone between you and it."

And then, to Rattrap's further disbelief, Prowl walked away from the window, and turned to survey the mess of crates and packing materials that had been recycled into Rattrap's shabby—but very thrifty—furniture. "Does any of this serve as a chair?"

Rattrap gestured at his lower body. "Do I look like I need chairs? My butt's two inches off the floor."

"Hm." And then Prowl sat, on the floor, and turned to face the window. Like he planned on staying there.

"... Okay. All right," Rattrap said. "I give. What's going on, here?"

"You said you don't have chairs. Did you want me to sit on a table?" Prowl glanced at a stack of flat boxes. "This is a table, right?"

"Not that! How come you ain't going after the guy that just tried to kill me? Isn't that your job?"

"Ah," Prowl said, like he finally got it. "No."

"No?!" Rattrap gestured emphatically at Prowl.  "You, a law enforcer, your job ain't to enforce the law! Is that what you’re telling me? Because I'm pretty sure he just tried to kill a bot! Last I checked, that was a crime!"

"As I understand the parameters of my job, my duty is not to prevent criminals from killing bots." Rattrap's jaw dropped, but Prowl immediately went on: "It's to prevent bots from being killed by criminals."

Rattrap almost said there was absolutely no difference; but paused, uncertain, as he started to realize maybe there might be.

"Sometimes, yes, the best way to prevent murders is to chase after the murderer. In this case? I think the best way to prevent a murder is to stick close to the potential murder victim, in case the original assailant doubles back or an accomplice arrives."

"... Yeah," Rattrap said. "Sure. Makes sense." It made perfect sense, for anyone whose priority was protection instead of punishment. Except Rattrap had never once considered the possibility that that would be Prowl's priority. Nor, apparently, had Shockwave; nor had Ratbat, nor had Lockdown; nor had any of the other 'Cons.

But here Prowl was, blithely avoiding a fatal trap just by not being interested in it.

Rattrap attempted one last time to fit this information into what he already expected out of Prowl. "You uh— You think the info I've got is that valuable, then, huh? On Shockwave?"

Prowl looked—not at Rattrap, but near him—with an expression that, while basically emotionless, Rattrap was pretty sure was meant to convey cluelessness.

"That you'd rather guard me than chase after one of Shockwave's goons?" Rattrap prompted.

"Oh. No, I don't think so. We checked out the info you gave us so far; it all appears to be about projects that the Decepticons have concluded or bases that they've burned. From our past experience with the Decepticons, we've determined that they only have outside agents like you doing jobs that they could wrap up almost immediately after their involvement, just in case those agents decide to do exactly what you've done. You've probably got nothing useful to us," Prowl said. "I'm guarding you anyway. You're a living person and therefore automatically worthy of being protected. That's true even if you're not a vector for strategically valuable information."

"A vect—?!" Rattrap laughed. "You know, that's the first time anyone's ever called me a vector for something and meant it as a compliment?"

Prowl looked around at the piles of empty cubes and broken-down equipment scattered around Rattrap's apartment. "I wonder why."

Rattrap swatted at Prowl's shoulder. Prowl visibly flinched. "You know what?" Rattrap asked. "I think that maybe—just maybe—you're one of the good ones." He didn't need to specify that he was talking about enforcers.

"I'm the only good one."

Rattrap snorted.  "You includin' the famous Orion Pax in that statement, neutral cop?"

"I didn't include any qualifiers when I said 'only.'"

Rattrap didn't know whether Prowl's declaration was a statement of supreme egotism, or a sweeping indictment of every other enforcer on the planet.

Whichever one it was, in that moment, he decided he liked Prowl. Cop he might've been, but there was a little bit of rat in him—and Rattrap meant that as a compliment. You had to be a rat to openly distrust the cops from inside the cops. And only fellow rats had ever looked out for Rattrap.

That's what rats do. Look out for each other.

Rattrap looked at the window—somewhere out there was Lockdown, sitting in the center of a trap that was never going to be sprung—and then at the gun in his hand.

