#''that we have to be caught at all rankles me brother''

[jamiesfootball]

Please tell me more about gender flipped Jamie because that seems like So Many Thoughts that I would love to hear

I have so many thoughts and yet they are so ephemeral and unspecific and this has been languishing in my askbox and this isn't technically what you asked for but here's what I wrote instead:

Chelsea sent Roy into retirement the way you sent an aging dog to be euthanized. Slowly and gradually, an inescapable march towards a day you knew was coming. Roy's agent gently broke the news to him that they wouldn't be renewing his contract, but there was no gently breaking Roy.

The retirement itself was an underwhelming affair; he stayed numb throughout the presser, answered questions, and left the spotlight. No bang--not even a whimper.

That was months ago. Now Roy Kent, former Chelsea star, was daydrinking at a bar in Richmond at half-three in the afternoon, wondering if he could convince the matron of the house to change the fucking channel.

"Rough season our girls have had," the proprietor, Mae, explained in a tone befitting a bartender cleaning a pint. In reality, she'd joined Roy at the bar with her own glass of chardonnay. "Lot of shake ups. New owner, new gaffer. Still, it could be worse. This new coach of theirs might be from the States, but we're sitting higher up on the table than we have in years. Does your lot keep up with the Super League, then?"

It was one in a series of loaded questions. Roy couldn't imagine you could be a bartender in London without knowing who Roy Kent was. Sheer wasted optimism, he'd had, moving out of Chelsea and assuming anything short of leaving the country would get him away from the haunting specter of his own fucking jersey.

"Yeah," Roy answered reluctantly. "Yeah, some of us keep up. All the teams in the Premier have sister teams, don't we?" Except for Richmond. The one outlier--the only team in the league without a big brother to speak of.

"Mm. Then you heard about the scandal?"

Roy grunted. Of course he heard. Everyone knew about Rupert Mannion ages ago; it was about bloody time someone did something. Awful for his ex-wife that it'd fallen to her to do it.

Mae topped off his chardonnay before pouring the remainder of the bottle into her own glass. "This new gaffer though, he's one of the good ones. He hangs around here sometimes, and you can tell just by listening to him--he respects those girls."

Since retiring, Roy had gotten used to living in a fog. He spent time with his niece, met with the yoga mums, let old ladies in bars talk his ears off to their heart's content, but anything he did between those events was a drudgery--a slow painful effort to drag one foot in front of the other, metaphorically and physically.

So he couldn't have said what it was about Mae's offhand praise for the Richmond Whippet's new gaffer that rankled him into talking back.

"Is he any good though?"

"What was that?"

"Their new coach," Roy gestured with his wine glass at the television in the corner. "The American. Is he any good?"

Mae shrugged one shoulder. "He's gotten better."

"So not really then."

The look Mae gave him could've scoured paint from a wall. "Well, talent isn't everything. Is it, Mr. Kent?"

She left under the guise of check on the three men in the corner. Regulars, by the looks of it; and the three of them the only ones aside from Mae wearing supporting colors for the local team.

He hadn't watched a match in ages. Oh, he'd caught highlights--it was impossible not too--but the few times he'd tried, unfairness ballooned in his chest like an atom bomb, and he gave up.

He hadn't bothered to watch anything from the women's league either. What difference would it make to try watching a different league. Sure, he didn't know any of them the way he knew the men in the Premier League, but football was football and envy was envy.

From what little he'd seen so far, he didn't envy Richmond at all. Everton had them on the ropes.

Roy winced as Number 14 knocked one off the crossbar. It'd been a good attempt. A solid cross from Number 9 had put it in the path, but with no one else nearby she'd gone for a risky shot.

From what little he'd paid attention to, only 9 and 14 were making any actual progress on the pitch, with 9 working double time to cut up the field. Every time the ball dropped back down the center, Richmond lost possession. Every. Time.

It was Number 6 that was the problem. McNally, that was it. Red-head, center-mid, captain. Roy knew her by reputation. A tough, seasoned player, who'd gotten her fair collection of caps for England. She had the experience; it didn't make any fucking sense why she'd be the weak link.

Roy looked away. He took a gulp of his chardonnay and relished in the unpleasant way it stung his nose. It'd be masochism to keep watching.

He kept watching.

Within five minutes, he'd cracked it.

Number 6 refused to pass to Number 9.

The gameplay split off like a branching tree. Either 6 got possession, crossed to another player, and they lost it to Everton's deep defensive line; or 9 got it herself and took it up the field, at which point the entire Richmond side narrowed down to the actions of 9 and 14.

What the fuck was going on?

In the aerial cameras showed two Everton players marking Number 9. Number 6 crossed to Number 24, and 24 took it to the net only for a defender to block her out easily.

A close up lingered on Number 24. She couldn't have looked more upset with herself. Young thing. Good talent, bad nerves. Fixable with the right support.

Number 6 got into Number 9's face and shouted. So where's her fucking support?

The camera panned in on 6 and 9 as what looked like a shouting match took place between the teammates. There was McNally, red-haired and red-faced and openly swearing even if the mics couldn't pick it up, and then there was Number 9. A cut of a girl, strong featured and iron-jawed, with her forehead set down like she intended to ram McNally like a bull if the captain came any closer.

What a fucking mess.

The camera panned to the gaffer, who stood with his hands in his pockets and a frown under his mustache. He called neither player off.

The match went back into play and almost immediately Number 9 took a foul. A blatant hit, tackled before she could grab possession again. Everton had singled her out just as clearly as Roy had.

Number 6 stood off to the side while 14 and 24 argued with the ref. The captain watched in open annoyance as Number 9 levered herself off the ground with a wince, her left side stained with grass and a limp.

Some fucking captain.

Number 9 took position for a free kick, and her name finally flashed across the screen in a font large enough for Roy to read. Jamie Tartt. Tartt lined up for the kick, for all the good it would do when she was a good forty meters back--

Tartt walloped the ball cleanly into the net.

A frisson of electricity ran down Roy's spine.

The lads at the end of the bar broke into cheers.

Half of the Richmond Whippets descended on Tartt. The other half shuffled around in discontent.

Number 24--Obisanya--nodded at Tartt, who nodded back. They didn't hug.

Extricating herself from (half) of her teammates, Tartt threw an arm around the only person she'd passed to all night--14, Rojas. Heads pressed together, headband to matching headband, they looked furtive and serious in their two-person huddle.

The camera panned back to the gaffer. He clapped but he didn't celebrate.

The whole thing was bizarre.

No, Mae was right; talent wasn't everything. Because Richmond had talent--what a spectacular fucking goal--and they were a fucking mess, like nothing Roy had ever witnessed before in his career.

If Mae was willing to put up with him, he might have to come back for the next match. Who knew, maybe he'd try swinging by on an off-match day to catch their gaffer and give him a piece of his mind.

Finally, something to look forward to. His sister would be so proud.

#genderswap au #i go back and forth on how to swap the coaching staff without losing the impetus of Ted and Rebecca's relationship #particularly the Divorcing Rupert of it all #and I do have a genderswapped Roy in my back pocket #but i also have this version--where I get to explore a bit of How Roy Exists if he had stayed at Chelsea and never met Ted when he did #i also get to give Roy an older version of a team of girls who are unfazed and delighted by the angry sweary beardy man yelling at him #so that delights me too #anyways I have lots of thoughts and this was supposed to be a short writing sprint #it is not short #whoops #ted lasso #roy kent #jamie tartt #writing snippet #if this one seems rougher than the other stuff it is because I am still braindead at finally finishing chapter one of the other thing

[worstloki]

thor and loki faking thorki to help each other out of arranged marriages

y e s

#thor and loki fake dating or secret dating and bluffing are simply always good ideas #thor and loki like 'okay i dont like this either but we're going to have to kiss' and then making 5 different shades of annoyed faces after #''thor you idiot of course we have to practice no one is going to believe us if THAT is what we're caught doing'' #''that we have to be caught at all rankles me brother'' #''easiest way to convince people of something is make it seem like something you don't want to convince them of'' #''...i will concede that'' #''if you have any better ideas i will hear them. i simply do not want to be married off to her.'' #''neither. alas i do feel disadvantaged in staging such a covert scenario... ok we can try again'' #''wonderful. don't expect me to open my eyes this time either'' #''where would it be best to hold you from?'' #''you did kiss sif did you not?'' #''no??? you kissed sigyn????????'' #''she kissed me!!!'' #''do you have any advice to share?'' #''dammit im going to see if the library has anything'' #sorry i cant pick up the phone rn im thinking about loki and thor staging themselves to be caught kissing in alcoves by servants #and they're normally close anyway so maybe they play of errant rumours or something and keep staging things successfullt #and slowly building their way up until. like. idk. frigga walks in on them practicing on how to pretend they're having sexcy times??? #but she doesn't even notice they're practicing to fake it?????? #she's like oh they're trying to hide it and they're talking through things bc they're young and dont know what to do etc etc #and she just. doesn't do anything???????? if anything she's like 'oh they're happy 😊😊😊 i'll be leaving now 😊😊😊' #thor and loki who just wanted the rumours to get to those they were engaged to but now All Of Asgard Knows #bonus points if that's not even a turnoff for their fiancés #this is peak comedy

[notbecauseofvictories]

Care to articulate what you think makes a horror story effective?

I’ve been thinking about this ask a lot over the last few days---partly because I just finished Kingfisher’s The Twisted Ones, and partly because every Bly Manor take about how this or that character “deserved better” takes years off my life. 

(And partly...well, because it’s that time of year, and too often I find myself thinking about that night my brother and I defied our grandmother and stayed up until dawn watching a Children of the Corn marathon. My first-ever brush with horror.)

Nevertheless, I’m not sure I have an answer for you. I don’t think there’s just one thing that makes a horror story effective---or even a handful, a discrete list. “Horror” encompasses too much for there to be a single set of rules. Ghost stories have their own logic, distinct from the monster’s or the serial killer’s or the witch’s or the devil’s. Even narrowing it down to the thematic level doesn’t necessarily work, not when El Orfanato, Babadook, Rosemary’s Baby, Carrie and Hereditary all deal with mother-as-horror, in such different ways.

When I try to analyze horror that’s worked for me, I keep coming back to how I found it, rather than what it was. The movies I caught on late-night television, shivering on a secondhand couch in my parents’ basement; the podcast I listened to in the dark of my bedroom, staring at the door as though daring it to swing open; the Sunday I read badly-translated Junji Ito comics until my eyes hurt, staggering to my feet feeling as though every bone in my body had been quietly replaced with someone else’s. (That Children of the Corn marathon we were too young for, and the dual terror of being discovered by my grandmother and He Who Walks Behind the Rows.)

But if I had to pick one thing that makes horror horror (distinct from fantasy, gothic, magical realism, or whichever genre might make use of the same super/preternatural tools) it’s that horror is about suffering. 

Horror is about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, confronting that which you don’t understand, and death. It’s hard to look at! It’s hard to enjoy, even as someone who loves horror and seeks it out. But more than any other genre, horror is about horror---it is about living in a world where fear and revulsion and pain are undeniable. It is about how inescapable they are, how they wend through us and our lives. Whatever form that takes is less important than the fact it exists, and there are stories which take that seriously. 

It’s why I rankle a the “Haunting of...” productions, which insist that actually, suffering isn’t suffering and all ghost stories are love stories. It’s not that I don’t love a love story! They’re just...distinct. Because if romance is about hope for the future, then horror---effective horror---is about living with the knowledge that sometimes, things are and will be terrible regardless. Not all sins wash off or can be washed away. The world is not always good or fine or well, the world is sometimes...fucked. Horror is a genre that recognizes fucked, like an AA sponsor clocking a new attendee. 

So when I think about effective horror, I think of that---I think of stories that understand suffering as a deadly serious thing. human and vital as the rest. Really really real, even if it takes vampires or zombies or what have you to communicate it.

#Anonymous #long post for ts #the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind

[gumnut-logic]

Callisto (Part Six - Rescue Site)

Prologue 1. Incident - Bit 1 | Bit 2 2. Fallout - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 3. Voyage - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 4. Arrival - Bit 1 | Bit 2 5. Orientation 6. Rescue Site

This fic seems to be taking forever, but I hope it isn’t reading that way. I had so much fun over the weekend and I still have some fun ahead of me writing one of the core scenes I had planned. I hope you are enjoying reading this.

As always, many thanks to the amazing @tsarinatorment​ @scribbles97​ @janetm74​ and @vegetacide​ as well for all the read throughs and support. Wonderful science officer @onereyofstarlight​ this bit has one of the places we talked about extensively and wouldn’t exist without your help :D

Again, thank you to all the wonderful peeps who have been reading along and commenting despite the once a week posting schedule. You help keep my enthusiasm alive and you have no idea how much I appreciate every word of encouragement ::hugs you all::

Have a Tracy boy or two on the job :D

-o-o-o-

Scott rolled his shoulders and tried to stretch out the tension that was slowly giving him a headache.

At least now they were moving. This rescue felt like it was taking forever.

Hell, it was the same with most space recues, if even more with this one. The distances involved just went on and on and no matter how fast the Thunderbird, it was slow.

It rankled Scott just a little. The fact that the environment could not be influenced by his impatience.

And Dad…

He shunted the thought aside. Perhaps that was why he scorned the time needed. It gave him far too much time to think.

The tunnel stretched out before him as it had for some time now. The life signs were nearly seven hundred kilometres away from Callisto Base. Usually, this was not a problem. There wasn’t a Thunderbird that couldn’t cover that distance in a short period of time. Even Four could do it at velocities no other underwater craft had ever managed.

But this location was at least two kilometres underground, and while the molepod was always an option, Virgil had vetoed it with the option of travelling via dragonfly through the tunnels. Scott had to agree. They needed far more information before barrelling into an unknown situation, not to mention the difficulties of deploying the molepod in these conditions.

But by this point he was almost ready to jump out and blast a hole in the damned moon to get where they needed to go.

Time. So much damned time.

Too much to think.

His hands shifted on the Dragonfly’s controls spinning her into a dive as the tunnel dipped suddenly. The brilliance of the pod’s forward lights lit up the never-ending cave as clear as daylight.

It sparkled back at him in sharp, stabbing needle-like reflections off the walls that did nothing to improve his headache. He had already set his helmet to shade to protect himself. It was ridiculous to be needing sunglasses this far underground.

Behind him, Virgil was following him at a short distance in Dragonfly Two, his lights just bright enough to light up the red of Scott’s pod.

For some irrational reason Scott wanted his pod to be blue.

The blue of the sky he was currently missing.

He sighed.

Again, too much time to think.

“Another five hundred metres.” Alan’s voice from behind him was the reassurance it always was. Why he felt comforted when his littlest brother was nearby and within reach was something he did not want to examine too much.

A twist of his wrists as the tunnel backed around on itself in a hairpin of a turn and he had to dodge another nest of those weird deformed ice stalactite formations sticking out into their path. “What are we looking at?”

“Looks like another cavern. A big one.”

They had flown through several of those enormous caverns on the way out here already. They acted like junctions, some having multiple tunnels converging on them, every single one a home for more ice formations and that damned reflective rock. It had taken John to get them out of the last one. This place was a damned maze.

Virgil had fortunately come prepared, as always. He was leaving a trail of comms-support beacons behind them as a clear path to return to Callisto Base.

Scott fought the urge to duck as the tunnel suddenly shrunk by several metres and took another swerving turn. Scott spun the pod over one-eighty degrees on her longitudinal axis as her wings nearly scraped the ceiling.

Righting them finally, he couldn’t help but check his monitor to make sure Virgil took the turn safely.

He almost smiled as the green pod behind them flipped in a manoeuvre that no doubt had Gordon yelping in the back seat. He couldn’t help but be proud for just a self-indulgent moment.

But his attention was torn away as his pod suddenly shot into a large open space and the light reflecting off the walls suddenly blinded him.

Alan’s gasp behind him only echoed his own.

Their forward lights were being shot at them in blinding brilliance off the ceiling of the new cave.

That brightness only increased as Virgil’s pod spun into a hover beside them.

Oh god.

Whatever had been in the walls of the tunnels was obviously concentrated here.

He redirected the lamps away from the ceiling only to have the brilliance follow them all the way down the closest wall until he was able to turn the pod towards the most distant wall.

Crystal.

There was crystal everywhere.

The cave walls were covered in spikes of the stuff as it they were inside a giant geode. He had to acknowledge that it was stunningly amazing when it wasn’t ripping his eyeballs out.

But that wasn’t what took his breath away.

As their lamps lowered, they caught the edges of something else.

He turned the lights down towards the floor only to discover he couldn’t see it.

Because it was covered in water.

Fluid, liquid water, the dragonflies causing the faintest of ripples to dance across its surface.

A lake.

Scott’s jaw dropped as he tipped the pod to peer down into the dark water only to have more crystal attempt to stab him in the eye from the depths.

“What the hell?”

Water wasn’t supposed to be able to exist in this environment. He poked at his scanners. Atmospheric levels were the same, ever so thin, providing little to no air pressure or heat to keep the water in this state.

“John? What am I seeing?”

Thunderbird Five did not answer immediately, but the data transmission rate on comms doubled as his space brother reached his fingers into the cave through the pod’s sensors.

“Impossible.”

“That was my thought. Virgil?”

“It’s beautiful.”

Scott’s lips thinned. “Scientific explanation? Gordon?”

“You got me here, bro. But I’m more concerned about those lifesigns.”

Scott frowned and double checked his readout. The two dots registered, glowing strongly at him.

From under the water.

-o-o-o-

Virgil frowned as Scott spun his dragonfly around and returned to the entrance of the cavern. His forward lights lit up only what could be considered a beach where the original tunnel swooped in and connected with the crystal cave. At the base there was only a few scattered crystal formations and Virgil watched as his brother expertly put down without touching a single one.

“Are we going to take a look at the lake?”

Typical. Nearby water body and his fish brother wanted in it.

But Virgil needed more reconnaissance.

And if he was honest with himself, there was just a dash of sightseeing involved. Not much, because of the urgency of the mission, but enough curiosity to send him off on a scout around the cavern.

Crystals that had to be the length of an arm or a leg stuck out from the walls in haphazard directions. Most reflected back clear, but in streaks, as if seeping up a localised mineral, there were ribbons of colour in places – reds, greys, golds, pinks. His scanners spat back that it was simply quartz, silicon dioxide, but he had never seen a formation like this.

Which was understandable as this was an alien landscape with vastly different environs to those of Earth. The artist in him was literally stunned, while the scientist valiantly fought for a reason.

He swooped around the edges of the cavern, his lamps lighting up brilliance as he went. The cave proved to be roughly circular, approximately four hundred metres in diameter and about a hundred metres high. He came across two more tunnels leading off it, but all were as dry as the one they had used to enter the cave. Towards the centre, but not quite, the ceiling arched down and what appeared to be a stalactite met a stalagmite to form a column of swirling crystal that looked like something straight out of an art glass exhibition. The ribbons of colour were here too, but this time mostly in a rose pink and a startling blue.

Virgil didn’t have words.

The light playing among the crystals just touched every artistic sense he had and froze them solid.

But there was a mission and those two glowing red dots glared at him from beneath the surface of the lake.

He ran scans of the water. For it was water, mostly, though, certainly not any he would want to drink.

For one thing it was salty, a definite brine solution with a number of minerals including silica in concentrations that defied as much logic as the water’s existence did in the first place.

The difficulty was that the lifesigns weren’t clear. They were in the water, but resolution faded at a very shallow depth and there was a lot of deep depth in places.

“John, can you get any more resolution on these scans? I can’t pinpoint the lifesigns.”

There was a muttered curse on comms that had Virgil arching an eyebrow. “No, I’m sorry, Virgil. Interference is particularly strong in that cavern. We’re working on it, but I don’t have any great hopes.”

“What about a probe? Would that improve the signal?” Virgil blinked as his headache suddenly flared. Ow. Damn. The controls in front of him blurred a moment. Shit!

But then everything righted itself, just leaving an echo of the pain in his head as the headache droned on as it had before.

Maybe his painkillers were wearing off. A glance at the time proved that was far from the case.

He dreaded to think what that would have felt like without them.

“Virg?”

“What?!” Okay, so he was abrupt, but he was busy.

“Hey, hey, calm down. You didn’t answer John. Just checking on you.”

“Virgil, you there?” John’s voice dripped concern.

Shit.

“Sorry. Just got a headache. Need some sleep.”

“I feel you, bro. Want me to pilot?”

“No. No. I’m fine.” He swallowed bile and mentally shook himself. “John, you were saying?”

He could feel Gordon’s eyes on the back of his neck.

“Probe deployed. Target is Burr Crater, which you are directly under at the moment.”

Virgil’s display reported the probe entering Callisto’s atmosphere. He hoped it would give them enough information to act.

Time was ticking.

He spun the pod around and tried to ignore the rainbow of light that was his forward lamps. The flicker, while beautiful, was doing nothing good for his headache at all.

“You sure you’re okay, Virg?”

He pressed his lips together and considered ignoring the question from Gordon. But he knew if he did, his brother would only worry more.

It was a Tracy trait.

“Let’s just get this mission done. We have people who need saving.”

Gordon’s grunt wasn’t a happy one and the chances of Scott being called in on his headache were increasing by the moment.

“I’m fine, Gordon.” He cut the conversation off by dropping the pod rapidly towards the beach where Scott had climbed out and was walking to the water’s edge. Another spin mid-air and Virgil lowered into a rather delicate landing, keeping the pod’s feet away from the crystal formations sticking out of the rock.

Virgil swallowed again before climbing out of the pod. His boots hit solid but glittering rock, damp in the darkness.

Scott and Alan were standing at the water’s edge staring out at the spectacle that the pod lights lit up.

Gordon clambered out behind Virgil and together they both walked over to stand beside their brothers.

“This is so cool!” Alan was obviously excited.

He said it on external comms and the sound travelled across the cavern only to bounce back in so many perfect ‘ool’s Virgil’s eyes widened.

On the spur of that, as the ‘ool’s slowly faded away, he activated his own external comm and sung a single pure C note.

It came back at him from so many different directions it was like a chorus.

“Oh, wow.”

‘Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow…’ It went on, the faint atmosphere sporting just enough density to carry the sound waves.

“That is something, isn’t it?” Scott’s voice was quiet. “The dragonflies made one hell of a racket. We’re going to have to be careful. Wouldn’t want to set up a harmonic that could bring the roof down on us.”

Virgil was still processing. The thought of playing his piano in this cave was just mind boggling.

“Dad says the Base scientists are having some kind of scientific fit over this place.” A grunt. “I’m more concerned about those two lifesigns.” He paused. “John, any luck with the probe?”

“Unfortunately, no. The interference is just too thick. I can read the water, but very little in it or below it. I’ll keep trying.”

Scott sighed. “Keep us updated. Looks like this will have to be more hands on.” He turned to Gordon. “We need Thunderbird Four.”

-o-o-o-

Next

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy #Virgil Tracy #John Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Alan Tracy #callisto

[henshengs]

first thousand words of the Fatal Journey canon divergence 

ptsd & big sword brain disease content warning

---

Carrying bodies a long distance is not easy even for the strongest of cultivators. This is something Nie Mingjue knows very well. It is even more difficult in the narrow crushing darkness of the blade tomb’s labyrinthine passageways. But Nie Mingjue will not allow the dead to be sacrificed to the hunger of the blades a second time, their spirits caught in eternal suffering. Huaisang helps him carry the bodies one at a time through the winding labyrinth of dark stone. The blade spirits are resting for now. The walls do not try and crush them, the floor doesn’t crumble beneath them. But it is a long, long way to stagger in the dark.

