#(and i know it's probably not cannon but i just like drawing sun looking absolutely dead and eclipse just LIVID) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bensolosbluesaber · 2 years

Text

The Co-Worker Rule (Steven Grant, Marc Spector, and Jake Lockley x Reader)

Summary: With the Avengers’ ranks depleted in the aftermath of the blip, your team needs heroes. Your mission is to recruit the Moon Knight. What you didn’t expect was to fall for him.

Fluff, Adventure

Pairings: Mainly Steven Grant x reader, Marc Spector x reader, Jake Lockley x reader

Warnings: I did my best to accurately represent DID but please tell me if there are errors, canon typical violence, some blood, broken bones, super-powered reader, not really edited yet, I cannot write a fic where I don’t talk about Oscar’s nose and hair

A/N: Based on this request: I absolutely LOVED secret identities!!! Do you think you can do another avengers!xreader and marc/Steven/jake story!! Mange the reader is sent to recruit moonknight and then end up falling for each other?

This is not the Secret Identities sequel (my other Avengers!reader fic). The sequel is coming soon!

---

Marc Spector. Steven Grant. Jake Lockley. Three men, two superheroes, one body, and exactly who the Avengers needed. Well, to be fair the Avengers needed anyone with superpowers.

That’s how you found yourself in London watching Steven Grant sit on a park bench, eat a sandwich, and stare into the sunset. The crowds were gone by the time dusk fell, and it was just you and Steven. You wouldn’t risk civilian casualties if he turned out to be a lose cannon, so you’d waited.

You approached carefully and sat on the bench beside Steven who stared silently into the distance. He’s really very handsome with his curly hair and dark eyes, and the silhouette of his nose and jaw in the setting sun has you swallowing hard. Without so much as a glance, he holds out a foil wrapped panini from the stand he stopped at earlier, offering it to you like you were an old friend.

“Probably cold now,” he finally says in a thick British accent. “Saw you following me when I left work. Thought you might be hungry too. S’not poisoned or nothing’.”

“What do you mean it’s not poisoned?” Jake hisses. “I told you to drug them.”

“Jake, we don’t have access to anything to drug someone,” Marc is confused. “Do we?”

You can’t help but smile a little bit at Steven Grant and take the food he’s offering. You are hungry, and though the hours old food would sit badly in a normal human’s stomach, you’re unconcerned. And if it’s poisoned, well, poison didn’t really work on you.

“So what do you want then?” Steven finally looks at you.

You have a mouthful of food, and all you can do is freeze as the full weight of Steven Grant’s gaze settles on you.

“Ever heard of the Avengers?” you opt to cut right to the chase.

“What? Are we stupid?” Marc hisses.

“Hasn’t everyone?” Steven filters Marc’s snide remark.

“I’m an Avenger.”

“Bullshit. Give me the body!”

“We know about,” you debate the best way to sound non-threatening and end up gesturing vaguely to his whole body. “you and are interested-”

The man hears nothing else that you say, just Jake’s voice.

“Steven, give me the body,” his alter says with deadly calm.

Steven doesn’t, just keeps staring at you. Sadness fills his deep brown eyes.

“Don’t try to take me in,” he mutters. “It won’t end well for you.”

“No, no,” you put a hand on his knee. “I’m not here to arrest you or anything like that.”

Steven glances down at your hand, and you draw it back quickly, apologetically.

“We want to recruit you for the initiative,” you explain, rubbing your hands together as you talk. “After Cairo, Moon Knight is a bit of a hero amongst us Avengers.”

Steven looks at you with slightly parted lips. The sun catches in his dark curls, and as you’re staring at him thinking that he is one of the most beautiful human beings you’ve ever seen he’s staring back thinking the same thing.

“Keep it together, buddy,” Marc says. “I don’t disagree with you, but-”

“This is dangerous. Someone knows about us! Mierda! Do the Avengers know about all of us?”

You look him up and down. God, you want to touch those curls. Stop. Focus. You have got to focus. You cross your arms, leaning forward onto your knees and pulling your gaze away from Steven to look into the distance.

“After the blip, the battle, we lost so much. The team scattered, but our enemies didn’t. I’m not asking you to live in a tower or at the new compound. We just need heroes willing to defend those who can’t defend themselves,” you let the sadness tinge your voice, sadness for your lost team. “Heroes who will answer the call when it’s time.”

“I’m not a hero.”

The accent is gone. You glance over at Marc Spector, his brows furrowed deeply as he studies you. He thinks he believes you, even though Jake is still suspicious. It’s the tragic honesty of your plea that makes him comfortable enough to front. And it’s the perfect opportunity to see just how much you know.

“Nice to meet you, Marc.”