He tossed it on a makeshift table, rolled up next to Prowl, and sat. Okay. He was taking a chance. Maybe he was still gonna end up dead in an Autobot prison, but he wasn't going to end up anywhere better any time soon if he didn't take the chance.

"Well, as long as you and me are all cozy in here," Rattrap said, "I figure I might as well tell you I am, in fact, a vector for strategically valuable information. Somethin' you might find personally interesting."

Rattrap couldn't even tell whether or not Prowl was surprised at the revelation. "And that would be?"

"First, you gotta promise you're not gonna hold it against me."

"Hold what against you? Holding out on me?"

"No. Conspirin' to lead you into a fatal trap."

And Rattrap still couldn't tell whether Prowl looked surprised. But he did notice how Prowl glanced at the gun on the table.

"I switched sides," Rattrap said quickly. "For real, this time."

"Glad to hear it. Tell me about this trap."

"First," Rattrap said, "before Shockwave realizes I've sold out, you've gotta let me transfer my whole bank account into yours."

For a long moment, Prowl was silent. "... What?"

"Yeah, Starscream's let me into everything," Rattrap whispered into the comm to Earth. Every once in a while he threw glances over at the entrances to his hidden quarters, double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking that they were still blocked. "He's havin' me pass around his orders, he's tellin' me which guys he wants to have trailed—he's even tellin' me who he expects to backstab him, in what order, and his plans for backstabbing 'em first. And I'm on the list. Can you believe that? And he's still trusting me with all this?"

"Starscream takes 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer' to excessive new heights." Even through the many alterations to the comm signal—from distance, from a dozen layers of encryption, and from the deliberate distortion of the pitch to disguise the voice—Prowl's old, familiar monotone was unmistakable. Rattrap didn't know why he even bothered to disguise his voice. "Is he up to anything that calls for an immediate response?"

"Nah. Just dealin' with infrastructural issues and doing some ego-stroking projects—you know, things that'll make him look good to the populace." Another check to the door, and Rattrap lowered his voice again: "He's made some worrying talk about plans to contact Caminus, though. I wouldn't say he's up to anything bad—yet—but I don't like the way he's talking about Caminus, you know? Like he's already viewing them as future citizens."

"If Starscream starts expanding his empire, he's never going to stop. Keep me updated on his plans. We need to be ready to stop them as soon as he puts them into action."

Prowl was already talking about empires, was he? Rattrap didn't think Starscream was anywhere near that yet—but he also didn't think Starscream would pass up the opportunity if it came to him. And Prowl always did think far ahead. "You got it, boss. I'll call you when I've got more."

Over the course of the war, Prowl had become something of a rat king: the point at which a hundred little rats tangled together. Spies, saboteurs, and assassins—every dirty 'bot that did every dirty job the Autobots had. And as long as Rattrap had known him, Prowl had always looked out for his rats. He'd kept Rattrap out of the 'Cons, he'd connected Rattrap with the medic that gave him his legs back, and he'd kept Rattrap at one of the safest (and, admittedly, most boring) stations in the war when he didn't have more practical ways to make use of Rattrap's skills. And Rattrap was proud for Prowl to make use of them.

Because no matter what nasty accusations were flung at Prowl (some of which, Rattrap happened to know quite intimately, were true) and no matter how many people declared that Prowl was cold and sparkless, and no matter how many people said that Prowl was nothing but a manipulator—Rattrap would always know that he was the one cop on Cybertron who'd sneered at the idea of arresting a murderer when instead he could protect a useless rat. And Rattrap didn't believe for a second that was manipulation. That was Prowl's core.

Four million years later and Rattrap was still willing to trust Prowl with his life. After all, Prowl had never steered Rattrap wrong.

Rattrap hung up the call, transformed to beast mode, and scampered out into Metroplex's tunnels. Back to work.

Also posted on AO3, see link in my sidebar.

#prowl #rattrap #transformers #maccadam #fanfic #my writing

[parachutingkitten]

The Many Adventures Of Samurai X - Ch 2

Look at me, finally finding time to write something! I'm really excited for this fic! Lots of cool stuff in store! This chapter is a tad less exciting, bit it's an atmosphere builder for Pixal, and you all know how I love ATMOSPHERE ;)

Happy Reading!