Together, they lay Nie Zonghui’s body down on the stone by the tomb’s closed door. There is a statue, in the outermost chamber, of the founder of the clan. Together the last sons of the Nie bow three times, and for once there is no comfort in it.

“Da-ge, help me with this,” Huaisang says. It takes both of them straining together to budge the stone door. When it shifts, sunlight streams in, and Nie Mingjue realizes he hadn’t really believed he’d ever see the sun again. The forest outside is warm and quiet. The resentment has gone. For now, it’s safe.

Nie Mingjue rests with his back against the stone, and watches Huaisang quickly scribble a message onto a Jin talisman that bursts into orange sparks and dissipates.

“Stay here and wait for the answer,” Nie Mingjue says.

“Da-ge, no,” Huaisang says, face pinched in stubbornness, but Nie Mingjue interrupts him.

“You will be sect leader when we return to the Unclean Realm,” he says, “and not before.”

“I’m not going to be sect leader at all,” Huaisang says, and despite how tired he must be, he springs to his feet. “Help me close the door,” he says, in a demanding tone that he hasn’t used with Nie Mingjue in- more than a decade, he thinks. When they were both still small enough to play games, Huaisang would take charge, and Mingjue was happy to go along with his baby brother, who could barely form sentences but was still so full of ideas.

Nie Mingjue looks at him now and sees that he is also thinking of the chamber deep in the earth, the place that calls to Nie Mingjue as it has called to many of his forefathers. A place of finality. Ending.

Huaisang is not going to allow him that simplicity.

Nie Mingjue takes Baxia from its sheathe on his back and lays it down next to the body of Nie Zonghui, who it killed. If he must go back down with his didi, he will not do it armed. He can only hope that will be enough.

They descend again in silence, retracing a path that has already become nightmarishly familiar. They cross the labyrinth, return to the sword tomb, retrieve the next body. Nie Mingjue lifts the shoulders, Huaisang the feet. Nie Mingjue makes sure to take most of the weight on himself as they return. It is a long way to walk but the weight of the bodies does not bow his back and strain his muscles; qi is still flowing through the structure of his flesh and bones. The ritual of corpse carrying is familiar, and as they walk the stone turns to mud, the cool dry darkness to lashing rain, the echo of their footsteps to war horns and the cries of carrion birds.

“Filthy Nie butcher,” a Wen-dog snarls, an ambush, they’ve been ambushed while burying their dead because the enemy have no honor, he reaches for Baxia but it isn’t there and a moment of terror spikes through him before he remembers why it isn’t there, and the Wen-dog is Huaisang asking, “Da-ge?” in a trembling voice.

Nie Mingjue grunts. “Faster,” he says, lifting his burden higher.

After the fourth body they are both exhausted. Nie Mingjue forces the door half open and then slides to his knees next to it. The sunlight is weaker, the light more orange. A butterfly dances into Huaisang’s hand.

“They’ll be here soon,” he says. “Rest, Da-ge. Please.”

Nie Mingjue doesn’t mean to. But his eyes close.

He’s woken from a nightmare of fire and blood by the sound of the door being pushed all the way open. Baxia leaps from where it lies on the ground. “Da-ge,” Huaisang says, and his hand grips Nie Mingjue’s arm tight enough to hurt. Nie Mingjue closes his eyes, and tries to clear his mind. It feels like baring his throat to a knife.

“Do not unduly exert yourself, Da-ge,” says the voice that appears in so many of Nie Mingjue’s nightmares. Nie Mingjue keeps his eyes closed, unwilling to see the pebbled gray robe, the bloodstains, the smile. “Everything will be all right.”

The music flows over him, cool and soothing and inescapable. He feels it sink into his body, feels the flow of qi slowing, stabilizing.

Baxia drops back to the floor.

“San-ge,” Huaisang cries. Nie Mingjue opens his eyes, and sees Jin Guangyao, wrapped in gold, folding Huaisang into his arms. The sight provokes Nie Mingjue, but the calm of the music is still swaddling him in cool water and Baxia only shivers a little.

“Everything will be all right, Huaisang,” Jin Guangyao promises. He has no right to promise what he cannot deliver. “We’re here to take you both home.”

“The other disciples,” Nie Mingjue says. “I won’t leave their bodies here.”

Jin Guangyao’s brow only creases for a moment, and then it smooths, and he says soothingly, “Of course. We’ll be sure to retrieve them without delay. Don’t worry yourself about it further, Da-ge.”

“No,” he says, “you’ll wake the blade spirit again- trespassers-” Any outsider would offend the spirits, but Jin Guangyao, traitor that he is, how could they not revile his very presence.

“The men I brought are all Nie disciples,” Jin Guangyao says, and now that Nie Mingjue looks, he sees that the men filing into the chamber are all dressed in gray. It rankles that Jin Guangyao was so easily able to command Nie Mingjue’s men, but he supposes he ought to be grateful for it now. “I’m sure the spirit will allow them, since Huaisang says you two have pacified it.”

“I’ll guide them,” Huaisang says. “I’ll take care of it. You go home with San-ge and rest.”

He is pale but determined. This is what Nie Mingjue wanted. This is why he brought his brother here: in hopes of seeing him grown up, responsible.

He didn’t know he’d hate the sight of it.

But as dangerous as the Blade Tomb is, right now in all likelihood being by Nie Mingjue’s side is more perilous. Alone in the forest with Jin Guangyao, there will be only one person for Nie Mingjue to hurt. And Jin Guangyao, he thinks, will not hesitate to act to protect himself.

“Fine,” he says.

He looks at Baxia. The longer it remains here in the Blade Tomb, the more chance there is of the blades’ resentment awakening each other. Of trapping Huaisang and the other Nie disciples in halls of death again.

It is a day’s ride to Qinghe.

He holds out his hand, and Baxia flies into it, and something inside him settles and he feels safe again.

Jin Guangyao’s eyes are on the saber. In his hands he holds the xiao he has been learning to play. It is smaller than Lan Xichen’s and looks like a toy.

Jin Guangyao’s eyes flick up to Nie Mingjue’s face, and he smiles.

“Everything will be all right, Da-ge,” he repeats, dead Nie cultivators at his feet, torches flickering around him.

Nie Mingjue has killed his own men. Nothing will be all right, not until he is in the ground next to them.

#my fic #nieyao #nie mingjue

[angst-fairygodmother]

Hello there! Idk if you’re still taking requests, so if you aren’t, ignore this! But I was wondering if you could write Diego x reader, where she meets his siblings for the first time, and at first it’s kinda awkward, but then they get more comfortable and maybe just like fluff after when they get back home? It might be totally stupid but idk. I love your writing!💕💕

A/N: Babe, it’s totally not stupid at all. Meeting the family shenanigans is basically the perfect trope for this show.  Sort of accidentally ended up a sequel to this fic, so I ran with it.  Word Count: 1678 Content Warnings: Season 2 spoilers

“Are you sure you want to do this, Y/N?” Diego asked, gripping your hand tightly as the two of you walked toward the restaurant. “It’s not too late for us to just leave.”

“Diego Hargreeves, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you didn’t want me to meet your family,” you teased, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s one dinner, it’ll be okay.”

“You say that now,” he muttered and you rolled your eyes affectionately in response before pulling open the door and walking inside.

When you gave your names to the hostess, she smiled brightly and told you that the rest of your party was already waiting for you, before leading you to a large table in a private room off the main dining area. Four pairs of eyes turned to you appraisingly. You swallowed nervously and put on a smile of you own.

“Hi everyone, sorry we’re late,” you said, taking one of the two empty seats, somewhat awkwardly as Diego still refused to let go of your hand. “Someone didn’t believe me that traffic was going to be a nightmare on a Friday night.”

One of the women at the table, who you vaguely recognized from a cheesy romance playing on late-night cable and therefore deduced was Allison smiled in a way that felt indulgent and false; it didn’t quite reach her eyes; it was rehearsed.

“Oh he never listens to anybody, don’t take it personally, Y/N,” the smaller of the two men said, stretching across the table and offering you a broad grin and a hand with the word hello tattooed on it. “I’m Klaus, and you’re the gorgeous creature my brother’s decided to shack up with, huh?”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his greeting, shaking his hand politely while Diego glared. “Nice to meet you Klaus,” you said with a smile.

“You know, I already like you better than his last two girlfriends. You haven’t tried to arrest or kill me!”

“Sorry what? Is that a joke?” you frowned in confusion as you let go of his hand and leaned back, glancing over at Diego to see his tight jaw and stony face, clear indications that he was upset.

You hand sought his under the table and you gave it a gentle squeeze, drawing his gaze to you and smiling at him.

‘It’s all good, relax,’ you mouthed.

“No I’m deadly serious,” Klaus continued. “For a while he was with this lady cop on-again/off-again style and she’d arrest me for drugs when she caught me around. Until she was tragically murdered by time-travelling assassins who kidnapped me looking for Five. Then while we were in the 60s, he fell for this girl from the nuthouse who turned out to be a plant and totally tried to kill us!” He gave a pained little chuckle, as if to say, ‘can you believe that?’

You stared at him, open-mouthed and aghast.

“Ignore Klaus, he’s never known when to shut up a day in his life,” the woman you had first noticed said. “I’m Allison.”

Klaus shot her a look that somehow combined a pout and a glare, but fell silent. You felt some of the tension sink out of Diego beside you, though he still didn’t seem comfortable. You smiled at her.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” you said, still trying to shake off the information Klaus had given (which seemed to line up with what the small, angry brother who was oddly not at dinner had said, and was far too much to actually process at the moment).

You turned to the two who hadn’t yet spoken. “So you must be Luther and Vanya?”

The man nodded, shifting in his seat and giving you an awkward little wave. The other woman glowered at you and said nothing. You frowned, wondering what you had done to earn her ire already.

Allison cleared her throat. “We ordered some bruschetta and sangria for the table before you arrived.”

The rest of dinner passed in much the same way as those first moments: Luther was mostly silent and clearly uncomfortable (whether with your presence or very fact of being out in public seemed unclear) but he started to relax and warm up as the evening went on, even once or twice sharing a stiff joke; Vanya was cold, barely responsive to your attempts to engage with her; Allison tried to play the hostess and keep topics light and small-talk-esque, breaking long silences with new conversations, obviously trying her best but ultimately resulting in a stilted performance; Klaus blurted out evidently whatever thoughts passed through his mind, usually bizarre and outlandish, sometimes profound and deeply sad. It was like none of them knew how to be normal people or have dinner with their sibling’s significant other, or an average conversation and you couldn’t help but feel oddly warmed by that, but the fact that they were so…human.

You did your best to keep up with all of them, appreciating Allison’s best efforts, laughing at some of Klaus’s jokes or countering his philosophical points, trying not to call too much attention to Luther or make him feel put on the spot. Diego felt his heart swell with pride at how well you did, and how you took everything in stride, even as the minutes seemed to drag on and he started to fear that dinner would never end.

The only thing that kept rankling at you was Vanya’s attitude, so when she got up to go to the bathroom, you excused yourself as well, cornering her in the hall of the restaurant.

“Hey, no offense, but what the hell is your problem with me?” you asked, tilting your head to one side, more curiosity than animosity in your tone.

She rolled her eyes, trying to push past you, but you resolutely blocked her path.

“I know I’m dating Diego and there’s like a whole weird history there or whatever, but don’t I at least deserve a chance before you decide to treat me like the devil?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”                                        

“You seem nice, and you’re…normal. Our family doesn’t do well with that,” she explained, folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to do the whole friendly, welcome to the family or whatever bullshit. Cus you’re either going to turn out not actually normal and screw us over, or you’re going to turn out actually normal and get hurt or bail before you do.”

You stared at her for a long, silent moment.

“I’m not going anywhere. I love Diego, and I think for all that they’re weird, I like your family a lot.”

“You say that for now, but we’ll see.”

“If there’s really no way for me to change your mind, fine, but maybe the reason people leave is just because you shove them away.”

You turned and returned to the table with that, not giving her a chance to respond. You still weren’t thrilled, but at least you felt like you understood her better now, and she seemed to soften toward you at least a little for the rest of the evening.

By the time the check came (a check you noticed that Allison picked up without even glancing at the numbers) you felt like you had really gotten to know Diego’s siblings, and seen a different side of him as he slowly loosened up around them.

As you all got up to leave, it became a chain of “it was nice to meet you”s and “we should do this again”s. Allison moved in for a hug and you returned it happily enough. Luther patted you on the shoulder awkwardly, his big hand enveloping it as if you were a child, surprising you with his size more close up than the other end of the table. Klaus moved as if to follow you home, and then pouted much like a stray puppy when Diego gave him a stern look that communicated without words that he was not allowed to do so. Then he turned to you and hugged you. But where Allison’s was polite and somewhat formal, Klaus’s was anything but, his long limbs folding around you and his chin resting on your shoulder.

“It was sooo good to meet you,” he purred in your ear. “And I’m glad Diego found you.” He pulled back to look you in the eye, his hands still resting on your upper arms. “I mean it. You’re good for him. Take care of him.”

“I will,” you said with a smile. “And you take care of yourself.”

Vanya offered you a polite nod, and you took what you could get.

~

“Y/N, I’m so sorry about tonight,” Diego sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he sank down onto the couch.

“What are you talking about D? It was fine.” You hung your coat on one of the pegs near the door and then, with a roll of your eyes, picked up his from where he’d tossed it on the floor and hung it as well.

“It was torture. In fact I think I’d rather be tortured.”

“I mean sure it was awkward, and your family’s a little weird, but I knew going in not to expect anything else.”

“It didn’t make you regret the day you ever met me?”

You dropped onto the couch next to him, leaning into his side and tilting your head to kiss him, smiling against his mouth.

“I could never regret that babe.”

His arm circled your shoulders, drawing you closer as he returned your kiss fervently. He groaned as you pressed against him and ran your tongue over his lower lip, opening up to invite you in. It wasn’t often that he let you take the lead, so you took full advantage while you could, pressing him back against the cushions and straddling his lap, running your hands through his hair.

“Besides,” you said, pulling back to smile teasingly. “Now I won’t feel so bad when you meet my family.”

#I hope you enjoy this darling Nonny #TUA season 2 spoilers #The Umbrella Academy season 2 spoilers #It sort of ended up more about the rest of the family and less about Diego #but I think it works? #Diego Hargreeves x Reader #meeting the family

[a-d-curtis]

Haggling the High Stakes

Everyone knows that Aang loves to haggle.

It certainly had become a running joke among their friends at least. Thankfully Aang’s haggling abilities had improved in spades from the first time Katara had witnessed him trying to negotiate with a pirate. Skills improved, he still brought just as much enthusiasm to it now as he ever did.

Katara found it pretty ironic, that for a guy who put so little stock in “worldly possessions”, the act of bartering brought him such great joy. Truthfully, Aang really did care little for “possessions” – he didn’t own a lot of things, keeping his life almost monastically lean. But there was something about the act of haggling -- the game and theatrics involved in getting the best price -- that would bring out the shrewdest of tradesmen in him.

Aang “talked price” in a way that was so obviously airbender. The way he and the vendor would flit from topic to topic, bantering good-naturedly, talking about seemingly unrelated topics that would then circle around to either drive up or down the price. The way he would feign interest in another item at the stall to, in a round about way, pull down the cost of the original. Or even walking away to examine another vendor’s wares to then be called back by the first seller, who suddenly appeared more willing to part with a product he earlier claimed he couldn’t bear to part with. Aang’s tactics weren’t as directionless as they might appear from the outside; he knew the price he planned to end at, he just employed a lot of weaving and schmoozing and crafting in the getting there. It was rarely strait forward and involved a lot of dramatics, but in the end, almost always, Aang walked away with what he wanted and for a price few others could hustle.

It was not uncommon for Aang to spend forty minutes or more wrangling price with a vendor at a bazaar, only to turn around and give whatever he had bought away without thought. “It’s the quest, Katara! Not the prize…”

Since Aang rarely shopped for himself, he was notorious for offering his “skills” to others, to spend their money for them. “Oh, Suki… I saw you looking at that saber over there. Want me to negotiate a good price for you?!” “Hey Sokka, I see that bag does look great with your new boots, but don’t buy it unless they throw in the belt for free!” “Toph, let me help you out here. I’m sure I can find something here for better quality and half the price!”

It was not unknown for him to approach perfect strangers in an effort to keep them from paying too much. “What’s the problem, Katara?! That peddler was clearly gouging that guy! I’m pretty sure it’s part of my duty as the Avatar to keep people from getting ripped off!” “Sure, sure, Aang,” she’d placate him as she’d steer him away from other people’s shopping business.

The glow on Aang’s face after cutting a great deal was almost Avatar State-esk – a wide toothy smile, self-satisfied smugness, lots of backslapping and handshaking post-haggle with any truly artful hawker. Katara found it hard to hold back a laugh with how truly pleased her boyfriend got after “whittling a great bargain”: chest puffed up, arms swinging proudly as he would recount the play-by-play of the exchange, his footsteps barely touching the ground.

Aang claimed that he had learned from the best. “Monk Gyatso didn’t love things, but boy did he love the process of bargaining for things! And no one was better at it, Katara! Monk Gyatso was a real master of the art. Wish you could have seen him in the zone!”

A nostalgic, far away look coming to Aang’s smiling eyes, “Did I ever tell you about the time Gyatso traded his glider for a couple of hopping lamas? Well he bought them from a one-legged butcher who thought Gyatso’s glider staff would make a perfect crutch. Well Gyatso took the lamas and sold them in the next town over to a soybean farmer for twenty whole silver pieces! The farmer’s fields had gotten infested with chokeweeds (and everyone knows hopping lamas LOVE to eat chokeweeds!). The farmer was so happy he gave Gyatso a big batch of his fresh made Tofu as a bonus!

“Well Gyatso took the twenty silver pieces to the local carpenter and bought a mahogany peg-leg (complete with a built in boot) which he took back to the one-legged butcher to trade for his glider back. The butcher was super happy! Gyatso gave him some of the tofu too (with a suggestion that it made an excellent substitute for meat). Not only did Gyatso save two hopping lamas from certain death, get a big basket of fresh tofu, AND help out a cripple, he did it all without loosing a shilling!

“But that was just the beginning! Gyatso took the tofu to the All-Nomad Airball Tournament and gave it to Cook Lhakyi to add to the pre-games feast. Gyatso knew that Monk Sangyal, one of the Head Monks from the Northern Air Temple, had a thing for tofu, but he also knew it gave him some serious gas. You see, Monk Sangyal was scheduled to referee the match between the Southern and Northern Air Temples, but we all knew he never called a fair game for the South. But once he’d loaded up on tofu, let me tell you there was NO WAY Monk Sangyal could stay in his seat when he was gassy – we’re talking shooting ten feet in the air every time he, you know, uh, broke wind… so he had no choice but to bow out of that match as referee, which left Monk Dhondup as the backup referee (and he was always more fair). PLUS with Monk Dhondup refereeing, it freed up his front row seat for Gyatso, which is what Gyatso wanted all along! PRIME spot to watch the championship tournament, which was why he went to the market to buy the lamas in the first place! I tell you, the man was a haggling Master…”

Occasionally Aang would get so caught up in nattering a deal, however, that he would completely loose track of his larger goal. Once at the end of shopping for traveling supplies (and taking way too long to do it in Katara’s opinion) Aang proudly held up what looked like a pair of pirate eye patches he had just spent the last twenty minutes negotiating for. “Look what I got, Katara! I really walked away with a steal for these! Not only did I get a great price, but I got the guy to throw in the second one free of charge!”

“What are you going to do with one eye patch, Aang? Let alone two!” Katara asked in exasperation.

Sokka joined in, “Yeah, wouldn’t two eye patches kind of defeat the purpose? I mean, if you need patches for BOTH eyes, why not just wear some dark glasses?”

“Or go all natur-al – like me,” Toph added pointing a confident thumb to her blind eyes.

Aang’s posture deflated as he looked down at the patches in his hands. “I guess I just got a little caught up in the moment…” he admitted.

“No point in being a cheapskate chaffer if you end up buying useless junk, Twinkletoes.”

But Katara had laughed out loud a moment later when she turned to see Aang and Momo both wearing matching eye patches and chittering out of the sides of their mouths like pirates together. Katara was beginning to think that it wouldn’t matter how much older Aang got, he was likely to be a kid-at-heart forever.

And admittedly, she loved him all the more for it.

But when the two decided to get married, and it came time to negotiate the bride-price, Katara began to dread Aang’s affinity for haggling with a new kind of apprehension.

Honestly, the fact that paying for a bride was still a tradition at all in her village rankled her. But it was common practice in both Water Tribes for the prospective groom to pay a bride-price to the woman’s family upon engagement.

“It’s archaic, Dad!” Katara had argued heatedly. “Not to mention humiliating! To be… bought… like a good canoe or a new polar-bear dog saddle?! Its completely demeaning.”

But Katara’s Gran Gran had stepped in and put her foot down, “It is tradition! Tradition as old as memory in our culture. Paying the bride-price is a covenant that helps to solidify a marriage union, to make it a promise between more than just a man and his wife, but between the couple and their tribe. And you will not rewrite thousands of years of history in one fell swoop, Katara!”

And so the couple had begrudgingly agreed to go through the motions of negotiating the bride-price, which was done in a sort of ceremony, in front of the whole tribe.

………

The sun was just setting over the horizon as the tribes people gathered in the large rounded gathering hall for the negotiation. Given the high profile of who was getting engaged tonight, the turn out had been nearly comprehensive – most of the village’s families were in attendance to Witness. The tribes people sat close together, shoulder to shoulder with their children on their laps, all straining to see and hear the impending negotiations. The prospective bride and groom would enter last.

Aang flew in on Appa just a few minutes before the negotiation was scheduled to begin, giving the couple little time to talk before it all began.

As the two entered the assembly chamber Katara grabbed Aang’s elbow whispering in exasperation, “Cut it a little close, didn’t you Aang?!”

Aang shifted the knapsack on his shoulder and kissed her forehead in apology, “Sorry! I got held up gathering… well never mind. I’ll tell you later.”

As the two entered the packed room, the chatter quieted down, all eyes on them. Chief Hakoda sat on a mat to the east of a fire in the center of the room; Gran Gran knelt by his side on the south. Katara looked at the empty place by Hakoda’s side, knowing that if Sokka weren’t at Kyoshi Island today he would be sitting with their father. For a fleeting moment, she missed her brother terribly; feeling that somehow if he were here then perhaps he could help diffuse this feeling of dread in her chest.

Aang was directed to sit on a mat directly across the center fire from Chief Hakoda. Katara knelt down next to her Grandmother; Kanna reaching out a withered old hand and gripping Katara’s hand in hers. “It will all be okay, my little Snowflake,” Gran Gran whispered.

But Katara was not feeling like it would be okay. Her stomach clenched in nervous dread. She had no idea what to expect from tonight. Traditionally, a bride price would be paid in trade: a good pair of sled dog-foxes, or a two-week supply of tiger-seal meat, perhaps a leather handled hunting spear thrown in for finesse. However, with the end of the war, and the prosperity and commerce that had returned to the South Pole, money exchanges had become more common. And given that Katara’s father was the Chief (and Aang unlikely to pay in meat), a money price would be the most likely exchange.

To date, the prices in coin generally ranged from twenty to thirty gold pieces, although last month a man from the North had paid the unheard of price of forty-five gold pieces to secure the hand of a girl from Katara’s tribe!