“Looks like the answer is everything,” Jake hisses. “Everything!”

Reluctantly, Marc allows Jake to front. You can tell instantly by how his mouth sets in a tight line that you’re looking at the third alter. Jake clearly sees you as a threat. All you know from the file is that he is “the most violent of the three,” which is an assessment you think is unfair. It seemed to you that Jake only fronted when the system was in real danger, only took lives when absolutely necessary, did anything to protect Marc and Steven. You admired him for it, respected him.

But if he saw you as a threat, then you were in trouble. Shit.

You jump to your feet, taking a defensive stance as Jake stands too, looking at you with a slightly tilted head and menacing eyes.

“You want us to be an Avenger?” He growls. “What if I don’t believe you?”

He steps closer, closer.

“Jake, I think she’s telling the truth,” Steven interrupts.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he says aloud then lunges for you.

You side step him, raising your hands and blocking his punch easily. He spins and kicks. You slide back to avoid it, totally on the defensive, not having any desire to really fight Jake. That is, until he finds your ribs with a hard kick. Something cracks. Instinct takes over then. You kick him right in the chest, sending Jake staggering backward.

“Not bad,” he grins like this is some sort of game.

You glance around, making sure the park is still empty. You don’t want the cops called on an Avenger fighting a vigilante. There’s no one. You leap at Jake, tossing punch after punch that he blocks easily. Just as you intended. He’s distracted and doesn’t notice you step in to sweep out his leg, knocking him flat on his butt.

He kicks your ankle hard, and you fall forward to your knees. By the time you realize what’s happening, he’s back on his feet in a low crouch. You use your momentum to roll forward, back on your feet in an instant only inches from Jake. He strikes forward; you catch his arm, locking out his wrist and elbow and spinning him around. You raise a knee to strike his face, and he grabs your thigh.

Add some degree of super strength to Moon Knight’s list of powers. He hooks an arm under your leg and flips you onto your back, shaking your grip free as the air whooshes from your lungs. Pain shoots through your side. Jake’s body collapses heavily on yours, pinning you beneath him. He straddles your waist, leaning forward over you.

You bring an elbow across his face and blood sprays from his nose.

“Alright, I’m definitely buying the Avengers thing,” Marc says.

Jake wasn’t quite convinced. He draws back a hand and you jerk your head to the side to avoid the punch. He hits the ground instead. You use his shifted weight to get your legs around his waist, and flip him to the side so you’re on top with him pinned beneath you.

“That was hot.”

“Steven, you are just one giant intrusive thought right now,” Jake replies silently as he stares up you.

For a moment, you think you’ve reached a truce and relax your body ever so slightly. That’s exactly what Jake wanted. He reaches for your neck. You bat his hand away. He tries again. You block again, and he grabs your wrist instead, yanking you closer so he can wrap his strong arms around your back and flip you back over.

“That was hot,” it’s Marc’s turn to admire you.

A flash of gold then a cold blade is pressed to your neck, pricking the skin.

“Easy, Jake,” Steven warns.

Blood from Jake’s face drips across yours as he glowers down at you.

Power flares in your hands, but you will it back to sleep. He’s not really going to hurt you. He was pulling his punches. This is a test, some sort of strange initiation to see if you’re trustworthy enough for Jake Lockley. You meet his gaze with a measured look of complete calm. He tilts his head.

“Hmm, te creo,” he sheathes the crescent shaped blade. “I believe you.”

He sits back and offers you a hand, pulling you to your feet. You feel the tiny mark on your neck that’s bleeding a surprising amount. Jake touches his nose tenderly. It’s definitely broken. And so are your ribs you realize as you struggle to take a deep breath.

“Here,” you reach for him first, letting your powers flow through you as you trace his busted nose with a feather light touch.

When his nose snaps back into place, he doesn’t so much as flinch. But he is staring at you with raised eyebrows. You run a hand over your neck, healing the tiny cut, then press your palm to your side. It hurts like it always does as your bones click back together.

“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath, trying and failing to bite back a pained moan.

“Now that was hot,” Jake says silently

“Imagine hearing that sound because of us,” Marc adds, the image of you squirming underneath them flashing through their minds courtesy of Marc.

“We are hearing that sound because of us,” Steven snaps. “Someone - Jake - broke their ribs!”

“Lay off Steven. I was assessing a threat.”

“Whatever you say, mate. Threat assessed.”

“So the Avengers?” Marc asks, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.

“I take it I passed,” You remark wryly, not even blinking at the appearance of Marc.

It was the weirdest recruiting mission you had ever been on, but if beating the shit out of each other for a few minutes convinced Jake, Steven, and Marc that you were genuine, then that’s what you’d do.