I flew back feeling what can only be described as alive. The thanks of the innocent still rung in my ears, building my understanding of what it means to make a difference in someone's life. I couldn't say for sure what it felt like to a human, but I think I finally grasped what Kai meant when he said something was a “rush” or why Jay always seemed to yelp in delight at a good victory. Saving Ninjago is great, but helping a specific community really fills you with… life. I had helped stop a robbery today. Not of a bank or store, but of a home in a small neighborhood. Most days were satisfying, but today felt really special. I had been on the job for nearly a month now, and I was getting the hang of it. I sped past the sand and approached my cave. The feeling of ecstacy mellowed, pleasantly calming into a deep satisfaction.

My suit made it past the initial entry, and the lights of the cave kicked in. I made my landing and jumped out of the mech, my steps echoing in the entrance chamber. I quickly stepped out of my battle armor, my skin finally touching the air of the cave. I stretched my arms and back, adjusting to the freedom being out of the suit gave me. I blinked a few times, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of the entryway, and pushed the entrance switch to the rest of the cave. My heart sank a bit as the doors opened to reveal the cave just as I had left it: empty.

I didn't know why it surprised me. There was no reason for it to be otherwise. I gave a brief sigh, the satisfaction that had seconds ago filled me now fading as I walked the length of the control center to reach the living area. I looked up at the ceilings as I walked. They were so tall. Had they always been that way? And they seemed gray now too. The walls had always been gray, but they had never seemed this dark before. There was quiet beeping emanating from the computers that lined the wall. How long had they been on? How much energy did it waste to keep them on all the time? It's not like I was here all the time. Or even most of the time. It seemed like a bit of a waste, but then again, you never knew when you would need it.

I shrugged off the thought, pulling my hair from the ponytail holder that held it back. I slipped it onto my wrist, running my fingers over my scalp and shaking out my hair. I entered into the kitchen, almost pitch dark, and fumbled on the wall looking for the light switch. There were so many switches in this cave, so many to keep track of and lose track of and forget about. So many switches that seemed to have no purpose. I finally found the one I was looking for as the lights in the kitchen buzzed on, blinding me for a short moment. Once I was able to assess the room, I noticed something amiss, a bulb malfunctioning.

It sat in the middle of the kitchen, right above the center island, flickering away at random intervals. I rolled my eyes, walking under it to asses the situation. It would likely have to be replaced. I groaned, ignoring it for now, and opening the pantry.

I didn't require food intake necessarily, but it was a convenience I enjoyed, and a ritual that I found humanized me in some way I couldn't possibly understand. People gathered together to cook intricate and meaningful meals with recipes passed down through generations. Then they ate together to bond with one another and share their thoughts and feelings. To think that I could be a part of such intimacy made me feel grounded. The team would usually have a meal after every mission we returned from to celebrate a job well done, so I attempted to keep up the tradition on my own.

The options presented in front of me were slim. There were some assorted packages of chips, some microwavable bagged meals that supposedly were served over rice, and three boxes of cereal. I grabbed the box of sugar puffs and set it on the island, moving over to the fridge to pull out the milk. I then turned to the dishware cabinets to grab a bowl. There were none left. My hands quickly shifted over to the right as I settled on a wide mug as a suitable substitute for the time being. I finished by grabbing a spoon and setting my findings along side the rest of my meal. I sat down on a bar stool, and poured what was left of the sugar puffs into the mug. It was a little less than normal, but it wasn't like I really needed it. I poured my milk over top and looked down at the floating beige puffs. I dunked my spoon in, and took in my first large mouthful. The more than familiar flavor mixed with the stale air of the cave made for a less than exciting taste. But… it's what I had. It was fine.

My eyes wandered lazily around the room, the light above me still flickering in no predictable pattern for no discernable reason. I tried to ignore it. Just relax, eat your cereal, it's going to get soggy. I thought to myself. But for some reason I couldn't. I couldn't just overlook it, I couldn't just sit here quietly doing nothing while this light stood in the middle of everything, messing up the room!