Katara looked over at Aang and groaned. He didn’t look at her, his face serious in the flickering firelight as he regarded her Father. She thought she could see his brain figuratively warming up for the negotiations ahead; preparing for the haggle of a lifetime! She had to look away.

Katara imagined Aang driving such a hard bargain that he would manage to buy her hand in marriage for a warm winter blanket. Inexplicably the thought made her chin tremble as she bit back tears of shame. This whole thing was so humiliating!

Katara knew that these events were anything but quick. Sometimes, when an agreement could not be decided upon right away, they would retire and continue the negotiations the following evening. Katara sighed thinking of Aang’s incredible bargaining stamina, and wondered how many days this would take. As the ceremony began, she tried to prepare herself for a long night…

A large basin of water and a small ceramic jug were brought in and set on the floor opposite the fire from Katara and her Grandmother. Aang and Hakoda both dipped their hands in the water: the washing of hands symbolizing the washing away of any past ills between them. Then both drank from the jug, first Hakoda, then Aang, as a promise to bring no deceit to their bargain and as a show of goodwill between the two parties.

Hakoda cleared his throat, preparing to recite the traditional opening words. He spoke as much to the gathered tribe as to the man seated across from him, “Avatar Aang, what brings you to sit at the fire with me this night?”

Aang responded also from rote, “Chief Hakoda, I sit with you this night to ask for the honor of marrying your daughter,” Aang’s silver eyes caught hers for a moment, “the esteemed Master Katara.”

Everyone there knew of their history. How she had left the village to rescue the Avatar, had helped to teach him to waterbend, had fought with him to end the Hundred Year War, and how they had fallen in love in the process. The two had been a couple for years now, this moment coming as a surprise to no one. But tradition called for certain sentiments to be expressed regardless.

Hakoda spoke up boldly: “Katara is my only daughter, my strength and support, my one great reminder of her mother who I loved with all of my heart. To part with her would be to loose a piece of my own soul. What merits do you claim, Avatar Aang, to be worthy of the hand of my daughter?”

Although she knew this type of speech was all part of tradition, Katara was nonetheless moved by the genuine emotion behind her father’s words. Back strait and tall, Hakoda sat with the confidence of a proven chief. But even with his chin held high, Katara could see that his eyes were soft, even a little sad.

This tradition was part of protecting his daughter, of ensuring that she would be cared for. Although she still did not like the idea of a bride-price, Katara began to appreciate the value in the ceremony. For her Father’s heart, if for nothing else.

All eyes now turned to the Avatar. It was his turn to respond. To build himself up, to lay out the many reasons that he could and would be a suitable match for Katara. To prove that he was powerful enough, capable enough, to protect her and provide for her needs.

But Aang said nothing.

Katara’s eyes darted to his face as he stared into the flickering fire, trying to read his expression, to understand the unexpected pain behind his furrowed brow.

She was fairly well acquainted with Aang’s griefs, and she had a pretty good idea what kind of insecurities he was wrestling with right now. She knew that he worried for her safety, that he worried that somehow her affiliation with him might put her in danger. Aang had worked hard to forgive himself for running away before the war, knowing that he had been just a child, afraid and lonely. But the knowledge that whether he had run away or not, he was the reason his people were massacred, plagued him. As much as she tried to reassure him otherwise, he worried that she would somehow be the same. His anxieties had gotten so bad a couple of years ago that he had even tried to cut ties with her; to break up in a half-baked attempt to keep her safe. Of course she hadn’t bought it, and truthfully he hadn’t really wanted her to, but it had dug up some intense buried pains for both of them. Sometimes she wondered if he would ever be free of his twin demons: grief and guilt.

After an uncomfortable silence Hakoda cleared his throat and asked again, this time his voice a bit softer, “Aang, what makes you worthy of my daughter?”

Aang looked up, locking eyes with Hakoda, and spoke quietly, “I’m not.”

Hands covered mouths as whispers were exchanged among the Witnesses, an audible murmur rippling around the room. Katara was sure she could hear her brother slap his forehead in exasperation all the way from Kyoshi Island!

“Aang…” Katara started to speak, but was silenced by her Gran Gran’s firm hand on her own. Of all the times to leave your Air Nomad humility behind, Aang, it would be now! Be Water Tribe and proudly proclaim who I know you are!

“I am not worthy of Katara,” -- another murmur rippling through the crowd -- “But I will do everything in my power to keep her safe and to make her happy. She means everything to me…” Then sitting up straighter, he added with conviction, “And there is no one who would love her more than I do.”

Although this was a discussion of marriage, it was strangely taboo for declarations of love to be expressed. This event was more about practicality than sentiment. Katara could see some people shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Even though it was supposed to be Aang trying to convince Hakoda of his merits, Hakoda spoke up for his soon to be son-in-law, helping him to save face in front of the Tribe. “I know, Aang. I do not doubt either you capabilities nor your motives.”

As though worried that Aang might declare his adorations again, Hakoda quickly pushed forward the process. “As you know my daughter is dear to me, and her leaving my household will be a great loss to us all. In a demonstration of your capabilities to care for my daughter, and as a small way to alleviate our disadvantage at her loss, I propose that we agree to seventy-five gold pieces as a bride-price for your engagement to Katara.”

There was a loud buzz of surprise from the onlookers. Seventy-five gold pieces?! Starting a negotiation this high was unheard of! Katara looked at her father in surprise. Why?

The noise grew steadily until the tribe members shushed one another loudly to hear the Avatar’s response.

Katara knew this was when the counter offers would begin. Somewhere well below the first offer but with room to go up in price as the two parties would parry back and forth until landing somewhere in the middle.

“Chief Hakoda,” Aang began, his voice carrying throughout the room, “No, I couldn’t pay seventy-five gold pieces…”

Katara’s forgotten embarrassment returned as she looked down to her lap, remembering why they were here, waiting for “Aang the Haggler” to begin bargaining in earnest.

“… I simply could not feel right about paying any less than five hundred gold pieces.”

There was a collective gasp from the room… before it exploded in noise!

Some people got to their feet, some yelling out, still others sat in astonishment, mouths hanging open stupidly. Cries of “Has he lost his head!?” and “Clearly this foreigner does not understand!” and “FIVE-HUNDRED GOLD PIECES?!” could be heard.

Hakoda himself sat back in silent bewilderment.

Katara, finally overcoming her own shock, hissed at Aang, “Do you even HAVE five hundred gold pieces?!?” before her Gran Gran slapped her hand again with a “Hush!” and “It is not your place to speak in this!”

Aang, face stoic, (although the edge of his mouth showing the slightest hint of a grin) looked at Katara and nodded, almost imperceptibly. Then, reaching into the rucksack at his side, he pulled out two full drawstring pouches, and set them before Hakoda with a heavy jangle.

Hakoda looked down at the bags in silence, then up at Aang like he would protest, but couldn’t seem to find his voice. Aang sat at the ready, as though prepared to offer more. Surely this was the strangest bargaining in the grand history of bride-price talks! This night was destined to go down in tribal history: a story to be told, and retold, for generations to come!

Aang spoke again, “No amount of money or treasure could ever compare with the privilege of spending my life with Katara. No matter the agreed upon price, I will forever be in your debt. But I hope you will accept my offer -- but a fraction of what I wish it was -- that I may receive your blessing and permission to take your incredible daughter, Katara, as my wife. I promise to honor her, and respect her, and to cherish her with all that I am until my soul moves on from this life to my next.”

The room was still loud and chaotic as Hakoda, his voice seemingly still unrecovered, looked back down at the bulging coin bags in a stupor. Then nodded once. Twice.

And that was that.

Technically, the bride-price was agreed and the engagement was official. Too bad there was too much disbelief and chaos in the room for the usual congratulations to be extended.

Gran Gran pulled on Katara’s elbow, leaning into her with a husky laugh, “One thing I like about your Airbender, Katara – he never ceases to surprise me!”

Katara couldn’t agree more.

……..

Having received Hakoda’s nod of approval, Aang wasted no time in grabbing Katara by the hand and pulling her out of the hubbub of the still startled and excited crowd. Running and giggling the two stole out into the chill night, only slowing once the din from the assembly hall became but a distant hum.

The moon shone her beautiful beaming face brightly upon them, as though sending her congratulations. They listened to the music of the back and forth of the waves on the icy shore. For a time they just walked in silence, holding hands and bumping shoulders, smiling widely. The glances they shared were, for some reason, unexplainably coy, like their new official change in relationship status hadn’t had time to feel real yet.

At long last, Katara broke the silence with a tease, “Not your most impressive performance as a haggler back there, Aang.”

Aang, unable to hold back his radiant smile, looked down and laughed. “Ah, but even a good haggler would never low-ball a truly fine treasure when he finds it. I could never insult your Father with an offer so far below its worth.”

Unable to hold back her smile, Katara raised a flirtatious eyebrow at him, “Oh yeah?” She couldn’t help but feel important, and so, so loved. Contrasted with the humiliation she had felt earlier at the idea of being bargained for, the difference was stark.

“Yeah.” Aang sighed with a dopy grin as he pulled her close, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. “Besides,” he began, his mouth close to hers, his breath coming in warm puffs on her lips, drawing her own mouth to tilt upward seeking his.

“I still walked away with a steal!”

……………

A/N: I must admit that I based some of this on my own love of haggling =) So… how much for a review, eh? ;)  ;)

#alta #aang #avatar aang #katara #kataang #avatar the last airbender

[tsarisfanfiction]

Long Way From Home: Chapter 6

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

There’s a lot in this chapter - more compare and contrast, yay! - but the bit I want to mention specifically is one of the major society differences between TOS and TAG, which stems entirely from the 50 years between writing - sexism.  I’ve noticed that a lot of TOS-based fics tend to shift away from or gloss over that, because that’s just how it was in the 60s when TOS was written and there’s no need to honour it (past the Alan/Tin-Tin spats) in modern fanfic.

Normally, I’d agree, but as already mentioned, I’m playing compare and contrast, and quite frankly the sexism was too tempting to pass up.  Now, that does not mean we’ll have City of Fire-esque “crazy woman driver” in the fic because that was writer-sexism, not in-universe, and I’m not about that.  Perceptions of women as delicate flowers who are supposed to be seen and not heard by the male [TOS] cast, though?  We are definitely playing with that, so consider this a warning.  I could go into an entire essay on this, but you’re not here for that, you’re here to see it all through TAG!Scott’s eyes, so let’s let him tell the tale, shall we?

<<<Chapter 5

Scott was on the slippery slope towards a fourth loss – with no wins – when the house trembled slightly. The unmistakable roar of a jet engine in close proximity told him what the cause of it was, and he didn’t need Other-Gordon to confirm it as Thunderbird One.  She might not be his Thunderbird One, and her engine might make a different noise, no doubt due to different technology, but Scott had always had an ear for plane engines.  Having already heard it once, the cry of this universe’s Thunderbird One was instantly recognisable.

“Do you want to finish up first or call it here?” Other-Gordon asked, either correctly assuming that Scott had every intention of seeing his counterpart now he was back, or simply wanting to attend the debrief himself.

“How long do post-flight checks take here?” he replied, eyeing the board with a brain only half concentrating on the game now and trying to work out if he could do anything other than be defeated before Other-Scott finished said checks and emerged from the hangar.

“Scott’ll be out in five minutes, assuming nothing went wrong on the mission,” Other-Gordon told him, glancing down at his watch.  “They weren’t gone long, so it probably all went smoothly.”

“Well I’m not going to get this turned around in five minutes,” he sighed, gesturing at the board, “so we might as well call it.”  Other-Gordon laughed.

“You’re right about that,” he agreed.  “You’re only two moves away from defeat anyway.”  Scott could see that, and knocked his King over to save himself the bother.  Other-Gordon laughed again, and swept the pieces up, packing them away before standing. “Let’s see what my brothers had to deal with this time,” he commented, with barely a hint of bitterness to betray the fact he’d have liked to be on it rather than stuck at home waiting.  Scott pulled himself up out of the comfortable chair he’d got used to sitting in for the past couple of hours.

“Lead the way.”

They got as far as the door before Other-Gordon stopped, looking up at him with a serious expression he hadn’t seen on his face since before they started playing chess.

“Before we do,” he started; Scott instinctively straightened at the tone.  “Knowing you – well, Scott, and assuming it’s something else you two share – you’re no doubt going to be analysing and second-guessing everything the fellas did out on the rescue.  Do me a favour and keep it to yourself.”

Scott blinked.  “What?”

Other-Gordon didn’t budge, arms crossed.  “Your universe and ours have different technology; we’ve all realised that. It’s likely that means you’d make different calls to us, based on what you’d have at your disposal if you were with your own International Rescue.  John and Brains, hell maybe Scott and Virgil, too, will be curious at the differences, but save it until you’re asked.  The debrief isn’t a place for hypotheticals based on other-universe technology and I doubt you’d appreciate it if roles were reversed and it was our Scott butting in on your debriefs.”

Scott sighed.  “You have a point,” he admitted.  Keeping his mouth shut when he had an opinion was not something he was particularly well-practiced in, but Other-Gordon was right. He’d be fuming if someone who knew nothing about International Rescue’s capabilities interrupted his own debriefs. The idea that he didn’t know International Rescue’s capabilities rankled, but he remembered Other-John’s rundown of the situation earlier and how many terms had been unfamiliar to him. Hell, they even had different names for something as fundamental as Thunderbird Two’s modules.  He sighed again, running a hand down his face, to a raised eyebrow from Other-Gordon.

“Everything alright?” the other man asked, and he shrugged.

“You do realise I’m not used to not being in charge?” he asked rhetorically, prompting a laugh from the ginger.

“I had noticed,” he commented dryly.  “Dad’s still going to have a fit if you walk in looking like that, and Scott’s going to want to know what you think you’re doing with his shirt.”

“I’m wearing it,” Scott shrugged.

“Badly,” Other-Gordon retorted, turning away and opening the door, leading the way back towards the lounge – and Not-Dad.  Scott tried not to think about the fact he’d soon be in the older man’s presence again.

“It’s more comfortable this way,” he bit back instead, determined to get the last word.

“It looks sloppy.” Other-Gordon clearly didn’t feel like letting him have it.

“Maybe I don’t like looking like a pampered son of a billionaire.”  Two could play at that game.

“That’s what you are, so own it.”

“Actually, I’m the billionaire,” Scott pointed out, the one result of Dad’s crash he’d finally found himself comfortable with, if only through necessity and the fact that it was how International Rescue could still operate.  “I can look how I want.”

Other-Gordon froze for a fraction of a second before continuing the walk through the villa, a barely-there stumble that told Scott he hadn’t realised that aspect.

“Touché,” he conceded after a moment.  “But I don’t think that’ll wash with either of them.”  Scott shrugged.

“I stopped caring what other people thought a long time ago,” he pointed out.  It was only half a lie – he cared about the opinions of his brothers and closest friends.  He didn’t care about the rest of the world’s opinions.

Or another universe’s.

Other-Gordon chuckled again, jogging up the stairs with Scott hot on his heels before heading for the lounge.  Scott paused as they crossed the threshold, seeing Tin-Tin already there, but he refused to baulk.  Not-Dad was sat behind the desk, looking every inch the man in charge, and he dragged his feet into the room, finding a seat on the edge of the depressed circle and sprawling out on it as though he was at home.

As it happened, his entrance was timed perfectly.  Just as Not-Dad caught sight of him, face drawing into a look of disapproval and mouth opening to dish it out in what would no doubt be a tongue lashing, the section of wall housing the two lamps swung around, revealing Other-Scott.

“I’m back, Dad,” he greeted, a split second before he, too, caught sight of Scott and his new attire. “Hey, what are you wearing?”

“Unless you’re in the habit of keeping anyone else’s clothes in your closet, your clothes,” Scott shrugged, eyeing what the other man was wearing.  Blue rollneck, checkered blue cardigan and dark brown slacks.

Fashion was definitely different in this universe.

“You look disgraceful,” Not-Dad cut in, but he didn’t look over at him.  Their voices were different, so as long as he didn’t look at him, the scolding didn’t hurt so much.  “Do up that shirt properly.”  Scott ignored him, and Other-Gordon’s sing-song I told you so.

Other-Scott was less ignorable, striding up to him and yanking sharply on the sleeve cuffs to unroll them.

“Don’t wreck my clothes,” he complained.  “You’ll stretch the sleeves doing that.”  Scott rolled his eyes and tugged his arms back.  “Dad, someone needs to get him some new clothes; he can’t keep wearing mine.”

“Or the same underpants because he refuses to wear yours,” Other-Gordon cut in.

“Gordon, Tin-Tin’s present!” Not-Dad snapped, although the young woman was tittering quietly and didn’t seem at all mortified.  “We’ll deal with the clothing situation once debrief is over.  In the meantime, wear my son’s clothes properly, young man.”

Scott tugged at the sleeves, smoothing them out again at Other-Scott’s request but not doing up any buttons.

“Are you always this insolent?” Not-Dad demanded when he realised Scott wasn’t obeying him.  “What does it take to get some respect in my own house?”

Hiding his reluctance, Scott turned his head to meet his eyes.  Not-Dad’s eyes were still a hard steely grey; both Other-John and Other-Gordon had mentioned that the two of them clashing was inevitable, and Scott could tell that they were right.  He should defer to the other man – it was his home, and he was the one in charge of the people that could get him home – but even considering doing so made his heart rebel violently.

He hadn’t protected his family and his father’s legacy for the past eight years by backing down, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“I respect people who earn it,” he said pointedly.  “You don’t get a free pass just because you’re rich and powerful; I’ve rescued too many rich and powerful people from their own stupidity for that.” Francois Lemaire came to mind. The reasoning behind birthday parties in the Mariana Trench and flying into a comet’s coma still boggled him.

Not-Dad looked taken aback, as though the idea of earning respect was foreign to him.  Or maybe it was the fact that he admittedly looked just like the man’s eldest son, so maybe hearing that from him was a shock to the system.

“What about International Rescue?” the man asked, and Scott shrugged.

“What about it?”

“Does that not get your respect?”

“I can respect what an organisation does without respecting the man behind it,” he pointed out, coolly.  “The fact that you’re International Rescue tells me that you’ll do everything you can to get me home, and I respect that.”

“So you don’t respect us,” Not-Dad said flatly, a hint of anger in his tone, and Scott shrugged.

“I don’t know you,” he reminded the room at large.  “You’re an alternate universe version of my family, and I’m still working out what that means.  I trust you to help me, but respect?  I don’t know you well enough for that.”

“He’s got a point, Dad,” Other-Scott said, perching on the arm of the neighbouring chair.  The support was unexpected, but welcome. “Just because he looks like me doesn’t mean he is me.”

“You’re pretty similar,” Other-Gordon piped up, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“That’s not what you said earlier,” he reminded him.  Other-Gordon simply shrugged.

“I’m working with more information now.”

“What information?” Not-Dad demanded, and Scott sent the ginger a glare, realising too late that the younger man had never agreed not to share their conversation in the hangar. Other-Gordon was too sharp for his liking.  Was his Gordon going to end up that difficult to wrangle in four years, or was it just because despite appearances he wasn’t Other-Gordon’s brother?

“I spent the last three hours playing chess against him,” Other-Gordon informed the room.  To his surprise, Other-Scott laughed.

“You couldn’t beat him either?  Gordon’s a demon when it comes to chess.”

“I can’t say I expected to win,” Scott admitted.  “That’s a fact in both universes.”  Other-Gordon preened, and Not-Dad sat back in his desk chair, clearly deciding to let them talk without his intervention.

That act felt a little bit more like Dad, and Scott looked away, the never-healed hole in his heart throbbing painfully.  Other-Gordon sent him a sharp look, but said nothing.  Other-Scott watched the silent exchange with confusion; Scott didn’t plan on enlightening him, even if he was probably drawing his own conclusions.

Scott looked around as Other-Gordon carried the conversation, talking a mile a minute about chess with – or rather, at – his eldest brother, who slumped off of the arm of the chair he was perching on to sit in it properly.  Scott could relate to the post-mission exhaustion, and felt a stab of jealousy that as soon as debrief was over, Other-Scott didn’t have to worry about it anymore.  Not-Dad would take it all from there.

No wonder he wasn’t going grey yet.

The photos on the wall had changed.  Gone were the five relaxing young men, lounging around in their civvies. Instead, there were photos of the same five young men all wearing IR blue and coloured sashes, posed just like their own portraits at home.  He couldn’t believe they still wore those damn hats, then again, that was something he’d scrapped after Dad’s crash.  Not-Dad clearly liked the things enough to still keep them, although he wondered if they really wore them all the time.

Their baldrics, although they looked more like sashes than baldrics, matched the colours Other-Scott had rattled off earlier – lilac for Other-John, yellow for Other-Virgil, orange for Other-Gordon and white for Other-Alan.  Other-Scott himself had blue, and Scott wondered how much of a say they’d had in their colours.  At home, they matched their Thunderbirds, but Thunderbird One here was still the same colour scheme.

“Operation Cover-Up was in effect last time you were in here,” Other-Gordon commented.  “If you’re wondering why the pictures are different.”  He turned back to look at him and discovered the room was staring at him.  Of course they were.

“Operation Cover-Up?” he asked, frowning.  “What’s that?”

Other-Scott narrowed his eyes, but it was Not-Dad that replied, frowning back at him in return.

“Surely you have one of your own?” he inquired.  “The identity of International Rescue must be kept secret, after all.”

Scott had almost forgotten about that; the first one of Dad’s rules to fly out of the window, not that he’d been able to do anything about it.

“I wish,” he muttered. While having their identities was useful at times, being dogged and recognised at a glance whenever they were out in public – and unable to let visitors onto the island without extensive background checks because otherwise they’d go snooping – was beyond tiring. Even their location wasn’t as hidden as he’d like, especially not now the GDF knew it – Colonel Casey promised it was a high level clearance secret, but that didn’t change the fact there were people in the GDF that knew.

“Are you saying it’s not a secret in your universe?” Not-Dad demanded, and Scott shrugged.

“The world’s not stupid.” He slumped back in his chair, hyper aware that everyone in the room was watching him with varying levels of interest and disbelief.  “Billionaire ex-Astronaut Jeff Tracy goes missing the exact same time the Commander of IR does.  Two and two makes four.  Not even John and Lady P could cover that up.”  Especially not with the Hood leaking the information left, right and centre before going underground, as though killing his Dad wasn’t enough damage.  “Best we’ve got is that most of the world don’t know where we live.”

“How are you still operating?” Other-Scott asked, beating his father to it by barely a second, judging by Not-Dad’s opened mouth.  “Aren’t people trying to steal the technology?”

Scott groaned.  “All the damn time.  Island’s on permanent lockdown – no-one’s allowed on or off without our security’s approval.  The GDF-” Other-John hadn’t known what that was “-the world military suffers us because we’re better at saving people than them and they know it.  Our godmother being a Colonel helps a lot.”  He ran a hand over his face again, feeling drained just thinking about the mess he had to deal with daily to keep IR running.

How would they manage without him?  Would the GDF force them to shut down, or would John or Virgil step up?  How far did Colonel Casey’s reach go; could she still keep them out of trouble with the GDF?

“Scott?”  It was Other-Gordon that spoke, but when he pulled his hand away from his face it was Not-Dad he looked at.

“It’s possible to operate when the world knows who you are, but it’s a damn headache.”

“Language!” the man barked. “There are women present.”  Scott rolled his eyes, under no illusions that Tin-Tin and Mrs Tracy hadn’t heard worse.

“Gee, so that’s why you’re going grey,” Other-Gordon chipped in, and Scott glowered at him half-heartedly.  “And here I was thinking I was going to need to see if Scott was hiding some dye somewhere.”

“Gordon,” Other-Scott growled.  The ginger put his hands up.

“Just saying; it seemed suspicious that he’s going grey and you’re not.”

“Why would I be going grey already?” Other-Scott demanded.  “I’m thirty.”

“And he’s twenty-seven, so that argument doesn’t hold any water, old chap,” Other-Gordon retorted.

“Wait, what?”  All eyes fell on Scott again, and he sent another withering glance Other-Gordon’s way.  The ginger wasn’t saying anything he’d explicitly wanted not said, but he was definitely skirting around dangerously close to the edge.  “It’s not twenty-sixty-five where you’re from?” Other-Scott continued, and Scott froze.

“Twenty-what?” he asked.  That… didn’t make sense.  That didn’t make sense at all.  He’d be thirty-two in 2065, not thirty.  Then again, the age gaps between Virgil, Gordon and Alan were also different between the two universes, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised.

“I take it that’s a no?” Other-Scott replied, and he shrugged.

“Twenty-sixty.”

“That’s weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Scott groaned.  “I need to tell your Brains this stuff but apparently I’m not allowed to disturb him.”

“What ‘stuff’?” Tin-Tin asked, inserting herself in the conversation.  “Have you worked anything out?”

“Scott and I were playing spot the difference earlier,” Other-Gordon chipped in.  “Seems there’s a few more differences than we thought.”

“Like different dates of birth,” Other-Scott noted.  “I was twenty-five in twenty-sixty, not twenty-seven.  Is your birthday April fourth?”

Scott nodded, relieved that at least one thing was the same.

“Different age gaps, too,” Other-Gordon pointed out.

“Your brothers are closer in age?” Not-Dad asked.  “It can’t be the opposite, or you’d be too young to operate.”  Scott winced; the topic was getting too close to areas he didn’t want it, and unlike Other-Gordon, Not-Dad and probably Other-Scott wouldn’t let the matter of Alan’s age drop.  “They’re not?”  Not-Dad sounded startled, and he realised the wince had given him away.  “But-”

He stood up suddenly.

“Let me know when you’re debriefing,” he said, and walked out.  Dammit all; he’d said he wouldn’t run away, and he knew he couldn’t keep Alan’s age from Not-Dad and Other-Scott forever, but he wasn’t ready to see the disapproval on Not-Dad’s face.  Not when it was so like Dad’s.

“Scott!”  It was a woman’s voice – Tin-Tin’s, to be precise, and he reluctantly turned to see the younger woman following him hurriedly. With the topic of ages on his mind, he realised she was probably a similar age to Kayo, not older like the Tracy family seemed to be.  Something else that made no sense.

“What is it?” he asked her as she came to a stop in front of her.  No-one else emerged from the lounge; whether they were talking about him, or had decided to entrust him to Tin-Tin, he didn’t know.

“I want to hear about these differences,” she said firmly.  “Brains is busy with the data he already has, but I’m not.”  She put a hand on his arm and directed him towards the stairs.

“What do you mean?” he asked, following her with the reminder that she was this universe’s Kayo stuck in his mind.  Just because she didn’t look as dangerous, didn’t mean she wasn’t.

“You recognised my father’s name, but not mine,” she observed.  “Let’s start at the beginning; good day, it’s very nice to meet you.  My name is Tin-Tin Kyrano and my primary role on the island is as Brains’ assistant.”

That was different, but the words ‘Brains’ assistant’ stuck out like a lifeline.  He smiled at her and stuck out his hand.  “Good day, and it’s very nice to meet you.  The name’s Scott Tracy and in my universe I’m the commander of International Rescue.”  She looked at his hand for a moment before grasping it.  Her grip was light but firm and he knew his initial impressions had been correct – she was not a woman to be crossed.

If she could help get him home, he had no intentions of crossing her.

“Well, now that we’re introduced,” she smiled, guiding him back towards the infirmary but stopping in front of a different door, pushing it open to reveal a homely sitting area, “perhaps we should talk about those differences Brains needs to know about. Come in; we still have fifteen minutes before Thunderbird Two gets back, and the boys won’t be ready for debrief for another fifteen after that.”

It was only after he entered that he saw the king-sized bed, surrounded with drapes, in an alcove of the room and realised it must be her bedroom.

“Take a seat,” she invited, gesturing to a plush loveseat.  “Would you like something to drink?”

“If you have coffee that would be amazing,” he admitted, and she laughed.

“I think the American men on this island would all stop functioning if we didn’t have coffee,” she smiled, heading for a coffee press in the corner of the room.  Scott wondered why that was there when the kitchen was just down the hall.  “How do you take it?”

“However I can get it,” Scott admitted.  “But ideally a splash of milk and a sugar.”

“Just like our Scott,” she commented.  “How you men live off so much caffeine, I will never understand.  Your blood must be more coffee than blood at this rate.”

Scott smiled dryly. “Something like that.”

“I must confess I’m curious – what am I like in your universe?” she asked as she set the water to boil.  “You don’t look at me like you do the boys.”

“Kayo – Tanusha, but we call her Kayo after she put me down in a sparring session – is… different to you,” Scott admitted.  “She’s a tomboy, our head of security after Kyrano… left.  Grew up with us as a sister, jumps into a fight first chance she gets. I have to hold her back more than all of my brothers combined.”

Kayo would be going ballistic that he vanished right under her nose, even though she hadn’t been on the island at the time.  He hoped she wouldn’t follow in Kyrano’s footsteps and vanish after ‘failing’ him. His brothers still needed her, whatever else happened.

Tin-Tin made a noise of surprise.  “I assumed she must have been different, but that is very different,” she observed. The kettle whistled, steam pouring out of it, and she decanted the contents into the coffee press.  “She gets into fights?  Whatever do people think of that?”

“Kayo doesn’t care,” Scott shrugged.  “She usually wins them, anyway.”

“That’s not particularly ladylike,” Tin-Tin observed, although she didn’t sound particularly scandalised about it.  “Is that common in your universe?  You mentioned your godmother’s a Colonel in the military..?”

Scott thought to how Not-Dad had been so strict on language in front of her, and frowned.

“Are women generally treated like they’re made of glass here, or is that just him?” he asked. “Grandma, Kayo and Lady P would have all had something to say if someone specifically cleaned up their language in front of them because they’re female.”

“As a general rule they think we’re delicate flowers, yes,” Tin-Tin confirmed, carrying a tray with two cups on it over to the table.  One was clearly his coffee, while the other looked like another herbal tea.  “Your attitude is quite refreshing, although when Mr Tracy isn’t around the boys lose the gentlemanly airs a little.”

“When you live with a sister who can kick your ass seven ways to Sunday and a Grandma with a sharp tongue you learn women aren’t made of glass pretty damn quick,” Scott shrugged.

“I suppose you would,” she agreed, pulling out a notebook and pencil.  “That seems like quite the incentive, but while you’re here, at least try to pretend you think we’re made of glass.”  She winked.  “It somewhat ruins the deception if a man sees through it.”

That was a very Lady Penelope response, and Scott made a mental note of that.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed, before looking pointedly at the notebook.  “You had questions?”

“Those differences Gordon alluded to,” she confirmed.  “I���ll write them down and give them to Brains to look at once he’s finished with the information he currently has.”  Scott nodded his head and began to talk about the differences he and Other-Gordon had realised earlier.

The different age gaps – Tin-Tin let out a small gasp when she found out Alan was only fifteen, but didn’t comment, much to his relief – and the different years of birth had already been somewhat covered in the lounge, but he also mentioned the differences in appearance, describing them as best he could and failing utterly at anything past “John’s hair is ginger, Virgil’s is black, Gordon’s is blond, and they’re all kinda younger-looking”.  His observation of different fashions, their earlier discussion on perception of women, and even an attempt into the technological differences also made their way into Tin-Tin’s rapidly filling notebook.  At some point they heard the sound of a rumbling engine, deeper than Thunderbird One’s, and he recognised it as this universe’s Thunderbird Two.  Tin-Tin barely reacted, only mentioning off-handedly that they had about fifteen minutes left before continuing their conversation.

She steered clear of asking any questions about what had happened to his Dad, which he appreciated. That wound had been rubbed raw more than enough for one day, what with his initial outburst, Other-John’s quiet probing and Other-Gordon’s outright interrogation.  She did, however, manage to steer the conversation towards his grandmother, and almost fell out of her chair when she discovered Sally Tracy couldn’t cook.

“However do you boys keep yourselves fed?” she demanded.  “If it’s not Mrs Tracy, my father, or Kayo?”

Scott shrugged. “Take-out or snatching time to cook between missions,” he admitted.  “One good thing about the world knowing we’re IR is that if I use Thunderbird One, take-out’s still hot by the time I get it back.”  She laughed at that for a moment before turning serious again.

“But you boys must have a balanced diet,” she worried.  “There’s no way you can keep up with the physical demands of International Rescue without one.”

“We manage,” he assured her. “When John’s home we lock him in the kitchen; he’s by far the best cook out of the five of us.”  That elicited another laugh, although she looked halfway cross with herself for it.  “We can all cook at least enough to survive.”  She didn’t look entirely convinced, but with an entire universe between them, there wasn’t much she could do about it and the topic reluctantly got dropped.

“This is a lot of differences,” she said instead, looking down at her pages and pages of small, scrawling handwriting.  Scott could barely read it, but it had also been a long time since he’d had to read anything handwritten that wasn’t his own writing – and even that was unusual. Why handwrite when you had computers to do that for you?  “Most of them are small enough to work around while you’re here, but the differing years suggest your universe is five years younger than ours, and I’m not sure if there’s any significance about the different years of birth.  That’s something Brains or John might understand better.”

He nodded his understanding, his chest feeling lighter now he felt like they were getting somewhere. Baby steps to be sure, and Other-John’s gentle reminder that it could take years still rang in his ears, but progress was progress.

“Now, it’s about time for the debrief to start,” she said, checking her own watch.  Scott did the same, but the analogue dial taunted him, reminding him that he needed to learn to read it sooner rather than later – although that meant finding someone to teach him.  “Alan and Virgil should be all cleaned up by now.”

Scott drained the remains of his coffee and stood up, empty cup in hand.

“Oh, leave the cup on the table,” Tin-Tin told him.  “I’ll clean it up later.”

“If you’re sure,” he said dubiously – Grandma would have his hide for leaving dirty crockery anywhere that wasn’t the kitchen, and even then it was expected to be cleaned immediately. Rescues were the only permissible excuse to do otherwise.

“Perfectly,” she assured him, hand once again on his arm.  “Come on, let’s go hear about what the boys did today.”  With one last glance at the cup, and noticing that Tin-Tin had picked up her notebook, he let the young woman nudge him out of the room and headed for the stairs up to the lounge again.

Chapter 7>>>

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #long way from home #gordon tracy #jeff tracy #tin-tin kyrano

[strivingscribe]

ILIC ~ CH 31

It’s Lost Its Charm by  MsMoon

Chapter 31 ~ A Multi-Pronged Attack Plan

Chapters: 31/?

Chapter Navigation: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,16, 17, 18,19,20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31,

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age,

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence,

Relationships: I feel like it’s a little early for that…

Summary: Now that Amy's awake, it's time to hammer out some plans...

Magpie had left Siheta and Bull in the Chantry, sprinting towards Amy's new room. She was relieved to see Tunan and Tunen more presentable than they had been... Not that Tunan was much of a chore in the mornings. He was mostly quiet, needing time to wake up fully before being ready to converse with anyone... Tunen on the other hand. She was a feral cat and needed expert care after waking otherwise you'd get swiped.

“Hey! Good. You're both up. Uh...” she stuttered in place, trying to think of what to say next exactly. “There's a council meeting right now, but if you guys wanted to wait in the tavern—”

“Council meeting?” Tunan asked, his voice conveying a sense of puzzling concern.

“Yes. With Amy being...well, back. Mostly. Everyone's gathering to discuss...things.” she shrugged.

“When are we leaving?” Tunen interrupted.

“What?” Magpie felt as cold as everything in her seeped into a deep dread. Leaving?

“Yes, leaving, as in returning home.” Tunen clarified. Had she asked out loud? She must've.

“I'm... not leaving.” Magpie announced, incredulous.

The twins did that thing that they do from time to time where they exchanged a glance that held layers of communication. Magpie could read Tunen's frustration along with Tunan's (strangely smug?) acceptance. It was endearing because she was able to read it...it was also irritating.

One of Tunan's fingers twitched towards his sister. “Um. Why not?” he asked haltingly. “I mean...”

“We came here to find you.” Tunen follows, her manner abrupt. Clearly, it's still too early for her to stray away from that hissing cat inside of her.

“And I appreciate that.” Magpie said.

“Can I just..” Tunan was now actually holding his hand up towards Tunen, attempting to cage the beast. “Can I ask...why you want to stay?”

Magpie blinked at him. “I mean.. you did. Just now.” His expression fell, as if to say, ‘really? now? you're doing this now?’. If she was being honest, she'd have to admit that she was stalling, because...

Because this was an out. She could leave. But she didn't want to... and now she needed to ask herself why.

“I mean... the Inquisition is in a position to actually fix the problem.” The typical excuse was the easiest to fall back to.

“What problem?” Tunen asked.

“Uhhh! The breach? All the breaches?”

“OK, so...” Tunan stepped in again, apparently taking on the role as mediator. “You think the Inquisition can help, and you want to be a part of that?” he asked, and Magpie at least felt like he was genuinely interested in her response.

She took a deep breath and tried to settle herself. “I think... I think...yeah.”

Great work there. So eloquent.

“Look, I just feel like... I need to be here.”

Tunen had been staring at her in complete befuddlement. Her eyes twitched towards her brother, and she deflated with a sigh at the look of obvious reproach on his face.

“Just... tell me you're not doing this for the shems.” Tunen grumbled.

Magpie felt her back teeth grind. Something about that statement rankled her, but she's fighting to keep that from showing.

“I am in a position to help. And I want to stay for me.”

“What makes you think they'd allow you to do anything worth doing anyway?” Tunen countered. “And even if you did do anything worth doing, what makes you think they’d let you own it?”

“Look, I'm technically working for Amy, here.” Magpie argued, dismissively. “That carries a lot of weight.” And that much was true. Even though Magpie wasn’t really working for Amy, she’d managed to convince others that she was… and when people heard that, they kind of fell in line.

“Yeah, and who's she anyway?” Tunen continued, not at all impressed. “Until I got here and you started talking about her, I had never heard of her.”

"Well, she's a big deal right now to everyone.” Magpie snapped.

She couldn't help but notice that Tunan kept turning between the two of them, a single hand stretched in both directions, though his focus shifted as each of them spoke.

“According to who? And for how long? I swear, these shems just give out shit and then take it away. That’s what they do. What assurances do you have that any progress you've made is safe or will last?”

“Alright.” Tunan's voice was very deep, and he typically kept his tone low. Now was one of those rare times his voice felt as though it boomed simply because he wasn't trying to sound docile anymore. The boom of his unfiltered voice shocked even him. He cleared his throat, and lowered his voice again. “Let's take a breath... and remember that we are all here for each other.” he reminded, as though he were attempting to sooth a pair of caged beasts.

“I... want to stay.” Magpie announced, feeling the truth of that and the weight behind it even if she wasn’t certain the motivations in the statement yet. “This has become important to me, and I feel like I am not done here. I appreciate that you came all this way; and I am sorry that I'm the only one that was here, and I'm not being as cooperative as you'd like.”

“That's not—” Tunen began, but couldn’t really finish her thought.

“But!... It all boils down to me not wanting to leave yet.”

At that Tunan nodded, giving his sister a placating look. His head tilting, his brow peaking in his version of puppy dog eyes. She sighed at that, the fight mostly taken out of her.

Tunen shrugged, reluctantly. “Well... at least it's interesting here.”

Tunan continued nodding as well, seemingly relieved.

“But we aren't going to keep sleeping on the floor, are we?” Tunen pleaded.

Magpie chuckled, shaking her head. “Doubtful.”

“Well, that's a relief.” Tunan murmured, preaching against the wall now that he didn't feel the need to dive between the two of them as a negotiator. “And your Amy is pleasant enough.”

‘for a shem.’ Went unsaid, but Magpie had a feeling that was very much felt. Even if Tunan didn’t voice it as much as Tunen, he had never been overly fond of operating near or with humans.

But that was a discussion for another day.

“Great.” Magpie said. “Good talk. Now...if you'll excuse me. I have a meeting to get to.”

“Oooh. Fancy.” Tunen cooed, her tension seemingly defused now that they’d talked.

With a soft snort Magpie left them, making her way to the council chamber. She was relieved that the map room was enormous (at least in comparison to Josie's office) and that she wasn't the last one here.

Seeing Amy was a bit of a shock. She was between Josephine and Leliana — odd because they usually flanked the table at opposite ends. Cullen was glaring down at the map. Madame de Fer was there as well, near Leliana's usual spot.

Magpie was a little shocked to find Amy in...well...nice clothes. Amy always had to make do with whatever she could find. Seeing her in something fitted was...strange.

She was wearing a very delicate looking white tunic with long sleeves that billowed, but over that was a tightly fitted dark leather vest, very tailored breeches, and knee-high boots. There were various straps and belts, both to keep things in place and to string sheaths onto.... Her hair was mostly down. The braid had been undone, a thick ponytail hanging low on the nape of her neck while errant curls leaked out to frame her face....

She looked good. Even better, she looked…healthy. Not leaning or waning as Magpie had seen after her previous episodes.

Thankfully, Magpie noticed Sehita in the shadows behind Amy. The towering woman caught Magpie's eye and nodded for her to join them. That put a halt on her next internal crisis, as she had no idea where to really put herself. She trotted over, relieved when Amy's eyes lighted on her and she smiled.

Amy reached for her hand once she was in range, the gesture instantly assuaging her tension. The fact that it was easy for Amy to turn away from the others to greet her was…comforting. She could deal with the questions of why she didn't want to go home, and if she had a proper place that would affect any change later. Right now, she was needed and wanted and that counted for something.

“Well damn.” Varric said, entering with Sam right behind him. “Would you look at this.” he said, motioning to Amy.

“Yeah, they can't keep me down, and honestly that's what matters most.” Amy said with a conspirator’s grin and a stubborn gleam in her eyes.

Again, Varric seemed to come up short, blinking rapidly and holding his hands up. “And with complete sentences this time.”

“Every time I go down, I come back with upgrades.” Amy warned. “One day I'll be invulnerable.”

Cullen half scoffed half laughed at that.

“I said 'one day'.” Amy defended.

Sara and Blackwall were the last to show up, and Sara couldn't just show up without making a fuss.

“Ooiii! Lookatchu! All gussied up!” Sara crowed with a leer.

“I mean, I don't know what you've been doing, but I—” Amy reached down, griping, and pushing up her own breasts as though she were situating them properly. “was getting fancy.” It seemed to be the right response, as Sera giggled, and Blackwall looked elsewhere with a grin.

The room filled up soon after. Solas, Cassandra, and Bull finally making their way into the chamber. Even this big room seemed a little crowded.

“So, we have our Charmer back and better than ever.” Varric noticed as a way of kicking off the meeting.

“Indeed.” Leliana confirmed. “And considering that the information she has shared with us has been verified, I believe we are ready to move.” Gazes sharpened as that was dropped in front of them.

Not that Magpie ever had any real doubts about the things that Amy was saying. With everything going on, a human touched enough to predict the future wasn’t that crazy. She’d seen Sam use a glowing hole in his hand to close rifts, after all.

“Verified? Then…?” Cassandra’s questions went unspoken as she couldn’t find the proper words or the paths for those words to take.

“Our two-pronged plan will begin tomorrow.” Cullen stated with the certainty of steel. “Cassandra will disguise herself as a Lieutenant with a regiment under her to reinforce our position on the Storm Coast. Simultaneously, Sam will make his way to initiate contact with the mages at Redcliff. According to Amy, after the initial contact, Sam will be invited back to Redcliff formally. This will give Cassandra and her team time to deal with whatever is going on at Caer Oswin.”

“Our scouts have confirmed that while Caer Oswin is inhabited, there is very little in the way of noticeable traffic.” Lelianna informed. “It should be easy for a regiment and a team to secure the grounds.”

“Considering the time it will take for Sam to initiate the plan with the mages, Cassandra’s team could potentially be finished and on their way to Therinfall before Sam is finished with Redcliff.” Cullen estimated, though whether this is his opinion on the time it would take traveling back and forth between Redcliff, or his high estimations of Cassandra, it was difficult to say.

“It is not the entourage that I had hoped for,” Josephine began. “however, I was able to secure a few prominent Orlesian nobles to accompany our concerned party to Therinfall.”

“Abernache?” Amy cut in to ask.

Josephine eyed her first, eyes drifting to the ever-present paperwork in front of her before saying, “Yes…Lord Abernache is among those who are interested in confronting the Templar order.” She seemed only slightly put off by Amy’s insight.

“A prominent figure?” Madame Vivienne asked, though by her tone one may think she were inquiring about the weather.

Amy shrugged. “No more or less than anyone else. He has his part to play, and that is enough to note his significance. That should be enough on its own.”

Perhaps Amy didn’t see it as she wasn’t really meeting anyone’s eye, but Magpie couldn’t help but notice the slightest arch in Vivienne’s brow. As though Amy had said something she had not anticipated… What that meant, Magpie wasn’t sure, but she did know look of reappraisal when she saw one.

“How far is Caer Oswin from Therinfal as far as traveling time?” Amy asked.

“It would take a well-armed troop of men moving with purpose less than a full day’s travel, given the terrain…and the need for secrecy.” Cullen shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps a few hours more, but not by much.”

“After the hubbub at Redcliff, I intend to take my team and hustle towards Therinfal Redoubt.” Sam announced.

“That might be unsafe…” Amy murmured, concerned. “Mostly because you will have already undergone so much.”

Sam smirked at her. “Ease up, mum. We’re all grown, and we can take care of ourselves.”

Amy’s eyes scrunched up as she glared at him, but it was more for being called ‘mum’ than anything.

“Bull, Solas, and Varric will be accompanying me during my tour of Redcliff.” Sam announced. The three people he had called out nodded their assent. “We’ll have another team waiting in the wings to help Cassandra. Madame Vivienne, Sera, Blackwall, that’ll be you. Don’t imagine any of you will have a problem handling rogue templars.”

“Not at all.” Madame Vivienne replied coolly.

“Cullen will move some troops into the Hinterlands after the initial contact, under the guise of reinforcing the camps we’ve established and surveying the damage that the Mages and Templars have reeked. In truth, he will be in place should anything happen that requires us to take Redcliff from the mages and the magister.”

Sam paused and surveyed Amy. “We don’t have much time, but while this is all happening, at least in the day and a half it’ll take us to travel there, make contact, and return, we would like it if you met with a few tutors that could assist you with your magic.”

Amy gave a single, decisive nod. “I would like to begin that as immediately as I can, actually.”

“I don’t see why not.” Sam murmured with a shrug. Everyone was already on standby as it was. “It shouldn’t be too difficult wrangle everyone together after the noon meal.”

“Tutors?” Solas asked, his eyes darting back and forth. “What tutors are those?”

“Madame Vivienne has brought a magic user with her. One who relies on his music to work his magic.” Lelianna announced.

“Zither??” Amy asked, half laughing already. “Oh, this’ll be a wild ride.”