Something in me snapped and I chucked my spoon up at the light, breaking the bulb, glass shattering everywhere, and the room getting just a bit dimmer. I stood in the middle of the room, splatters of milk dripping down my arm, and glass now floating in my mug as the spoon came to an awful clattering on the ground. I stood there… and I laughed. I laughed at the absurdity of the situation, using my cereal spoon as a lethal weapon for a misbehaving lightbulb. I brushed the milk from my arm, still laughing as I began to speak.

“Zane, make a note-” I stopped short, realizing where I was, the smile fading from my face. “...we need light bulbs.” I closed my eyes, leaning on the island counter. “You're not a part of Zane anymore Pixal, you have to stop this.” It wasn't the first time I had caught myself talking to my mind companion of the past few years. I sounded crazy talking to myself like this. It had to stop. I had made my choice to leave him, and I had to stick to it if I wanted to make something of myself.

“Come on Pix… you're better than this.

… you're better than him.”

#ninjago #pixal borg #masx #writing

[hyper-spook-alation]

Viva Pinata, various character headcanons

Doc Patch isnt from the island originally and is a nervous driver. He follows every rule, always goes the speed limit. He can't drive stick, and he didn't get his drivers licence until he was 20. His teeny car (and the lack of other cars on the island) makes him feel safe and confident.

The Ruffians, on the other hand, can only drive stick. They tried to steal his car once. It didn't work.

Bart is a very good boy and was kind enough to help fix his car afterwords. He didn't ask how it got destroyed, just went along with the ride no questions asked. Bart is horrible at gossip and is always the last to know about anything. He also doesn't know he's out of the loop. He just kinda exists.

Miss Petula is a native to the island. The magic on the island that keeps the pinata going and helps Bart transform things and allows Dastardos to pass through objects often causes strange hair colors or birthmarks to appear in the babies born there. Miss Petula is the first baby to be born with cat eyes though.

Gretchen Fetchem is not a native to the island. She used to be a big game hunter. She hunted anything and everything before she got tired of it. Killing things began to weigh down on her so she decided to give it up. A friend of hers suggested moving to pinata island as a joke, and Gretchen said "hold my beer." She got the idea for her shop after hiking around the island a couple weeks and decided to offer up her services as a hunter. The new nonviolent trade was took a huge weight off her shoulder while still allowing her to do what she was good at.

Fanny Franker is a great swimmer. She loves water pinata and wears shorts with little Newtgats on them to sleep in. She also loves knitting and watching Parks and Rec.

Lottie is really competitive, that much is obvious, but she really loves gathering together her girls for game night. Usually their games consist of Uno or Phase 10. Lottie is ruthless and a sore loser. Many people throw the game if they're ahead because she's likely to not invite them next time (she makes great snacks and no one wants to miss out on that).

Willy builder is a huge fan of home improvement shows. He has seen every episode of Flip That House. He also likes Adult Swim. It is not unusual for him to sink into his favorite chair while watching TV. He's got that old grandpa hundred yard stare thing going on.

Arfur Stout prides himself on being the go-to source on gossip (like all the best innkeepers), but most of his gossip comes from Lottie and Miss Petula. He keeps a big board up in his inn on recent accomplishments of all the different gardener's. It's like the islands fridge, and he's their mom putting up all the best artwork.

Ivor Bargain comes and goes from the island often. He might spend a few years with his shop, but he gets antsy and leaves to travel after a while. When he is on the island, he imports foreign candy to eat because he likes it better (which the island as a whole always looks down on (ask any native and they'll tell you that their candy is the best in the world and him preferring mars bars to joy candy is an insult to their livelihood)). This makes him less popular than Lottie and she uses it to her advantage.

Feel free to add your own or tell me what you think

#viva pinata #lottie #ivor bargain #willy builder #gretchen fetchem #miss petula #arfur stout #fanny franker #doc patchingo #bart #headcanons #so many people golly and that aint even all of them #dastardos #mine