Again, while Madame Vivienne’s face revealed nothing, Magpie noted her eyes darting to a very smug looking Lelianna. Lelianna hadn’t told Amy anything about anyone named Zither, that much Magpie was certain of… whether or not the mage recognized this wasn’t entirely clear, considering her consummate poker face.

“From what I understand,” Josephine began, flipping through some of the pages on her clipboard. “we have several mages that are more than willing to weigh in their opinions as well. Norton, Baxtien, Elossa, even Siheta will all be present and capable of aiding Amy if their expertise should be needed.”

“Oh good. Always better to perform for a crowd.” Amy half grumbled with a taxed smile.

“If you can perform at all.” Bull grunted with a smirk. Amy flicked her middle finger up at him with a dazzling smile. “Seriously, Charmer, maybe you’ve got everyone else convinced you’re almighty, but I’m still on the fence here. You haven’t really given me anything that’s impressed me.”

It was a bluff, but the tension that spiked through the room at Bull’s words was very real. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see how Amy would handle this.

She smirked. “I can give you eleven reasons.” She said with honey-sweet words, and her grin only depend when Bull’s attention snapped away, obviously trying to pair the number 11 with anything significant to him. He didn’t have 11 chargers… so… She held a finger to her lips as though she were telling a secret. “The first hit’s free.” She used the same finger tracing the secret on her lips to point to the hinterlands. “She’s right here… and she’s so pretty.” She said, leaning over the map almost suggestively, her eyes never leaving Bull’s. “All orange and yellow with such majestic curling horns and livid fire. I know you’d love to take her.” He smile was positively feline.

Bull blinked hard before taking in a deep breath through his nose and letting it out.

“Wait…” Sam’s face went slack. “Are you ….talking about a dragon?”

“A Ferelden Frostback, right under your noses. Weak to cold but resistant to fire damage. She cannot be slowed or disabled, and she’s got a whole mess of drakes to protect her and her dragonlings.” She straightened before looking to Sam with a more serious air. “There’s a pass leading to Redcliff that’s being guarded by bandits that aren’t bandits.” She waved off his look of confusion. “One mystery at a time, Sam. I can explain later. One of your scouts will warn you of this when you try to take the road, that is if they haven’t already.”

“They…haven’t. We’ve been focusing on the people and the cult, and you know, that whole mage/templar fight thing that’s going on.” Sam grumbled.

Amy ignored Sam’s cross tone to continue explaining. “The bandits are set up in a nice little nook. Beyond that nook is a natural stone archway that leads to her lair.” Her eyes bore into Bull. “I wouldn’t advise entering that archway and her lair until you’re completely ready to take on a high dragon.”

“I’m always ready to take on a high dragon.” Bull practically growled; his enthusiasm high.

“Bull.” Sam murmured, attempting to regain control.

“Boss.” He whined.

“Priorities.” Sam reminded. “Take out the bandits, set up a camp there to fall back to if things go south with the mages, take on the mages. Then, once we’ve gotten the mages taken care of…maybe after we’ve sealed the breach, we’ll go after the dragon. It isn’t as if we’ll never be in the Hinterlands again.”

Bull seemed mollified even if slightly petulant.

“There were some names that you mentioned that I’d like to revisit.” Lelianna noted. “Names of some mages that you said Sam should talk to.”

“Yes!” Amy said, snapping right back into the gravity of the situation before them. She righted herself, and her attention was now back on Sam. “Clemence will be the easiest to find. You’ll be asked to meet in the tavern, and he’s there. He’s a tranquil alchemist, but Alexius doesn’t want the tranquil around. So, he’ll volunteer to go with you and join the inquisition.”

“Lucky.”

“Talwyn is at the bar in the tavern. You can speak to him after Clemence. But you should keep these interactions subtle.” She scowled, sounding disgruntled as she continued. “I’m sure Linnea will be watching you, and she could be a problem.”

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Next is either Lysas or Hanley. Hanley’s a human mage standing near the statue to the hero of Ferelden, and he’ll be very happy to see you. He hates the involvement of the mages with Tevinter. I don’t think it would be hard to convince him to go to the crossroads to wait for you. Lysas is an elf mage who you’ll find against one of the stone archways that lead to the chantry. He voted to abandon the chantry, but the alliance with Tevinter has him shaken. He’s another one that I might be persuaded to leave if promised some protections.”

“Considering that all rouge mage and templar activity has been thoroughly halted, none of them should have a reason to stay.”

“They might not have the choice, considering that they’re Tevinter chattel.” She growled. “I don’t know if they realize it yet, but Alexius will confirm that when you meet him.”

“asshole.” Sera spat.

Amy’s face pulled into a complicated frown. There was disapproval there, but her expression seemed… almost sorrowful as well. It made Magpie wonder if perhaps there wasn’t more to this story…

“We all have our missions.” Cullen said, with what felt like finality. “If there’s nothing more, be ready to move out a dawn.”

Magpie watched as everyone began to filter out of the room, and Amy zoned in on one person… She made a beeline for Solas.

#ILIC #It's Lost Its Charm #Dragon Age #Dragon Age Fan Fiction #DAFF #DAFF It's Lost Its Charm #Amy McManus #Magpie

[always-and-forever-a-killjoy]

Good afternoon fuckers, I wrote approximately 3k words in between roleplay, looking after kittens, and

Title: knight in a beat-up green jacket

Wordcount: 3055

Summary: Jet Star and the Kobra Kid are injured. Party Poison is having a rough time. Cherri Cola just wants to be helpful.

Warnings: Major warnings for hospitals, mentions of/implied serious injuries, and mentions of death as well as general awfulness. Please be careful when reading!

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

Party Poison was going to cry. Or scream. Or pass out. Because the report had come in, Dr. Death Defying’s gravelly voice echoing through the radio with the dreadful news. Bad news from the zones tumbleweeds. It looks like Jet-Star and the Kobra kid had a clap with an exterminator that went all Costa Rica and uh, got them selves ghosted, dusted out on route Guano. And Poison’s world had shattered.

They and Fun Ghoul had driven out, as fast as the Trans Am would take them, searching for their brother and friend. Kobra’s bike had been lying on its side by the side of the road, broken and scorched, just like his brother’s body would be-

But Kobra had been alive, if barely, and so had Jet. So Ghoul and Poison had bundled them in and rushed them to the hospital, and the doctors had taken then away without even a single reassurance. All they had gotten was a grim “We’ll do our best,” from the head medic. And now Ghoul had xyr head in xyr hands as he and Poison waited anxiously and Poison was going to pass out. They followed Ghoul’s lead and buried their head in their hands, trying to breathe and mostly failing. Kobra could be dead right now, Jet could be gone and Poison wouldn’t even know, not until the dour-faced head medic came out and told them so. Their brother could be dying, in pain and without his friends, and Poison wouldn’t even be there. 

Just as it seemed like they couldn’t bear it any longer, rough, scarred hands materialized in their field of vision, pulling their hands away from their face.

“Poison. Poison.”

“Fuck off,” Poison choked out.

“Poison,” Cherri Cola’s voice said again, very patiently. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Nothing is going to be okay!”

“It is, I promise. I’m here-“

“And what’s a fucking wavehead going to do?”

They almost regretted the words, watching Cherri flinch. His voice was calm though, when he next spoke. “I checked in with the medics. Kobra is stabilized, but not ready for visitors. Jet isn’t out of the woods yet, but they think he’s going to be okay.”

Poison froze at that, hardly daring to hope. “They’re going to be okay?”

“They’re going to be okay.” Cherri was still holding their hands away from their face, squeezing them gently in his rough, calloused ones, but he let go and reached to wipe a couple of tears Party hadn’t realized were there off their cheeks. “It’s okay, don’t cry. They’re going to be alright.”

That only made them cry harder, more tears pouring down their face. A strangled sob made its way out of their throat, and they crumpled entirely, throwing their arms around Cola. His arms were warm when they wrapped around Poison in return, rocking them gently back and forth. 

“Shh. Shhh. It’s okay.” Cherri kept repeating that until Poison’s sobs turned to sniffles, making vague noises of comfort as they took a few shuddering breaths.

He didn’t release them until a medic came over to tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, are you Cherri Cola?”

“That’s me. Is there word on Kobra and Jet?”

“The Kobra Kid is ready for visitors, if you want. He’s not awake yet,” they added as Poison sat up straight, clutching Cherri’s shoulders. “But you can go see him.”

“All of us?” Cherri asked, frowning.

“Only one visitor at a time.”

Poison leapt to their feet. Their throat didn’t seem to want to form words, so they gave Cherri their most pleading glance, practically begging. Thank the Phoenix Witch, he quickly nodded. “Poison will go, of course. I’ll stay here with Ghoul.”

Ghoul didn’t question that, and Cherri gave Poison’s hand a quick squeeze, flashing them a small smile. “Go on, see your brother.”

They tried to smile back, letting go of his hand as the medic led them through the whitewashed halls. It was too similar to Battery City for their liking, but at least in this building the paint was chipped and scratched, bits of graffiti scrawled occasionally here and there. Poison tried to focus on that instead of what this place reminded them of or where, exactly, they were going. 

It felt like both too long and too short before they were entering a hospital room, staring at the figure on the bed. Kobra was so still, unnaturally so. Not that he was usually energetic, per se, but he was never perfectly still, always fiddling with something or other. He looked small lying there- he always looked small to Poison, even if they were a frankly unfair amount shorter, but now he looked even smaller than normal. There were bandages wrapped all around his shoulder and upper arm, and an IV sticking out of his other arm. Poison wanted to cry just looking at him, but their tears were all cried out so they settled for sitting in the chair beside him, grasping his hand tightly even though they knew he couldn’t feel it. 

Kobra didn’t wake, but Poison thought they caught a tiny bit of movement, and their heart skipped a beat. “Kobra? Kobra?” He didn’t stir, and Poison settled back again, not releasing his hand. They were never letting him go again, they decided. 

True to their resolve, they didn’t move an inch until the medic came back to kick them out, insisting that the doctors needed to look at their brother. Poison was left to find their way back on their own, winding through the too-white hallways and trying not to think.

Ghoul was asleep on Cola’s lap when they arrived back at the lobby, curled like a cat, and Cola put a finger to his lips in the universal motion of ‘shh’. 

Poison approached quietly, settling next to the other two. “Ghoulie fell asleep?”

“Cried xemself to sleep,” Cola whispered, brushing a hand over xyr hair. “How’s Kobra?”

They could feel tears prickle their eyes again, remembering Kobra’s still body, but they blinked those away fiercely. “He’s…alive. Still passed the fuck out, but alive.”

“Thank the witch.”

“Any word on Jet?”

Cola shook his head. “I’m assuming they’re alive, since no one’s come to tell me otherwise, but no word otherwise.”

“That was so reassuring.”

He just sighed, the sigh turning into a yawn halfway through. “I wish I had more news to tell you, but no one’s told me anything- the reason I was the one being told news earlier is because I technically ‘checked them in’. I think you and Ghoul were having too much of a rough time.”

Cola’s yawn made Party yawn as well, rubbing at their eyes. “They just rushed Jet and Kobes in, didn’t ask us anything. We went and sat down, and then you showed up.”

“Ah. Yeah. They were looking around for people who were with the two injured ‘joys when I came in, I figured I’d just give them the info they needed.”

It rankled their pride to admit they had needed help, but “Thank you, Cola.”

That earned them a faint smile. “Never thought I’d live to see the day you didn’t call me Pepsi.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Of course not.”

They definitely weren’t leaning against him, not at all. That would be very undignified for Party Poison, leader of the Fabulous Killjoys. But they didn’t protest when Cola wrapped his free arm around them cautiously, pulling them closer on the shitty hospital waiting chairs as Ghoul snored quietly. And if they leaned a bit on his shoulder, who was going to say anything?

-

The next morning, Party Poison woke up in a shitty hospital chair with Cherri Cola’s head leaning on top of theirs and Fun Ghoul stretched across both their and Cola’s laps. All in all, not the weirdest place they had ever woken up, but it was definitely up there. Especially given that there was a killjoy (neutral?) in the colors of a medic standing in front of them. 

“Ahem, excuse me?”

Poison blinked at them. “Fuck off, my crew’s sleeping.”

“Your friend is awake.”

They sat straight up, knocking Cherri’s head off them (to a lot of swearing from him, which they ignored). “Which one?”

The medic checked their chart.  “The killjoy known as Jet Star.”

“And they’re awake?”

“Yes, but there are some…complications.”

Cola was somewhat more awake by now, blinking and yawning with another muttered “Shit.” He pushed his hair out of his face. “What complications?”

“They’ve lost an eye.”

Poison appreciated, in some distant corner of their mind, the way that the medic didn’t try to sugarcoat the words. They just said it, straight-up, which was far better than dancing around the subject, in Poison’s opinion. But the greater part of their mind was involved with worrying about Jet. How were they going to take the news? Would it be harder for them to do what they needed? Would they be freaked out? 

“Fucking shit,” Ghoul swore from Poison’s lap, and they almost jumped. They hadn’t realized xe was awake. “Can I see them?”

“Yes, but only one visitor at a time.”

Ghoul cast Poison a pleading look. Although they would never admit it, not in this lifetime or the next, his puppy-dog eyes were very convincing. Not to mention that the worry in them broke Poison’s fucking heart. “Go on. I saw Kobra, you can see Jet.”

“Thanks, Pois!” Ghoul leapt up, almost toppling to the ground, and hurried after the departing medic.

Cola yawned and blinked at Poison. “Good morning, I guess. Sorry about falling asleep on your head.”

“I fell asleep on your shoulder, it’s fine.” They weren’t paying much attention to him, busy worrying about Kobra. “You think the medics would let me see Kobes?”

“Worth a shot.” He yawned again, running a hand through his messy hair. “If you want, I can talk to the head medic. They seem to have a soft spot for younger ‘joys, they’d probably let you see your brother if we ask nicely.”

Poison ignored the weird surge of guilt that Cola still hadn’t gotten to see either Kobra or Jet. They hadn’t seen Jet, and Ghoul hadn’t seen Kobra, so why should Cherri fucking Cola get to see either of them? “Great, let’s go ask.”

Cherri led them across the room, heading up to the tall and dour medic who had told Poison “We’ll do our best.”

“Hey.” Their voice was flat and calm.

“Hey…senior medic Dowdy, was it?” Cola’s voice was neutral bordering on friendly, and the medic’s face softened as Poison came to stand next to him.

“That’s my name, yep. And you are…Cherri Cola?”

Cherri nodded. “And this is Party Poison.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m assuming you two are here about seeing your friends?”

“We were hoping Poison might be able to see their brother, the Kobra Kid, since our other friend Fun Ghoul is with Jet Star right now.”

“Ah.” Dowdy frowned. “Well, Kobra isn’t awake yet, but I don’t think some visitors would hurt. Come on, both of you.”

Poison glanced at Cola, finding him already staring back.

“I don’t have to come,” he said quietly. “If you’d rather visit Kobra alone.”

Even though Cola had offered, and even if they didn’t trust him all too far, Poison didn’t have the will to keep him from seeing their brother. “You can come, but it’s not pretty.”

“Believe it or not, I’m rather used to not pretty.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

Cola’s voice softened slightly. “I think it’s harder for you to see him than me to see him, so the only question is if it’s harder for you to have me there.”

Why was he so goddamn fucking nice? “I don’t care.”

“I’m coming, then.”

Poison would never have admitted it, not in a thousand years or more, but it was nice to have Cherri next to them when walking the halls of this too-clean building where they weren’t in control of a single goddamn thing. They hated feeling helpless, always had, but at least with Cherri Cola there (and still trying to get his fucking hair to stay out of his face), they didn’t have to feel alone.

Another thing they would never admit to was the way they reached back, fumbling for Cola’s hand as they entered the room. It was long habit, forged by a good while of reaching for Jet whenever shit went south, but they never intended to reach for Cola of all people. Ghoul, at least, would have been understandable- xe was a member of Party’s crew- but Cola? Absolutely fucking not. 

Thank the Phoenix Witch, he said nothing about it, simply giving their hand a small squeeze. Poison didn’t squeeze back, but they didn’t let go either, not even at Cola’s tiny gasp upon seeing Kobra. Their brother looked not much better than yesterday, still far too small and far too still, but as they watched, he shifted slightly.

“He’s on his way to getting better. Assuming he does recover, we predict it will be one or two more days before he’s awake,” Dowdy informed them. “Now, I’ve got other patients to attend to, I’ll come kick you out if I need.”

Poison damn near cried, thanking every deity out there that Cherri was too absorbed in watching Kobra to even notice. He had moved. He was alive, and on his way to well. Poison thanked every deity out there for that as well, even muttering a few prayers under their breath.

Once the initial relief had worn off, it was back to watching their baby brother lay there, quiet as anything and still too fucking still.

“He looks so still. Still and small,” Cherri said softly. 

Poison hated that his first thought was the same as their first thought. “He’s too fucking small. And too fucking quiet.”

Cherri nodded and squeezed their hand again. “He’ll get better though.”

“You trust the medic?” It wasn’t like they trusted his word much, but Cola did know just about everyone in the Zones and the reputations thereof.

“Dowdy’s been working at this hospital for as long as I’ve been in the Zones. I’d trust them with my life- and I trust them with Kobra’s, which might be worth more.”

Poison shot him a glance. “Look, it’s not like I wouldn’t be sadder if Kobes died than if you did, but I’d still be sad.”

His smile was wry. “I didn’t realize you cared so much.”

“You’re a decent person, even if you’re insufferably nice.” They shrugged. “Plus, Kobes likes you.” 

“So not too personal then.”

“You’re my brother’s friend, nothing more.”

Cola gave them a small nod of acknowledgement. “I don’t mind, so long as all of you are safe.” 

“Stop being insufferably nice.”

“Then how will I be insufferable?”

“You could try not being insufferable,” they muttered.

He grinned. “I could, but there’s no fun in that. Besides, my plan is working. I’ve distracted you from worrying.”

Poison glared at him, but something he had said jogged at their memory. “You’re a bastard, but uh...sorry for being a dick to you when you first got here.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“No, it was shitty of me. I should’ve dealt with stuff without being pissy at you, even if I was worried.” They stared at the floor.

Cherri sounded both surprised and happy when he next spoke. “Well. Thank you, Poison. That was a nice apology.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

“No, seriously, I’m proud of you. You’re getting better at acknowledging your actions.” 

Poison looked up and made an ick face at him. “You sound like every other adult.”

“I am almost thirty, you know.”

“Old person.” 

“Hey! Rude youngster!” He was smiling though, and so was Poison, the shitty situation briefly forgotten.

“You guys are fucking loud.”

Party Poison’s head whipped around so fast their neck hurt, turning to see Kobra Kid blink sleepily from the bed. “What?” was all they could think to say.

His voice was quiet, but it was there. “Said what I said. You guys are fucking loud.”

The noise they made was halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Of course the first thing you do when you wake up is complain.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a little bitch.”

There were tears rolling down Poison’s cheeks now, but they couldn’t muster the energy to care. “Fuckface.”

“Bastard.”

“Bitch boy.”

“Baby fucker.”

“Dipshit.” 

“Asshole.” Kobra turned his head vaguely towards Cherri. “So how long have you loud bastards been stuck with each other?”

“Only since yesterday,” Cola told him. “When you and Jet came in.”

“Is Jet okay?”

Poison shot Cola a warning glare as he opened his mouth. “They’re going to be fine.” Kobra could find out later. 

Thank the witch, Cola nodded along. “They’ll be okay.”

“Good.” Kobra’s eyes were drooping again. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

Dowdy arrived back a few minutes after that, and kicked them out just as promised. And thus began their second round of waiting, this time waiting for their friends’ recovery as opposed to news of them.

Cherri Cola stayed with Poison in the lobby as they waited for Fun Ghoul, and then he offered to wait with Ghoul while Poison went to see Jet. He waited with them through the next night and most of the next morning, until Kobra was awake again, and he stayed right by Poison’s side when Jet Star came down to the lobby for the first time, soon to be released from the hospital. Cherri was there when they had to help Kobra limp on out to the Trans Am, and he took the papers with all sorts of instructions on wound care from Dowdy. Cherri Cola was with the Fabulous Four from the moment he arrived at the hospital to the moment they got back to Dr. D’s radio station, where the Girl had been staying, and she came running into their arms. 

Later, when Ghoul would laugh and say “You’re a fucking hero, Cola. Like a knight in shining armor and all that”, he would smile and say “Not a hero. Just a poet.”

Maybe not a knight in shining armor, but Poison certainly thought he had been their hero in a beat-up green jacket.

#auri writes #cherri cola #party poison #kobra kid #ttlofk #i still don't understand tumblr tagging #danger days #danger days fic

[jaspers-levis]

The New Boy

Happy Pride month! I completely forgot to post this back when I finished, but better late than never, right? Please be kind in regards to my portrayal of the trans experience. I identify as my birth gender, so it was a different experience for me to write as a trans boy. I hope that I got somewhat close to what that experience may be!

Also, no matter who you are, you are deserving of love, respect, safety and happiness. This blog, although twilight themed, is always a safe space. If any of you need someone to talk to, my inbox is always open. Just because I may not know the full experience of what you are going through does not mean I cannot sympathize and offer comfort. We are all human beings on this planet together <3

Reader request by @eatmoarveggies

A new trans boy joins Forks High

“Can’t believe mom’s stupid job landed us in this stupid tiny town,” you muttered to yourself at the stoplight (the only one) on Main Street. Rain lashed at your windshield in an unrelenting stream, perfectly reflecting your mood. Not two weeks ago you’d been laughing it up at a cafe table in the sun on the California coast with your friends, planning a weekend getaway trip the last weekend before school started. Now you were driving as slowly as a snail through the pools of water covering the roadway in your crappy silver toyota, for once glad your mom hadn’t let you get a convertible. 

You glanced at the clock, realizing that if you continued at this pace you would be pushing the bell when you arrived at school for your first day, and inched the gas pedal down a notch. Stupid dumb rain. Sighing, you finally made the turn into the Fork’s High school parking lot and pulled into one of the last spots available. You reluctantly shut off the engine and checked your backpack for your school welcome packet. Unfortunately they’d written your birth name on each form, rather than the name you’d chosen for yourself two years ago when you realized you were a boy. Even after all this time, the deliberate refusal to call you by your correct name still rankled.

Annoyed, you ripped your school map out of the packet and slammed the folder shut before hopping out of your car and dashing for the main building. The offensive welcome packet served as a good shield against the downpour and you managed to get to the office with your carefully styled hair still in place. “Hi there, honey,” a generically pretty middle-aged receptionist greeted you. “How can I help you?”

“I’m supposed to register for classes? I’m Y/N, from California,” you told her, setting your stuff down on the counter. 

“Hmm…” she clicked industriously at her computer for a few moments. “I’m sorry hon, I recognize the last name but not the first.”

Sighing internally you muttered that it might be under your birth name, not your actual name and she instantly brightened. “Oh! Of course, here we are. Such an interesting name for a young girl. Is it a nickname?”

“No, I actually identify as a male,” you stiffened, resigned to an entire day of misgendering if the rest of the staff and students here at Forks High were as thick as this lady. “Thank you for your help.” You grabbed your schedule out of her hands and made a beeline for the door before she could say anything that was clearly already on the tip of her tongue.

On your way out, you opened the door right into a slim, dark haired girl who immediately dropped all her books and tripped over her own untied shoelace on her way to pick them up. “I’m so sorry!” you apologized, kneeling to help gather her books.

“Hey don’t worry about it!” she said cheerfully with a wry smile, shoving up the sleeves of her plaid shirt. “My mom always says I’m a walking disaster. Edward, my boyfriend, says if there is even the slightest change in elevation I’d fall.”

“I had a friend like that back home,” you return her good natured smile and help her stand. “My name’s Y/N.”

“Cool, I’m Bella,” she shook your hand, not missing a beat. She did eye you curiously but didn’t say another word on it, besides wishing you luck on her way to her first class. Hm. Maybe Forks wouldn’t be as bad as you’d thought…

And you were deeply wrong. Every single teacher called you by your birth name and when you corrected them whispers circulated amongst the class for the better part of the period. At least one person made a pointed remark about your physical appearance within hearing range each class, and one girl openly asked you what you had “down there” in between classes. Things only got worse when you asked if there was a private changing room you could use before gym. The instructor laughed before realizing you were serious and begrudgingly offered you a cluttered storage room next to his office. “I don’t like offering special treatment,” he groused as he unlocked the door. “Don’t mess anything up in here.”

You sighed and changed quickly, emerging to find a group of teenage boys, seniors and juniors mostly, waiting for you. Gritting your teeth at the sharp jump in your pulse, you tried to push through them. One of them caught you and shoved you, hard. “So what are you, really?” their leader asked, scowling. “You can’t seriously be calling yourself a boy, you look like a fucking girl. Or are you one of those gays too?”

“That’s none of your business,” you mutter, trying to get past them again. This time you were thrust against the wall so hard your head knocked against the cinderblocks painfully. 

“Like hell it isn’t!” the leader growled in your face, pinning you against the wall. “You just want to get in the boy’s locker room for a sneak peek, is that it? We’ll give you a sneak peek right here!”

You spat in his face in retaliation and he threw you to the floor in anger, where the rest of the boys surrounded you in an instant, ready to beat the shit out of you. Curling into a ball, you sent up a prayer to whatever god was listening that it would be over soon. 

After a moment, you uncurled yourself when not a single kick landed. You looked up to see the largest senior boy you’d ever seen standing before you looking scarier than hell as he stood off against your tormentors. A statuesque blonde girl stood next to him, shaking with fury and shooting daggers at the boys. “Don’t ever fucking come near him again,” she spat, taking a step forward. 

“What are you gonna do?” the leader sneered, crossing his arms.

“You don’t even want to know, bro,” the enormous boy said, laying a restraining hand on the girl. “Get the fuck out of here before she loses her temper.”

The boys turned and ran at the look on the girl’s face.

“Hey man, you okay?” the large boy turned and reached out a hand to help you up. His skin was shockingly cold for such a large dude… “My name’s Emmett, and this is Rosalie. We heard the commotion and came to see what was going on.”

“I’m Y/N,” you stammer as Rosalie turns her fearsome gaze at you. 

“If those boys, or anyone else even so much as LOOK at you funny, you come find me or one of our family. We’ll take care of it,” she said fiercely, her golden eyes frighteningly intense.

Emmet gave Rose a look and sighed. “Y/N… you’re new, right? You met our brother’s girlfriend Bella earlier this morning. Nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too…” you said haltingly, uncertain.

“Ignore Rose; she won’t bite...well, you at least,” Emmett joked, patting you on the shoulder and leading the two of you back to the gymnasium. “But seriously, if anyone is nasty to you again, we’ll help you out. No one should be treated like that!”

“Why are you helping me?” you asked, apprehensive of these beautiful strangers and their generous offer of aid.

“Those guys are all assholes,” Rosalie growled, sending a terrifying glare in their direction across the gym floor that sent them scattering like cockroaches under a light. “I hate them.”

“Well, that, and we don’t like bullies,” Emmett shrugged. “What you have in your pants, who you are or what you look like are your business, not anyone else’s. Who the fuck cares anyways?”

“Way too many people at this school,” you mutter as the gym teacher approached, explaining the activity for the class. You didn’t get a chance to talk more with Rosalie and Emmett during class, but afterwards they invited you to sit at lunch with you and their family. Maybe things really wouldn’t be that bad if you had a couple of supportive friends like the Cullens...

#twilight fan fiction #twilight fanfiction #twilight #Bella Twilight #Emmett McCarty #Emmett Cullen #rosalie lillian hale #rosalie hale

[razieltwelve]

The Prince and the Rose (Final Rose x GOT)

Robert Baratheon loved all his children, but if pressed, he’d admit that his eldest was his favourite. Aye, he’d loved Edward since the little rabble-rouser had screamed his guts out and then had the temerity to puke on his head. His son had been born with a damn good set of lungs, a fighter right from the start. With his spiky black hair and blue eyes, there had been no doubts whatsoever about which parent he took after.

He was clever too. He’d been walking and talking faster than any child Robert had ever heard of, and he’d taken to his lessons with the sort of glee that could only have come from his mother’s side of the family. It wasn’t long before he was surpassing his teachers, and the damn maester’s proclaimed him a genius.

Robert had worried a bit at that. Being clever was good, but a king needed to be strong. Edward had proven himself again, taking to his lessons on combat with equal gusto. Robert had preened with pride the first time he’d seen his son handle a blade and then a war hammer. It was like he’d been born to it, like he was remembering things he’d forgotten instead of learning them for the first time. Watching a seven year-old Edward knock some squires onto their asses had been one of the greatest moments in his life.

Aye, the boy was the best of both his Houses, as fierce and mighty as a Baratheon and as intelligent and cunning as any Lannister. Perhaps that was why he’d brought his two parents closer together.

Oh, Robert did not like to think of it much, but he’d not treated Cersei well to begin with. He’d been too full of grief and rage to be fair to his lioness. Yet Edward had shown his love for both his parents right from the start, and Robert had looked at his firstborn and the woman who’d birthed him and realised that even if this wasn’t the life he’d dreamed of, it wasn’t half bad either.

It had taken a few years, but Cersei had warmed to him, and they’d had other children. Joffrey could be a bit arrogant, but he was cunning and loyal to those he called friend and family. He favoured the sword more than the war hammer, and perhaps that was better for he had more of the Lannister build to him for all that his hair was as black as Robert’s. Tommen, well, he was a kindly boy, one who loved his books and studies. Yet when angered, his blood rang true, and he was as fierce as his older brothers. Myrcella, his only daughter, was the apple of his eye, a beauty in the making, and he was already dreading the days when he’d have to smash some skulls to keep suitors away.

As he reached the practice yards, Robert took a moment to study himself in one of the polished shields propped up on a bench. He’d let himself get out of shape for a few years, but he’d done a much better job of it since Edward had begun his training. Now, he was fit and strong, a king whose very presence commanded respect. Besides, it wouldn’t do to be bested by his own son before he was even a man grown. Gods, it probably wouldn’t be long now, the boy was just that good with a weapon.

And speaking of his eldest…

“Are you sure you don’t know magic?” Edward griped as he parried a blow from Ser Barristan. “No man should move so quickly at your age.”

The knight grinned warmly and continued his onslaught, his blade a swift, steely viper that never ceased to look for openings. “Are you sure you are a child, Your Highness? I’ve bested men - good men - full grown with the pace I’ve set, and you’ve yet to let a blow slip through your guard.”

Edward grinned back. “Odd words coming from a knight so famous for his youthful exploits.” The boy parried another blow and then replied with a lightning fast riposte that would have landed cleanly on any other man. At the last second, the old knight turned just enough to let it swing past his shoulder.

“An excellent attempt!” Ser Barristan praised. “You almost caught me there.”

“Almost but not quite.” Edward chuckled. “Although perhaps we should pause here. I daresay my father wishes a turn.”

Ser Barristan lowered his blade and nodded respectfully at Robert. “Your Grace.”

“How is my boy?” Robert rumbled, though he already knew the answer. To be able to stand against Ser Barristan at twelve was a feat any father would be proud of. 

“A peerless swordsman for his age,” the knight replied. “And though you did not see it, I did face him when he wielded a war hammer. I imagine it was like facing you in your younger days.”

“Hah!” Robert boomed. “The boy might be better than I was.” He tossed his son a war hammer, blunted and wooden instead of metal. “Let’s see what you’ve got, boy.”

“Of course, old man.” 

“Old man?” Robert chuckled. “What? Do you want the crown on my head already?”

“You can keep it,” Edward shot back. “It looks good on you, and I’m too busy with my other projects to be king.”

“Is that so?” Robert smirked. His boy had a talent for taking those wild ideas of his and turning them into coin. It was definitely something he got from his mother’s side of the family. Indeed, his preferred business partner was his Uncle Tyrion, and the pair had grown quite close. The Dwarf was no warrior, but his mind was as keen as any blade, and his son appreciated that. “How is that new liquor of yours going?”

“The fire water? It’s going well. I promise you’ll have first try of the next batch once we know it’s safe.” Edward tested the weight of his war hammer. “Now are we going to fight, or are we going to talk?”

Robert bared his teeth. “Spoken like a true Baratheon! Let’s see how far you’ve come!”

X     X     X

When Diana had first been reborn, she’d been rather put out at the fact she’d been reborn a man. Her aggravation had only grown when she realised she’d been born in what could, politely, be described as a technological backwater. On the upside, she was royalty, and that put her into a position to make changes.

After all these years, though, she’d gotten used to her new body. Or rather, his new body. He couldn’t complain, though. His new body was immensely strong, even for a twelve-year-old, and far faster than most people would expect. Indeed, it was something he’d often thought about his new father. Robert Baratheon was unbelievably strong, yet it was his unexpected speed that so often granted him victory.

Sadly, not all of his powers had made the trip with him. Ragnarok was… well, not gone, but certainly not there in its entirety. He was still hopeful it would awaken in earnest at some point, but even still, he healed faster than he should, and he’d noticed other things besides. He was careful to conceal the oddities. Prince or not, magic here was apparently serious and often highly unpleasant business.

As he made his way back to his quarters to bathe, he wasn’t surprised when his uncle fell into step beside him. Slowing just enough to help him without making him feel condescended, Edward glanced down at the man many called the Dwarf.

“You’re looking cheerful, uncle. Did you get some good news?”

“Aye, nephew.” Tyrion had a spring in his step. “We’ve heard word from our craftsman about those ‘printing presses’ you proposed. There are some problems still to work out, but the design seems decent enough. In a few months, perhaps, we’ll have a working design. And from there…”

“Profit.”

“Indeed.” Tyrion nodded. Some of the bitterness about him had faded over the years, Edward thought. It did not take a genius to see how his… treatment at the hands of Edward’s grandfather, Tywin, rankled Tyrion. But since their partnerships had grown more and more successful, his uncle had become a very, very wealthy man in his own right. That success had put steel in his spine and dampened some of the old hurts. After all, Tyrion no longer had to worry about begging his father for money, and he had the ear and favour of the crown prince. Not bad for a dwarf. “I saw your practice in the yard. You’re even better than my brother was at your age.”

“Uncle Jaime was a prodigy,” Edward said. “And of all the Kingsguard other than Ser Barristan, I think he might well be the deadliest in a fight if he could be bothered to put his back into it.”

“Ah, he does have a tendency to play with his food, doesn’t he?”

“I think he is so rarely challenged, he likes to savour any real fight he gets.” Edward pursed his lips. “Do you have any clothing suited for cold weather, uncle?”

“I believe so. Why?”

“Jon Arryn is an old man now,” Edward said. “And though he has managed to sire two sons, he has had precious little time to raise them. I do believe my father might seek out a new hand, so Jon can retire to the Eyrie to raise his sons and hopefully sire a few more.”

“And you think he means to go north?” Tyrion’s brows furrowed. “Ah. Right. Lord Stark. Well, they are as close as brothers, and the North has prospered mightily in recent times. Mayhap, your father hopes to bring some of that prosperity south.”

“We’re prospering enough as it is,” Edward retorted. “The crown has never been richer, and if all of our plans go as expected, uncle, we will only grow wealthier.”

“Hmm…” Tyrion got a crafty look. “Perhaps you should think carefully about your future, nephew. After all, the Rose of the North is of an age with you. I daresay, your father would love to join his house to Lord Stark’s.”

“Ah.” Edward had his suspicions about who exactly the Rose of the North was, but he had yet to receive a definitive answer due to how difficult it was to communicate across long distance in Westeros, and he could hardly send a raven to her without his father finding out and scheming for a match. Well, maybe in a few months he could. He’d made good progress in learning how to train his own. “We shall see.”

X     X     X

Lyara Stark rapped Arya on the wrist with her stick just hard enough to catch her attention without doing any real harm. “Your wrist should be supple but firm, sister. Too soft, and you will lose all control and power. Too tense, and you will be slow and ungainly.”

Arya huffed. “How do you make it look so easy?”

“Practice,” Lyara said with a fond smile. Indeed, she almost always had a fond smile ready for her youngest sister. Oh, she loved all her siblings, but there was a lot of Diana to be found in Arya Stark, and the girl who had once been Averia had always had a soft spot for her sister. “Now, again, Arya.”

“Can’t we practice some other moves?” Arya grumbled.

“I do not fear the warrior who has practiced ten thousand moves once. I fear the warrior who has practiced a single move ten thousand times,” Lyara replied. “A warrior must have absolute confidence in their skill, Arya. Do you think you can have confidence in something you haven’t practiced?”

“No,” Arya admitted with a huff. “But when can we do more sparring?”

“Complete your next set of exercises,” Lyara promised. “And then we may spar.” She grinned. “Our brothers wish to test themselves against me again, it seems.”

X     X     X

Ned Stark managed to keep himself from grinning as he watched Robb hammer away at his twin sister’s defences. His son and heir had more of a Tully look about him, but Lyara was almost his sister reborn, albeit there was something unmistakably regal in her bearing that undoubtedly came from Catelyn. 

Robb was a great swordsman for his age, as skilled as any youth, but there was a reason Lyara was called the Rose of the North, and not simply for her beauty. Aye, a rose had thorns, and Lyara’s were the sharpest in the North by a good margin.

“Good,” Lyara praised as she parried another attack and circled away, keeping Robb turning. She was testing his footwork, Ned realised, making sure he did not grow too accustomed to simply moving backward and forward as so many youths were prone to. “You’re mixing your attacks up better.”

“I still haven’t hit you yet,” Robb replied.

“No,” Lyara returned with a ghost of a smile. “But you’re doing better than the last time.”

“Come on,” Theon japed from the sidelines. “She’s your sister, Robb! You’ve got to win.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Robb retorted without taking his eyes off his sister or her weapon. “You didn’t even last a minute the last time you fought her.” Next to Theon, Jon chortled, and Ned himself had to swallow a laugh. “It’s like fighting someone who can see the future. It’s like she knows what I’m going to do before I do it.”

“Because I do,” Lyara teased, blade blurring forward like a viper. At the last moment, Robb managed to jerk his own weapon up to deflect the strike, but a twist of Lyara’s wrist locked the two swords together, and then a graceful pivot sent Robb’s practice sword tumbling end over end through the air until she caught it crisply in her other hand.

Robb put his hands on his hips and glared. “Now, you’re just showing off.”

Lyara’s lips curved up at the edges. “How can I make it up to you, brother?”

“Well, you can bloody teach me that disarm for one,” Robb grumbled. “And… what is that new contraption you’re working on?”

“A new furnace,” Lyara replied. “For making better steel.”

“How about a sword from it when it’s done?” Robb asked. “Then mayhap my wounded pride will be soothed.” He clutched at his chest melodramatically. 

“Of course,” Lyara agreed with a joking half bow. “It would be my honour Lord Robb.”

Ned chose that moment to step into the training area. All of his children immediately look to him, and he smiled warmly.

“I’ve been watching,” he said. “And you are all doing very well.” He nodded at Robb. “Your sister is right, my son. You’ve improved by leaps and bounds. You might well become one of the finest swords the north has ever seen.” He turned his gaze to Jon. “And the same could be said of you, Jon.” He clapped both boys on the shoulder and then nodded at Theon. “Your bow work is impressive, Theon, but your swordplay… mayhap more work is required.”

“Has something happened, father?” Lyara asked.

“Oh?”

“You are a bit earlier than usual today,” she replied. “And you had a most thoughtful look on your face as you watched - but not the one you normally have.”

“You have keen eyes, daughter.” Ned smiled. “We have received word from the south. The king, my dear friend Robert, is coming to Winterfell, and he is bringing the royal family with him.”

“Truly?” Arya asked. “Is the Young Demon coming as well?”

“Arya,” Ned said with just a hint of warning. “That name is… perhaps unfortunate if fitting.” Robert’s boy had been blooded recently, or so he had heard, when bandits had attacked the queen’s party during one of her trips to visit her father. Young Edward, the Young Demon some now called him, had slain half a dozen bandits himself after they had tried to seize the queen. The tale had become somewhat famous, with many drawing the parallels between father and son. In the North, of course, the young prince was popular. Any boy of twelve who could slaughter those who tried to harm his family would be viewed well in the harsh North. “But, yes, I do believe he will be coming.”

“You should fight him,” Arya said to Lyara immediately. “I bet you could beat him.”

Ned chuckled. “Perhaps they can spar.” His daughter and his oldest sons were already blooded too. Poor Bran had almost been seized by Wildlings during a ride, and Lyara had reacted with the sort of deadly precision more common to experienced warriors than girls of ten and four. Robb and Jon had likewise done well during the encounter although they had only slain a pair each, whereas Lyara had slain a good seven on her own. “And perhaps Robert has other things on his mind too.”

Indeed, Ned could easily imagine Robert asking for a match between Prince Edward and Lyara. If he did, Ned would be only too happy to agree. They had often talked of one day joining their Houses, and by all accounts, the prince would not mind a woman who could fight as well as he did. Indeed, if some of the rumours were true, he might even prefer one.

And such an alliance would only be good for the North. His daughter had a keen mind, and she had suggested many improvements that had worked out well. Likewise, the prince was blessed with many ideas of his own. At the very least, such a match would ensure close ties between the crown and the North for many generations, and Ned was certain that the prince would get along with Robb too.

“But enough of that,” Ned said before reaching for a practice weapon. “Let me test my children with my own blade. Who shall be first?”

Arya, of course, all but threw the others aside in her eagerness. “Let me go first, father!”

“If you wish.”

“Remember our lessons,” Lyara advised as they made way for Arya and he to spar. “Father is far bigger and stronger than you. Do not try to fight his strength with yours. You must be quick, agile, and cunning.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

Well, I have no idea where this came from. It kind of popped into my brain one day, so here it is. Ah, yes, there will be so many glorious misunderstandings in the future as Edward/Diana and Lyara/Averia try to finagle their way out of a betrothal while saving Westeros from the Others and who knows what else.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

You can find my original fiction on Amazon here.

#final rose #game of thrones #diana yun-farron #averia yun-farron #robert baratheon #ned stark

[sortinghatchats]

Sorting The Get Down

For those who are new to the sortinghatchats system, check out our basics post. But to sum it up: the way we play this game, your “primary” House is WHY you do things and your “secondary” House is HOW.

We just really like defining our terms, okay. It makes us happy.

“If making something of myself means losing myself, then what am I making?”

Ezekiel “Zeke” “Books” Figuero.

For someone who appears so pulled between two people– Shao and Mylene– it seems like Zeke ought to be a loyalist house like Hufflepuff or Slytherin. However, despite the existence of these two pretty faces, it’s not the people who Zeke is torn between-- the story. He's torn between the realities that Mylene and Shao respectively adhere to. Shao believes in the music; Mylene believes in more practical things.

Tellingly, when Zeke brings up how he feels pulled apart, it’s more often “Mylene/Shao was right” rather than anything about what they mean to him. The thing that most drives his decisions and his desires is what he thinks is true, real, and right. Who he loves plays second fiddle to what he believes. 

Zeke’s a Gryffindor primary, and a “burned” one, who wants very badly to be sure, to act and not regret, but who continually doubts his own instincts and ambitions. Throughout the series, Zeke tries to borrow the surety of the people around him who he trusts– primarily Mylene and Shao, but occasionally others. 

Mylene and her uncle believe (and try to convince Zeke) that if you play the game, you can come out on top– do well in school, take the internship, nod and smile and dance when you need to. The world is not exactly fair, but it’s winnable. Zeke tries to live in their world, but the dishonesty he feels it requires rankles him to his very Gryffindor core. 

Zeke is a Gryffindor secondary, as well as a primary, and it’s this secondary that makes even minor deceit so unappealing to him. Zeke is honest, blunt, and–when he’s “on”–blazingly inspirational to the people around him. Whether Shao, who would follow Zeke into a burning building, or the crowds that flock to his words, Zeke is a poet who hands people a part of himself and changes them in the giving. 

That’s what burns in the poem his teacher tries to get him to read. That’s what first brings him to Shao’s attention, spitting words at him even with a knife to his throat. That’s what gets Zeke the internship, after his tardiness– waiting in the lobby, refusing to be moved, and his direct, unapologetic words to Mr. Gunns. It’s also what loses him the position, when he finds he can no longer stomach it. Finally and fully fed up, he tries believing in Shao’s reality instead for awhile– quitting the firm, leaving his aunt’s home. When Zeke believes something, however briefly, he goes all in. 

Amusingly, if Shao had gotten Zeke’s opportunity there– interning in Manhattan– and believed it was real, he could have done it. Zeke’s Gryffindor Secondary wouldn’t let him live the lie, or the game– look at his final speech to Mr. Gunns. But Shao would have done it, Hufflepuff Secondary grinding away, if someone had convinced him it was real and given him that chance. But that’s not the story Shao believes in– and no one was ever going to give Shao that type of chance. 

Shao believes in the music, the art, the word. The Get Down matters to him and when Zeke’s in his orbit he sees what Shao sees– the power of creation, emotion, and freedom at their fingertips. 

“When I get up on stage and say what I gotta say, I know who I am, and right now y’all are pushing me to be who you want me to be and nobody’s asking what I wanna be.” - Zeke

But in the finale, Zeke finally breaks from Shao’s reality as well. It’s not that he doubts Shao’s affection, loyalty, or talent– Zeke, upon Boo-boo’s arrest, finally and fully loses faith in Shao’s world and the “story” his friend tells. Despite his promises to Shao about family and brotherhood, Zeke can walk away from him with an angry set of his shoulders and his head held high. Shao is living in what Zeke sees as a damaging fantasy, and no loyalty or love will bind Zeke into going down with him. 

Zeke, who begins the story as a burned Gryffindor, unmoored, grows into a man who wants to hope. He is looking for a way out and up and he is offered two of them– the internship through Mylene’s uncle, and Shao’s Get Down. 

“See, downtown, at my internship, or at Yale, I’m the lucky orphan child whose fate depends on being one of the good negroes, and never losing my cool or saying what I actually think, or, God forbid, being me. On the mic, I’m the master of my destiny. And I love it.” - Zeke 

In the end, Zeke arguably choose a middling path: a top-tier college acceptance earned not through connections and handshakes, but through the strength and honesty of his essay about the Get Down, the streets, and Shao. Whatever else they have left between them, that is something Shao gave him– the certainty that the words matter– and something that Mylene gave him– forcing him to admit he wanted out.

-

Awkward, careful, and earnest, with a mind that goes a mile a minute, Ra-ra is a Gryffindor Primary who hasn’t, until the end of the series, found a path that yanks properly at his heartstrings. Meeting the Zulus was a transformative experience for him– finally finding someone else putting into words something that resonates with his emotional and generous moral instincts. He is delighted and immediately invested. Ra-ra doesn’t have Zeke’s “burned” quiet desperation, but he’s been unmoored and undirected and now he’s found something to believe in. 

His Ravenclaw secondary keeps him upright, making him the planner of the group, giving him a way to focus his frenetic energy, and leaving him freaked out by spontaneity. Ra-ra tries to communicate through concepts he already knows– like when he uses the Force to convince the Zulus to ally with them. In his hands, working with what he already knows is what works best. 

His secondary sets him apart from the reactive, spontaneous kids who make up the rest of the Get Down Brothers. He and Shao alone among them aren’t flexible Slytherin secondaries or formidable Gryffindor secondaries– it makes sense that they’re the ones who go to Annie’s with the plan, 

-

Boo-boo, in contrast, doesn’t mind making it up as he goes along. A very young Slytherin/Slytherin, he goes after what he wants and feels guiltless about what he might have to do to get there. 

The baby of the family and too comfortable to have seen many real consequences come his way, the first time anything really stops Boo-boo in his tracks is when Dizzee almost dies on stage. Boo-boo is briefly shocked right back into his priorities– his brother, not money or fame or pretty girls. He sits scribbling by Dizzee’s bedside until his big brother feels better enough to stand. 

I’m very curious who this kid would have grown up to be (Season 2 where are you). His priorities, when it really comes down to it, are himself and the people he loves– unlike Shao, our other Slytherin, and one with a lot less self-love, whose priorities are only the people he loves, not ever himself.

-

In turns terrified, furious, and numb, Shao is a Slytherin who’s spent his life abandoned, used, abused, and betrayed. It’s unsurprising and entirely sensible that he’d end up a “burned” Slytherin– a Slytherin primary who tries hard to love no one, fearing the kind of hurt that comes from caring and losing. In the empty, burned-out places his Slytherin’s loyalties should lie, Shao has built himself a Gryffindor model– it is this model that drives most of his actions, lighting the fire beneath his art– first his tagging, and then his DJing. These things matter because they matter, and Shao values a fearless, emotional, all-in investment to his dreams. 

Under the shout of Shao’s Gryffindor model and the aching murmur of his burned Slytherin, Shao’s Hufflepuff Secondary is what actually gets the work done. When he wants something or values something, he puts his nose to the grindstone and just does what needs to happen– whether surviving Annie’s industry, working his way up to earn Flash’s respect and mentorship, and learning the DJ trade. The kid doesn’t seem to sleep– and it’s one of the things that in parts baffles, delights, and enrages him about Zeke, who can create and inspire where Shao just grinds away until something beautiful happens. Zeke’s Gryffindor Secondary, charismatic, blunt, and arresting, seems like magic to Shao. 

Similarly, Shao’s Gryffindor primary model sees a kindred spirit in Zeke, whose Gryffindor Primary keeps flirting with the idea of not being burnt and maybe believing in things outside just the practical. Shao, who clings to the surety and fire of his model, can’t understand how Zeke can stand wavering and splitting his attention. For Shao, his Gryffindor model is a comfort and a guiding light. If music is the answer, then it’s the answer. But Zeke, who is at times alternately caught up in Shao’s world of art, music, and brotherhood or pulled toward the practicalities and worldly ambitions of Manhattan and Mylene’s dreams, doesn’t believe that the way Shao thinks he should. 

Complicating that is Shao’s slowly warming Slytherin– Zeke tells him they’re family and Shao starts to believe him, something that only makes Shao more confused about Zeke’s shifting priorities as the kid painstakingly makes up his heart and mind. On the surface, these two look similar– Gryffindors in love with the music– but when shit really hits the fan it’s not why either of them are here. 

Shao lives in his Gryffindor model so well he at time almost seems to really be one. The importance of the Get Down to him borders on religious, obsessive, and transcendent. It’s at the heart of his motivations for the majority of the plot, and is one of the main ways he bonds with burned Gryffindor Zeke. They love the music, they value the art, and it lights them both up in ways they’ve rarely experienced in their lives and that they treasure now. Even as his clenched-fist heart slowly unspools for Zeke and the brothers, most of the time Shao’s Gryffindor is still the loudest thing in the room. The music is so vital to who Shao is that it obfuscates his true sorting for much of the story. 

But when Annie came to threaten Shao in the finale, she didn’t use the music. She didn’t even threaten his life. She threatened his family and, even abandoned, even with Zeke’s angry words ringing in his ears, Shao caves in a heartbeat for the sake of his brothers. 

-

“If you’re an alien, you’ve got to be an alien.”

Dizzee shares Zeke’s primary, a burned Gryffindor, who holds himself back from being his whole and true self. Like Zeke, who has been repressing his ambitions in a hopeless world, Dizzee has been repressing a part of himself. As a Gryffindor who runs on his faith in himself and his instincts, feeling unwelcome and alien in his world hurts Dizzee just as the unfairnesses of Zeke’s childhood losses have hurt Zeke’s trust in the world and in himself. 

Dizzee’s avatar of Rumi highlights Dizzee’s feelings of exclusion and danger–he is the alien in a top hat, who is always dressed for an opera but knows they will never let him in the door, who knows they are afraid of him and will kill him for that fear. 

Both of their paths are one of turmoil, healing, and acceptance of themselves in worlds that have never made space for them. Zeke found himself pulled between Mylene and Shao’s worlds, looking for a place he could feel like he belonged. Eventually, Zeke forged a path that didn’t follow either of their dreams for him– his story is one of a Gryffindor learning once again to trust himself. Similarly, after his near death experience, Dizzee realizes it’s time to stop denying he’s an “alien” and sets out to live his life unfettered by all the things he thought he was supposed to pretend to be. He’s at his brightest in the painting scene with Thor– he is an alien! he’s ready for his first opera! 

While quiet for a “classic” Gryffindor secondary (Zeke, who can whip out a speech that stops the hearts of everyone who hears it, is a more classic example), Dizzee shares that secondary’s need to “live” their beliefs and their inspirational, sometimes-otherworldly shine. His “shouting” comes in the form of his tagging– as he says, Mayor Koch will know his name when the train goes by. 

-

A Ravenclaw Primary, Mylene asks her mother, her uncle, Jackie, her agent, etc, for advice and life lessons but only takes on the lessons that she weighs and agrees with. She’s certain, but she thinks, first, and she will follow her own decisions even when they disagree with what her heart wants most. Yolanda tells her it might be unkind to ask Zeke to wait for her, so she considers that notion, finds it valid, and brings it up to discuss to him. She takes carefully into account the opinions, facts, and beliefs of the people around her and applies them to her life as she finds right. Less instinctive than Gryffindor Zeke, once she’s devoted to a cause or a dream she is just as immovable. 

Mylene is at her best when she is doing something she loves. It is her rendition of her adored Misty Holloway’s number that first sets her on the road to greatness. A Hufflepuff secondary, her persistence, compassion, and loyal connections build her success throughout the series. She changes Jackie’s life during that first recording session, refusing to give up or back away, demanding his best with a delightfully Puff mix of patience, compassion, and stubbornness. 

Similarly, the culmination of her power in the story is the scene in the producer’s office where she threatens to walk away and forces him to cave. Not only has she finally come to terms with her value and her talent, but she also knows that if she walks so will all the people in the room who have come to believe in her– for her. Her power comes from her own work and dedication, but also from the respect she garners from those who cross her path. 

While Zeke is trying to come to terms with who he is and what he wants, Mylene is learning to trust her own value. A Ravenclaw who considers the facts in front of her carefully, her validation comes from outside– Jackie’s assessments, her successes, Zeke’s faith, writing “I am the One” with Jackie’s friends in the hotel room. However, once that value has been communicated to her– and once she’s been convinced– it is an unwavering truth for her. Whether performing after Misty’s impromtu show, in front of her father’s horrified face, or nearly walking out of the producer’s office, she comes to know her own worth and that certainty gives her world-changing power. 

-

Mylene’s uncle is a Slytherin Primary, like Shao, devoted to his family loved ones even when they can’t or don’t love him back– his brother, Mylene’s mother, and Mylene, who does not know he’s truly her father. He’s content, in his way, to serve, support, and adore them from the sidelines. His devotion is unwavering and he expects little from them in return. 

His Slytherin primary’s loyalties are widespread and deeply driven. Mylene and her family are closest to his heart, but he’s genuinely taken the whole of his part of the Bronx under his wing. Some of this comes from his enjoyment of power, authority, and respect, but his affection and loyalty to “his people” is strong and true.

While he’d love to see himself as a Hufflepuff secondary, working through respect, reputation, and connections, those attempts often fall through for him. What he is a clever and flexible opportunist– a Slytherin Secondary who’s happy to transform and step up to any situation in his path. He embodies the same house combo as Boo-boo, but is far older and more experienced, with far more selfless ambitions and wider, steadying responsibilities. 

-

tl;dr

Ezekiel “Books” Figuero - Burned Gryffindor Primary/Gryffindor Secondary“Dizzee” Kipling - Burned Gryffindor Primary/Gryffindor Secondary“Ra-ra” Kipling - Gryffindor Primary/Ravenclaw Secondary“Boo-boo” Kipling - Slytherin Primary/Slytherin SecondaryFrancisco Cruz - Slytherin Primary/Slytherin Secondary Mylene Cruz - Ravenclaw Primary/Hufflepuff SecondaryShaolin Fantastic - Burned Slytherin Primary/Hufflepuff Secondary

#sortinghatchats #sorting hat chats #the get down

[optimizche]

Angelic : I'm Here (Park Chanyeol/Reader)

All chapters

I stood beneath the stream of warm water gushing out the shower head, letting it wash over me.

Letting it cleanse me.

Combing my hands through my soaked hair, I pondered if I had made a mistake by leaving heaven and coming to earth.

Ever since that night, when I had kissed him, everything had changed. My mind had become a mess, raging with lust that begged and ached to be quenched.

Never in my life had I been desirous of the pleasures of the flesh. But ever since his lips had touched mine, I had begun to yearn for a relief from the lascivious fantasies festering away in my head.

None of my brothers noticed any changes within me. All except for Yixing.

The angel of healing that he was, he was always perceptive to any and every malady that afflicted a person, irrespective of whether they were physical, mental or emotional.

I could see it in the way his dark eyes followed me everywhere that he could sense my internal distress. He could feel exactly what was bothering me.

Despite having an inkling of what was troubling me, he hadn't yet made my brothers aware of it. And for that I was immensely grateful. I did not even want to imagine the wrath of my brothers, especially of Junmyeon, that I would have to endure, had they realized that I, their youngest and only sister, was overcome with lust. A sin of the highest order.

So lost I was in my thoughts and in rinsing the lavender scented suds of shampoo from my hair, that I didn't notice or hear the door of the shower panel slide open and shut.

I froze when I felt a set of hands upon my hips.

"Are you alright?" came his voice, hushed against my ear as he pulled me backwards, into him.

"Yixing..." I sighed in relief, leaning back into his frame, realizing he was just as bare as I was. A realization that caused colour to rise to my cheeks. This was the first time since the past few days when I found myself alone in his company, without the presence of the rest of my brothers to distract him.

Arms wrapping securely around my waist, he turned me around to face him. His dark eyes examined me intently, the intensity of his gaze forcing me to look away from him.

A hand came to cup my cheek. "Look at me," he said, a hardened edge in his voice. "Look into my eyes."

"Yixing, please," I protested feebly, my hands resting upon his chest, feeling my heartbeat rise in trepidation, knowing full well that he'd know the true extent of my wantonness if he looked into my eyes.

I tried to avert my eyes, looking anywhere else but not at him.

"Look at me. I command you to," came Yixing's stern, harsh voice as both his hands caught my face and forced me to meet his gaze.

It took him all of a moment to truly see through me once our eyes met.

He gasped, his hands fell away from me.

"You let one of them kiss you," he said, aghast.

I felt my heart sink, seeing the look of betrayal and shock upon his face. I felt sick. Diseased, almost.

Yixing backed away from me, stepping out of the shower panel. Quickly cutting off the water, I followed him, panicking.

"Please, Yixing. I'm sorry," I pleaded, reaching out to grasp his wrist. "I didn't kno-"

He whirled around, pushing me back against the nearest wall by my shoulders.

"Do you know what you've done?" he demanded angrily. "Do you have any inkling of what you've done?"

Tears sprang into my eyes as guilt and self-loathing rushed to flood into my heart. "I'm sorry. Please don't tell the others..." I stuttered. "T-they'll tell Father."

Comprehension dawned in his eyes upon the mention of our father, his anger evaporating and turning into fear as he realized what would happen to me if anyone else came to know.

They'd tear away my wings from the roots, cleave and flay my flesh until I was branded by my shame, my disgrace. And then I'd be banished, to live my life as a mortal. The ultimate humiliation for our kind.

His death-grip on my shoulders loosened and he stepped away from me, anger and disappointment written plainly upon his face.

"Why did you do it?" Yixing breathed, his voice pained. Like his own heart was breaking. "You know these desires rankling within you will one day reveal the truth?"

The tears now began to fall down my cheeks freely. "I don't know why I did it. I-It just felt good."

He looked upset, his finely sculpted features furrowed in distress. "Did he tell you his name? Who he was? Anything?"

I shook my head, choosing to look down at the floor instead.

Yixing did not speak for a while, choosing to think in silence as he went to retrieve fresh towels from a hamper so that we both could dry off.

Taking a towel from him, I quietly went about patting away the water from my drenched skin. He did the same. And we both could feel the tension building in the air with each passing moment.

"I will have to tell the others," he eventually spoke and I rushed to where he stood, the towel wrapped around my form.

Grasping his hands, I pleaded with him frantically. "Please don't tell them, Yixing. You know what will happen if anyone else comes to know. I... I don't want to fall. Please!"

I knew that he was deliberating his choices. And right now, this moment was a matter of life or death for me.

The conflict was etched across his face, every muscle in his body strung taut with tension.

I don't know what it was that made me act in this way, but I found myself reaching out to thread my fingers into his dark, wet hair, pulling him to my lips. Perhaps it was my desperation, or my raging desires for intimacy, I found myself kissing him.

A soft moan left me when I met his soft, full lips with mine, pressing into them insistently. I wanted to somehow stop him from telling the others and I kissed him with every last bit of desperation I had in me...

...until his own hands wove into my damp hair, giving my roots a gentle tug and parting from me.

"I've loved you since the day you were born, princess," he murmured, his warm breath fanning over my face. "When I saw you for the first time, I promised Junmyeon that I was going to spend the rest of my life protecting you in any and every way that I possibly could."

"Yixing, I-"

"Let me speak, ___________," he growled, effectively rendering me speechless. His hand came to cup my cheek, cradling it in the warmth of his palm. "I vowed to Junmyeon that I'd never let you fall in harm's way as long as I lived. And I intend to keep that promise. No matter what."

My eyes widened as I realized the implication of his words. And the suggestive look in his eyes while his hands slowly untucked the towel wrapped around me only confirmed it.

"Y-Yixing," I exhaled. "You don't have to."

He smiled at me, his cheek dimpling. "I'm a healer, aren't I?" he said, opening the towel and letting it fall at my feet. "If it is my touch that remedies your ache, however temporarily, I'm willing to aid you. Whatever the cost may be."

_____________

With a gentle push of his hands on my shoulders, he had made me lie down on my bed, murmuring an incantation to lock down the door, just like "Baekhyun" had done in my dream.

But this wasn't a dream.

It was real.

Everything that he was doing to me was real.

I lay on my stomach, my hair forming a damp curtain around my face, as I trembled and writhed with the agonizing ecstasy flowing through me. 

He was above me, his mouth nipping and licking at the twin scars on my back, adjacent to my shoulder blades.

One of his hands, curved around me to reach where I ached the most, between my legs, his elegant digits buried deep within my pulsating walls.

"Xing, ohh..." I moaned, my hips bucking rhythmically, fervently into his hand, wanting him to reach deeper within me.

Hands clutching at the sheets, I pressed my mouth into the pillow beneath me, trying to conceal the bitter truth of how utterly wrecked I was.

"Its alright, my lovely," he cooed in his honeyed voice, sweeping my hair away from my face, his tongue dipping into the lips of the scar on my back "I'm here now. I'm here."

"You're here..." I whimpered, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip as I unravelled beneath him yet again.

#park chanyeol #chanyeol #chanyeol fanfic #smut #exo #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #exo smut #exo scenario #chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol scenario #exo chanyeol #chanyeol smut #chanyeol x you #chanyeol x reader #reader insert #park chanyeol fanfiction #park chanyeol fanfic #park chanyeol scenario #park chanyeol x reader smut #park chanyeol x reader #park chanyeol x you

[blancheludis]

Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 11/?, Words: 61.605

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

---

Steve looks up from his phone, not quite satisfied but calm in a way he has not been in days. Tony is safe for now, he knows what is going on and he will deal with it. If he does not want Steve to be part of that, it is his good right. It rankles Steve, of course, to be sitting idly while his soulmate is in danger, and perhaps this is not the right time to show restraint, but he is trying to do right by Tony.

Caught in his thoughts, he does not notice the shadow in his doorway until he speaks up.

“What are you doing?” Clint asks. He is wearing combat clothes and a matching expression, as ready to deal with the situation at hand as they all are.

In comparison, Steve feels comically small, sitting on his bed in a sweater. Waving his phone in the air, he replies cautiously, “Writing Tony.”

That was the wrong answer, Steve knows that as soon as it hangs between them in the air.

“So what?” Clint snaps, taking a step into the room. “You almost rip my throat out any time I said something about Stark, and now that we know who the actual bad guy is you sit there and write lover boy instead of doing something about it?”

It is thoroughly unfair to be blamed for something that Steve does not want to do. If not for Tony’s protest, he would be the first one out there to deal with Stane. He would not sit back, waiting for events to unfold, fearing for the worst.

“Tony doesn’t want me to –” Steve tries to argue but is cut off.

“Of course, he doesn’t.” Clint scoffs like it is obvious. Like he has defended Tony’s wishes all along. “But this is not just about him.”

This is still about revenge. Steve understands very well where Clint is coming from, but he is trying to be the voice of reason here.

“He has all the evidence,” Steve says as firmly as he dares and looks at Clint with a stern expression. He can afford his team dancing out of line even less than before.

“I don’t need evidence to take that asshat down,” Clint answers with careless confidence.

That is the point, though. The Avengers are supposed to come in where the justice system fails. There is conclusive evidence against Stane, enough so that he will be taken in and prosecuted once Tony sets that in motion. If that does not work out, that is the time where the Avengers act. Not before that.  

“Violence isn’t the answer to everything,” Steve says, despite feeling his knuckles yearn for the opportunity to knock that smirk off Stane’s face and keep Tony safe.

Crossing his arms in front of him, Clint stares down hard at Steve. “That’s rich, coming from Mr. Punch-First-Ask-Later,” he says. “What are you afraid of?”

It has never been more obvious that Clint is looking for a fight. That he is restless and unhappy and needs something to focus on. Steve knows his team, and he knows that Clint, when he feels guilty, wants to make things right through whatever means possible, until it seems like he is hell-bent on making them worse.

Steve shrugs, deciding on honesty, although he thinks that is obvious. “Losing Tony.”

Clint does not know what to do with Steve’s calm. “That ship has already sailed,” he says, shaking his head with a sneer. Then he leans forward. “Listen, he’s not going to do anything with the evidence.”

In one smooth motion, Steve gets to his feet, glowering. As suspected, Clint does not back down but straightens further in anticipation.

“What is your problem, Clint?” Steve asks, despite having no intention of giving in to Clint’s baiting. “I’ve listened to your grumbling about Tony for long enough now. He’s a good man and he’s not going to let Stane get away with this. It is his right to do this in his own time and –”

“Stane is his godfather,” Clint snaps like that is a viable argument.

His expression is pinched, eyes fixed somewhere over Steve’s shoulder as if he is not completely in the present. That is when Steve remembers that Clint has a brother. Specifically, a brother in jail who tried to take Clint down with him, and for whom Clint almost went to jail too. Perhaps he does know something about how hard it is to go up against family.

The air between them takes on a different tension, not ready to explode anymore, but one filled with the uncertainty of having said too much.

“He’ll do the right thing,” Steve says, voice gentle.

With renewed stubbornness, Clint stares at him. “That means running from you too.” The firmness of his tone leaves no doubt that he means his words.

Swallowing, Steve says very quietly, “I know.”

They look at each other for a long moment, unsure where to go from here. The will to fight has evaporated, but neither of them is satisfied. With a scoff, Clint turns around and goes. Steve does not try to stop him.

Instead, he brings his phone up again and writes Tony, I really am sorry.

He is not actually surprised when he does not get an answer.  

Despite the eagerness to deal with the situation, things calm down after the rather monumental revelation of Obadiah Stane, long-time figurehead of Stark Industries, being the one they have been looking for.

If Steve said the word, they would readily swarm out to take Stane down, but when he tells them to wait, they settle down. Even Clint follows without much further complaint. They have sent out their information and now it is not their turn but Tony’s.

Despite his worry, despite the constant burning of the soul bond, this is the first time in a week that Steve feels like he can take a deep breath. He thinks a lot about what Bucky said, and Bruce before him. How rushing into this, hounding Tony, does not do either of them any favours.

He is not sure he will stay this calm if it looks like Stane is making a move, but for now, he has decided to let Tony deal with this in his own time.

For the first time since accepting this last job, the Avengers feel like a team again, not pitted against each other, not riled up by nerves and bad memories. Their whole group is based on trust, on having a common goal. All of them have been discouraged by life, by the purpose other people thought they had.

Steve and Bucky returned from war, not quite whole anymore, and wondering what they had even been fighting for. Those nice ideals they were taught to protect seemed to have vanished once their eyes were opened to the real world.

Natasha and Clint decided that whatever government agency they were working for before was just too shady, too close in nature to the people they were fighting, that they were looking for a way out.

No more ulterior motives, Natasha had said when they had their first meeting, which altogether felt too much like a conspiracy, the vague idea of the Avengers in mind.

No more bureaucrats pointing where they need us to shoot without knowing what it’s like out there, Clint had added, less eloquently but just as determined.

Sam had more or less stumbled into the group, turning from counsellor to friend to ally. He never knew when to keep away, and Steve does not want to think about where they would be without him.

They gathered the rest along the way. Scott had been caught up in some bad things. Pietro and Wanda had always been part of that seedy underworld that swallows good people whole and spits them out twisted.

The idea has always been to help. To go where no one else could and sort out the bad seeds, to find evidence to allow the police to arrest the untouchables, the moguls. Despite the name, they have never been about revenge. Not before.

Waiting makes Steve restless, but he carefully keeps that to himself. He insists on intensifying their training program to keep his team busy. He talks at length with Sam in DC to avoid both parts of his team going off the rail while he is otherwise occupied. He insists on team dinners and movie nights, just to get back some piece of normalcy, even while he feels like he is making a mistake by not watching over Tony.

He does not sleep well, haunted by dreams of what he did and of what could happen if he does nothing now. It is an impossible situation.

One of these evenings, when he cannot decide whether to try sleeping, he wanders the base, drawn in by the faint voices of his friends. He is not in the mood for conversation, but he would not mind the company.

“Do you think you’ll have it in you to apologize to Stark once all of this is over?” he hears Natasha ask when he is close enough.

Stopping abruptly, Steve holds his breath, hoping they did not notice him.

“I doubt he’ll want to hear it,” Clint answers. His voice is muffled like he is half-asleep.

Cautiously, Steve inches forward so he can peek through the half-open door.

Natasha and Clint are sitting on the couch. She is stretched out, her feet in Clint’s lap, wet hair piled up on her head. She has been out all day and Steve did not hear her coming in. Bruce sits at a table, reading a book but looking up at their conversation. He does not offer his thoughts.

“So you admit you were wrong,” Natasha points out, her voice free of accusation.

That is the difference between them. Steve can never ignore his emotions, can never just use words without attaching them to what he feels.

Clint huffs but not like he wants to argue with her. “He didn’t exactly make it easy.”

This, Steve thinks, is the closest they will ever come to an admission of guilt.

“Things like this are never easy,” Natasha says, resting her head against the back of the couch.

“He’s still shady,” Clint speaks up, sounding more awake now but still not upset. “I mean, are we sure he didn’t know about the weapon deals?”

Just like that, all thoughts of sleep are gone from Steve’s mind. He is ready to storm in and fight it out with Clint once and for all. Tony is not part of Stane’s double-dealing. He does not have any ultimate proof, but he still has Tony’s voice in his ear, still sees the determination on his face.

“Clint,” Natasha cautions. With just one word, she manages to convey everything Steve feels but without setting Clint off.

“I know,” Clint hurries to say, sounding chastised if not exactly guilty. “Still, Steve decided to trust Stark just because of their tattoos. Shit like that gets you killed.”

The thing is, Clint is not wrong. Once the bond was established, it was like Steve lost his ability to think rationally. Everything is centred around Tony now, no matter how much he tries to focus.

“Is that jealousy because you haven’t met your soulmate yet?” Natasha questions, but there is humour in her tone.

Clint shudders visibly, exaggerating the motion. “I’m glad I didn’t, considering our line of work,” he says, shaking his head. Turning a bit more serious, he adds, “Look at how it’s turned out for Steve.”

As far as Steve knows, no one on the team has met their soulmate yet. Apart from Sam, of course, but he does not talk much about Riley. The grief of losing him is still tangible whenever Sam allows himself to think about him. They do seem to be very unlucky where fate is concerned.

“Story’s not over,” Natasha offers lightly, causing all of them to look at her with varying amounts of scepticism.

Straightening in his seat, Clint pats her feet and says serenely, “Bet you twenty it is.”

Before Natasha can accept – sometimes it seems like her hidden agenda is to bankrupt the Avengers from within – Bruce speaks up.

“Considering how long you’ve known her, you should know better than to bet against her,” he says, pointing his book at Clint, although he seems amused too.

“One of these days, she’s going to lose,” Clint replies sullenly, obviously not convinced of that himself.

Natasha simply smiles. “Not if no one’s left to tell the tale.”

Outside, Steve straightens and sneaks away, leaving them to their bickering. He does not want to let Clint’s words get close to him, but they hit exactly where it hurts. What if his story with Tony truly is already over?

He cannot afford to think about that while Tony is still in danger, while Stane is still out there. At the same time, he cannot stop doubting.

That night, he barely sleeps at all, curled around the words on his arm that constantly burn now, almost like they want to tell Steve something, urging him to listen. He is just afraid that he does not want to hear whatever it is.

---

Days pass, building up to almost an entire week. Hours blur into each other while Tony digs up exactly how deep this betrayal goes. Years and years of it. Millions of dollars. Thousands of lives.

Tony finds names and accounts. He finds evidence that Obadiah started his double-dealing when Howard was still alive, although he has been much more careful back then. After his death, with Tony in no shape to lead a company, distracted by misery and booze, he grew bolder, turning it into something really lucrative instead of just a side hobby.

Tony hides. His bruises are merely an afterthought now, easily covered if necessary and not an actual reason for him to lock himself away in his penthouse. He fields calls from Rhodey and visits from Pepper, worries about the conspicuous silence from Steve. In their own way, they are all being supportive. Yet, Tony still feels on the brink of falling apart.

Every day of inactiveness increases the chance of more lives being lost. Tony is monitoring the channels Obadiah and his smuggler ring use, ready to intercept any new shipments. That does not stop the weapons that are already out there.

Speaking up most likely means pushing Stark Industries into ruins. He might have announced their withdrawal from weapons manufacturing, their readiness to move into new directions, a new future. That does not change the fact that they were the number one name in the weapons industry and are rapidly losing investors even without a fresh scandal. Also, it will be hard to build his case against everyone calling for his downfall. He can already hear their arguments, declaring the impossibility of him not knowing about the double-dealing, especially considering how close Obadiah and he are. Were.

The more evidence he is gathering, the more it feels like he is putting his head on the chopping block, waiting for an axe of his own making to end him and everything he has built his life on.

That is no reason to give Obadiah any leeway. He should not be sitting on this knowledge. And yet.  

“Sir, Mr. Stane is on his way up to the penthouse,” JARVIS announces, sounding like he is seriously considering sucking all the air out of the elevator and thus dealing with the problem that has been keeping Tony up for several nights.

Tony loves him for it. That does not keep his insides from curling into tight knots, immediately frozen in anticipation of the confrontation he has been avoiding for almost a week now.

He knows why Obadiah is coming. Or suspects, at least. A board meeting is planned for later this day, which Tony declared he is coming to. That alone warrants a visit from his CFO since Tony usually avoids these meetings like the plague.

Still, there is a small chance that Obadiah knows that Tony found out about the double-dealing. Tony is not ready to have this conversation, probably never will be. At the very least, he needs to have it on his own terms.

“Tell him I’m busy,” Tony says, eyes lingering on his file with evidence.

“I tried. He showed himself unwilling to reconsider,” JARVIS replies with some dismay. Tony is not surprised. His godfather has always shown a particular disinterest in doing what others tell him to do. That had been an admirable trait once. “I could trap him in the elevator, though.”

The thought is tempting, causing a shaky smile to slip on Tony’s lips. For all that he is not ready to come face to face with Obadiah, he is out of time.

“Thank you,” Tony says not bothering to hide his fondness or his regret, “but I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

Above all, Tony needs to keep Obadiah from getting suspicious that Tony knows more than he should.

Right now, the greatest obstacle is getting over his hundreds of childhood memories to allow him to throw his godfather to the wolves. Obadiah deserves it, no question asked, but the act of actually abandoning him to the police is still enormous to consider. The small flame of anger is still burning bright inside Tony, but it is kept small by the sheer sense of betrayal and the numbness accompanying it.

All the information he has gathered, all his inescapable evidence, is packed into a file. He has several copies and an actual paper version. They are ready to be handed over. A small part of Tony still wishes that Obadiah’s visit right now will not be the thing that pushes Tony into finally doing that. Howard had always told him how weak he was. Perhaps the old man was right after all. Obadiah had no qualms sacrificing Tony. It gets harder every day to argue that Tony is the better person for not doing the same.  

Saving all his progress, Tony leaves his workshop and decides to wait for Obadiah in the living room. He sits on the couch, trying to make himself appear busy with a tablet in hand, but there is no hiding the painfully straight line of his shoulders or the way his knuckles are white from gripping too hard. For years, he has played people, has worn masks and been exactly what strangers wanted him to be. Faced with the prospect of meeting his godfather now, all of that crumbles.

Then, too soon, Obadiah is there. The elevator doors open and his steps come closer, as unhurried and familiar as ever. Tony turns around, waiting, wondering whether his perception of Obadiah will have changed.

It has not. Obadiah is still tall, unbowed, smiling in greeting as he has done for decades. He still opens his arms in greeting as if Tony was still at a hugging age.

“Tony,” he greets upon entering, jovial and entirely unsuspiciously. “It’s been impossible to get a hold of you for the past days.”

He walks over to the couch and lets himself sink into it, not close enough to touch but definitely too close for comfort. Tony cannot shift away, however, not without making it obvious that something is wrong.

“Sorry, Obie. I was busy,” Tony replies, voice too strained. He can do better than that. Pointing at his tablet, he shrugs. “I’ve been working on possible new projects to present to the board. Are you coming with me to the meeting?”

Something flickers over Obadiah’s face that has Tony thinking he might have miscalculated. Perhaps they are done posturing, done pretending that everything is fine. Then Obadiah’s expression shifts into one of regret and the moment has passed. Like a predator has decided not to join the hunt.

“The board meeting was cancelled.”

Has Obadiah’s smile always been like this? Too quick and too sharp. Too hungry. Tony cannot remember. He does remember soaking up any kind of positive attention without really questioning why he got it.

Now, the apology lurking under Obadiah’s words is sharp enough to cut, a trap to lure him in.

“Funny,” Tony says slowly, not a trace of a smile on his face, “I didn’t hear any of that.”

Nodding, Obadiah reaches out to pat Tony’s shoulder. It is all Tony can do not to flinch away. Betrayal, it turns out, is something he just never gets used to. And being betrayed by family is infinitely worse than by possible lovers or pretend-friends.

“I did that,” Obadiah says, much to Tony’s surprise. Admitting it this easily somehow seems out of character. “Don’t look like that, my boy.” Chuckling, Obadiah withdraws his hand, puts it down on his own leg in plain sight. The whole thing appears orchestrated. “Nobody is happy with your public announcement. I’m just trying to soothe their tempers.”

The concern Obadiah displays is painfully familiar. It is the same expression that accompanied his condolences for Howard and Maria’s death, and a hundred bottles of liquor finding their way into Tony’s hands, and even more of Tony’s projects being rejected. Tony always interpreted it as Obadiah being on his side, caring for him.

“Last time I checked, I’m still the one who’s supplying R&D with the most ideas,” Tony says, finally sharpening his voice into something that does not sound like he is already defeated.

It is certainly true. Getting rid of Tony means slaughtering their golden goose. Obadiah must be very confident in his ability to kick R&D into better shape – or that Tony has enough projects secreted away.

Obadiah leans forward, looking Tony directly in the eyes. “Nobody’s saying they want to push you out.”

A weight presses down on Tony’s chest, rendering him unable to breathe. The sheer audacity of it. If he had doubts before that his godfather could do such monstrous things as handing weapons out to terrorists and sending the mob after family, he does not have them anymore. The very calm with which Obadiah speaks, the unwavering smile. That is not a man moved by compassion or bound by honour.

Slowly, Tony’s back straightens and his heart rate evens. He still feels on the verge of breaking but not like he cannot do this.

“They just want to lead the company without me,” Tony adds, reeling as he realizes there is no more waiting. Looking up sharply, he asks, “You wouldn’t have anything to do with that?”

Obadiah’s composure is to be admired. He cocks his head like he is surprised by Tony’s question, like he does not know where it is coming from.

“Why would I?” he asks, all honest confusion. “I’ve been at your side since Howard died. I’ve helped him keep the company alive before that.”

That is the worst thing, that all these years apparently meant nothing.

“And you must have grown a taste for leading then,” Tony states dryly, feeling the last remnants of a friendly expression slip from his face. “Why did you even make me CEO? That must have been inconvenient for you.”

Tony did not even want the job. He was happy, ruling over R&D. His workshop was the only place he really needed. Yet, Obadiah pushed him to pick up the mantle of CEO, of living up to the Stark name. In the long run, that did not make either of them happy.

Before him, Obadiah frowns, looking almost grieved at the sudden argument building between them.

“What’s gotten into you, Tony?” he questions, voice dripping with concern that Tony would have believed two weeks ago. “We’re on the same side.”

This is it, Tony thinks. Now he will find the courage to confront Obadiah with what he has found. With Steve’s data of how Obadiah hired the Avengers. With the far more condemning logs detailing how Obadiah has made deals with terrorists and enemies of America for years. With treason.

It might even be gratifying to see that jovial expression drop and shatter, to talk clearly for the first time in – forever, really. Tony realizes he does not know his godfather at all, while Obadiah knows all about him. All his weaknesses and dreams, all his scars and lies and imperfections. It is no wonder he had such an easy time betraying Tony.

He does not want another fight, though. Not one he is going to lose.  

“I’m tired,” Tony says instead of offering his evidence. He withdraws, making himself small. This is the Tony Obadiah knows. “I was excited to do something new. Something that does not mean more death on our conscience.”

Tonight, as soon as Obadiah is gone, he is going to take all the evidence he has and hand it over to the law enforcement. Tonight, he is going to end this. He has thought a lot about personal revenge these past days but in the end, he just wants this to be over.

Obadiah is still talking, but Tony is barely listening. “And this is not the way to do it. We need to start small. We can talk about opening a smaller division, see if it’s able to carry itself.”

If he remembers correctly, promises like this have been made a dozen times before. Tony did not study robotic engineering only to never apply it in real life other than building his helper bots. Yet, no one jumped at the prospect of progress the way he thought they would.

“I’ve already announced that we won’t make any more weapons,” Tony says as if either of them needs the reminder. “I think it’s too late for small steps.”

The sheer dismissal passing Obadiah’s face is grating on Tony. “I’m handling that.” Suddenly, the light in his eyes grows sharper as he focuses on Tony. Almost slyly, he adds, “You know, someone on the board has filed to replace you.”

Someone or you, Tony thinks and knows the answer. He does not for one second believe that this is not Obadiah’s plan. Tony will not let himself be pushed out. He might have become CEO only grudgingly, but Stark Industries is his responsibility now. He does not run in times of crisis.

“Then it’s all the more important to show them I’m not only serious about this but that it will work, don’t you think?” Tony keeps his tone pleasant, thinking he deserves a medal for that. Finally, the anger inside him is roaring, no longer cowed by trepidation.

Getting to his feet, Tony looks down at Obadiah. He stares and stares but does not find anything familiar, nothing worth saving. “Now, if you excuse me. There’s a lot of work to do.”

His neck prickles as he turns his back to Obadiah. That is probably not the smartest move, but Tony is tired of hiding.

“Tony,” Obadiah calls when he is almost out of the room, “this is not over.”

But Tony thinks it really might be.

Ten minutes later, when Tony comes back out of his workshop, Obadiah is gone. He is gripping his folder with evidence, keeps his breathing carefully calm. This is it. JARVIS has alerted Happy to wait for them downstairs and then they will go hand his evidence over. Tony will watch Obadiah be taken in, taken down. He will not feel any regret.

Happy is already waiting out front when Tony steps out into the cool evening air. He looks concerned like all of his friends do lately, but Tony greets him with a smile. Everything will be fine.

Tony gets into the back of the car and watches New York slip by in the dark as they drive. He is glad that Happy does not try to talk to him. Afterwards, he owes them all some explanations. For now, silence is more fitting.

He does not see the man on the motorbike. Neither, apparently, does Happy. There is a shadow appearing suddenly in front of the car and while Happy slams down on the brake, they cannot avoid the crash.

A horrible screeching sound fills Tony’s ears as they hit the bike frontally and something big and dark rolls over the hood and vanishes into the darkness behind them. The car careens off the street, spinning until Tony loses his sense of direction. After an eternity, the car comes to a shuddering halt, causing Tony’s head to smash against the window. Then, everything goes black.

#stony #fanfiction #soulmates #mob au #leave the gun on the table #i'm sorry #tony stark #steve rogers #obadiah stane #cliffhanger #poor tony #he just doesn't get a break #my writing #ao3 #happy hogan

[delennsatai]

DMC Gen Week: Day 1

Wounds Deeper than Flesh

Summary: Some introspection about relationships in between/during scenes from the game. Part of @dmcgenweek​

Day 1 Prompt: Injury/Healing

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20010805

“You both need me to defeat Mundus,” Kat whispered through a swollen lip, shifting to keep her weight off the arm she suspected was broken, still pulsing with pain. “And you need each other.”

That’s right, Dante. We do this together, or not at all. And not at all is unacceptable. Vergil couldn’t help letting a smirk creep onto his face, as Dante looked up at him from where he sat, perched on a wooden crate in the safehouse where they’d retreated. The loss of the Order’s HQ—and the whole Order with it—was a setback, to be sure, but ultimately irrelevant. He’d planned for this, years ago. His contingencies had contingencies.

The one thing he didn’t have a contingency for was losing Dante. Kat was right—he wouldn’t be able to finish this if his brother walked away now. They were so close. He couldn’t let that happen. So...what was the one surefire way to keep Dante invested?

Kat, of course. He’d known from the beginning that bringing her in on this would help him catch Dante’s attention, but he hadn’t expected such a swift and forceful attachment. Much as it rankled to realize it took his brother less than a week to secure as much loyalty from her as he’d earned over years, he could use it to his advantage.

In the silence that stretched between them, he retook control of the conversation, extending the hand not resting on the Yamato’s pommel to offer Dante a hand up. Unnecessary, obviously, but the reversal warmed him. They were true equals, now. Nothing could stand in their way. “…she’s right. What’s done is done, let’s put it behind us. Victory is within our grasp.”

“…fine.” Dante clasped his gloved hand and stood, then pointed a finger at him. “But no more stunts like you pulled on the pier.”

“Of course.” He met Dante’s lingering, stubborn gaze with his own cool one, two identical pairs of eyes communicating volumes without words. A conciliatory gesture would appease him, Vergil thought. “Kat’s hurt. We should tend her wounds at least enough to make sure she has the strength to walk us through what she’s learned.”

Dante’s posture relaxed a bit, as he turned toward Kat. “You all right with that?”

Her lips compressed into a thin line, but she nodded, looking a little relieved despite her bold words a few minutes ago. It was time Vergil didn’t think they could really afford, but if it kept Dante on board… “Would you like to do the honors?” he said, directing his brother toward a door on the opposite side of the room. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

“Uh…what, me?” Dante glanced between them. “I don’t know the first thing about first aid. Unless it’s anything like playing doctor.” He flashed Kat a suggestive smirk and Vergil saw her smile despite herself. A stab of irritation lanced through him. Would it kill Dante to take all this seriously for five minutes? This was Vergil’s life’s work hanging in the balance. Their vengeance. Their family. He couldn’t follow the way Dante’s mood seemed to shift like a stray breeze—berating him for doing what was necessary (and, frankly, the only intelligent thing to have done) one minute, then flirting the next. He was distracted, clearly. Vergil would have to remove the distraction.

“Never really had to deal with that kinda thing before,” Dante continued. “Always healed pretty fast on my own.”

“I’ll handle it,” Vergil reassured him. “You should secure the perimeter, keep watch. Make sure no demon collaborators caught our trail.”

Dante’s eyes strayed to the gloves Vergil wore, like an unspoken question, obviously wondering whether they meant he had some kind of medical experience. Of course not; learning to treat injured humans would have been a waste of his time. After all, he healed just as quickly as Dante did. But it was hardly rocket science to apply a few bandages. “You got it,” his twin replied, grabbing his coat from where it hung over a ratty old armchair and shrugging into it as he sauntered out the door.

Vergil went into the bathroom to retrieve the kit from the medicine cabinet, but paused in front of the mirror to consider his reflection. Not so different from looking at Dante, in some ways, but in others... That defiant challenge he so often found looking back at him from his brother’s face felt like an uncanny valley, an expression he wasn’t used to seeing on a face that was otherwise just like his own. He spared a moment to try it on—call it a little experiment, he thought. He lifted his chin, drew his eyebrows low, set his jaw just so. Eerie.

He tucked the little metal box under one arm and left the mirror behind. They may have worn different expressions, but their blood and their history—their purpose—was the same. Dante would see that, when they defeated Mundus and took back the world that should have been theirs all along. He’d be a fool not to.

***

Kat is in no state to do anything. Dante’s words echoed in her mind. But she’d been through worse. The real blow had been hearing the two of them argue; it wasn’t like Vergil to get so heated over someone else’s opinion, and Dante… He still didn’t quite understand the stakes. He hadn’t been living and breathing this resistance the way she and Vergil had, he couldn’t have known all they’d sacrificed to get here. And yet, his worry was for all the people Mundus had hurt in his outburst, for the collateral damage their plan had wrought. For her safety. It was hard to fault him for that. She knew Vergil was right, that killing two birds with one stone had been the best move. But she hadn’t been so out of it that she’d missed Dante taking bullets to protect her out there on the pier, when she was too woozy and weak from pain to protect herself.

Vergil emerging from the bathroom interrupted her train of thought. He looked the same as ever: focused, confident, poised. But she’d heard him raise his voice not five minutes ago, defending himself against criticism. Since when did Vergil give a shit about criticism? “He’s just worried,” she said quietly.

“He shouldn’t be.” Vergil flipped open the kit and got to work, tilting her chin up with a finger to study the cuts and bruises on her face with those ice-blue eyes. “We finally have the upper hand. Mundus is done.”

That’s not what I meant. She tried not to flinch when he started disinfecting the places where her wounds had split the skin. His touch wasn’t rough, but she wouldn’t call it gentle either, and there was something strange in the way wearing gloves in what otherwise might have seemed like a moment of closeness, of kindness, distanced him from her. Had he changed, since they’d found his brother? Dante seemed to bring out a side of Vergil she’d never seen before. More prone to taking risks, and less present whenever his twin was elsewhere. “We’re really here, on the cusp of winning, just like we always planned,” she said. What would he do, she wondered, once it was all over? “Seems like it’s been a long time, doesn’t it?”

“It has been. A very long time.” He lifted her left arm experimentally, and she sucked in a breath through her teeth, wincing. …yeah, that was broken, all right. But a broken arm was a small price to pay for freedom. She would do her part until the job was done, pain be damned. Until humanity was free. “You and Dante seem to be getting along well,” he commented, watching her while he rummaged through the kit for something to use as a makeshift sling.

“I trust him.” She hadn’t meant for the words to come out so simply, so baldly, but she realized in that moment that it really was that simple. She hadn’t had anyone to trust except for Vergil and her other friends in the Order for so long. And before that, hardly anyone at all. She certainly hadn’t told anyone but Vergil about…the nightmares, or how she’d survived them, before she and Dante had opened up to each other in the car.

“Is that all?” Vergil leaned closer to slip the bit of cloth under her arm. With his face so close, she could see herself reflected in the pale blue of his eyes. Battered, exhausted, but determined to see this through. His tone was businesslike, but why was he asking in the first place? Did he think she would get distracted by his brother’s ridiculous flirting?

“No, that’s not all.” She fixed him with a chiding glare. “I trust you, too. And you can both trust me to have your backs.”

The corners of his lips turned up with the hint of a smile, before he stepped around the couch to fasten the two ends of the cloth together behind her neck, forming a sling. She felt the latex of his gloves brush the back of her neck as he loomed over her from behind. It seemed oddly cold. “Yes, you’ve done well,” he said.

Don’t worry, Vergil. I won’t let you down. She slid her feet off the couch and stood, steadying herself on its dingy leather arm for just a moment before carefully making her way over to sit in front of the chalkboard leaning up against a few crates. “Go get Dante. I’ll show you how you can get to Mundus.”

***

Red. Red filled his vision, filled his world. His heartbeat was loud and erratic in his ears, and his own face snarled down at him as his strength left him, pain and numbness fighting for supremacy over his body. But it wasn’t his own face, not really. It was his twin’s. Did Dante really hate him this much? Enough to kill him? Hadn’t they walked through fire together to get here? Hadn’t they saved each other’s lives? Hadn’t he given back everything his brother had lost? Where had it all gone wrong?

The chill of betrayal speared through him more brutally than Rebellion did in that moment. His blood seeped into the ground where he lay—his blood, the blood of Sparda, blood they shared. Did that mean nothing to Dante?

He thought someone spoke, but he couldn’t hear the words. Then, with a sickening lurch, Dante pulled the blade free, leaving him gasping for breath as his power kicked in sluggishly to start closing the gaping, bleeding hole in his chest.

…and then Dante had the nerve, the gall, to offer him a hand up. As though this were a wound he could heal with such a meager olive branch. As though it could ever heal at all. But he took the hand, more because he needed it than anything—and that hurt, too, that need. He’d lost. Again, like he always lost to Dante. In front of Kat, no less.

No, there was no way to repair the real damage Dante had done to his heart today. His flesh might heal, but his soul never would.

#dmcgenweek #dmc #devil may cry #devilmaycry #vergil #dante #kat