Marc stepped close to you and raised his hand to your face, touching the spattering of blood there. His face changes, softens. Steven’s palm flattens over your cheek, and without realizing it you lean into the warmth.

“My flat’s a few blocks away,” he offers. “You can clean up there, talk to all of us about the Avengers.”

His eyes are wide as his gaze roves your face, a little smile quirking his lips up. You’re equally as enraptured by him, by all of them really.

“Oh, he’s got it bad,” Jake remarks.

In the end, Steven walks you back to his flat, listening to you talk about the new Avengers Initiative all the while. Marc and Jake jump into the conversation here and there, and in the fifteen minutes it takes to reach Steven’s door, your mission is complete. Moon Knight is an Avenger.

You could go. Right then, you could turn around, wish Steven - and Marc and Jake - the best, tell them you’ll see them later, and go back to the compound. You should go, but there is something magnetic about the three men that makes you follow Steven Grant into his flat.

He sits you on the edge of his bed and cleans the blood from your face with a damp cloth, kneeling between your legs the whole time in a way that makes you feel… things. Damn it. When you were recruited to the team, you made a personal rule that a romance, however brief, would never be an option with a fellow Avenger. Steven is by all rights an Avenger now. The co-workers rule had always kept you out of trouble before. So yes you could admire how handsome this man was, but no, there could be no romance, no sex, nothing.

When your face and neck are clean, Steven absentmindedly puts a hand on your thigh, high on your thigh, and sits back on his knees. There is fire where he’s touching you. Damn it, you curse to yourself. Remember the rule.

Trying to distract yourself, you take the cloth from him and dab at his face that is still bloody from the broken nose. It forces you to lean closer as you hold his head still with one hand and wipe blood away with the other. His face is soft with just a hint of afternoon stubble on his cheek and jaw. This was not a good choice for a distraction.

He’s looking up at you with those big dark eyes, and when he makes eye contact, he hold you still with just his gaze.

“Come on, Steven!” Marc cheers him on.

Steven doesn’t think. He takes your face between his hands and kisses you like a dying man taking his last breath. He leans you back, pressing you flat to the bed and moving to hover over you, kissing you all the while.

“I-is this alright?” Steven asks, pulling back so your noses are barely brushing.

No. It’s breaking the rule. That’s what you should say. But your hands are pressed to the smooth muscles of his chest, moving almost of their own accord to feel him through his shirt.

“Yes,” you decide right then to take a leap of faith.

The smile that lights up Steven’s face is contagious. You would break every rule in the world just to see him smile. You’re grinning back at him as he shifts his body atop yours. Fighting Jake had been - dare you say it - fun, but this was better. Steven is warm and gentle in all the right ways, and you think that if you ever get the chance you’d find that Marc and Jake would be rough in all the right ways. But for now, this is enough. More than enough.

Steven’s hands roam your face like he’s trying to memorize every bit of it. You’re raising goosebumps along his side as you slip your hands under the soft fabric of his shirt.

And just as you are about to tear this beautiful man’s clothes off, your phone vibrates loudly in your pocket. The moment is broken. You fumble for the device, brushing the back of your hand awkwardly across Steven’s… oh shit. He huffs softly.

“Sorry,” you mutter, feeling how hard he is with that quick touch.

He moves his eyes up, averting his gaze from you with a slightly embarrassed half-grin, half-grimace.

“Hello,” you answer, calming your breathing.

You’re still laying under Steven who is braced on his elbows with hands hovering awkwardly around your head.

“Any updates?”

Why did it have to be Sam Wilson calling you right now? It felt like your older brother had just walked in on you having sex. It wasn’t sex… yet, and Sam wasn’t your older brother… biologically, but that might has well have been the situation.

“Yeah, it uh… went well. He’s on board.”

You glance at Steven who is watching you curiously, actively running a hand through your hair now.

“Good. So we’ll see you back here early morning then?” Sam asks.

“I um… I missed my flight,” that is technically true.

“Missed flight?” You hear Bucky shout and pull the phone from your ear as his voice gets louder. “They’re fucking. I knew it! I saw those pictures of him, and I knew this was the end of your stupid co-worker rule!”

“We’re not-” you start, then stop; lying to Bucky and Sam has never been your best skill. “We-”

Marc grabs the phone from your hand; you don’t know when the change occurred. He could definitely hear Bucky’s yelling.

“We’re trying to,” he speaks into the phone.

You can hear Bucky’s happy shouting on the other line, Sam trying to calm him down. Then Marc hangs up and tosses your phone aside.

“Now where were we?” Marc’s voice shifts to Steven’s British accent mid-sentence.

You bury your fingers in his soft curly hair, dragging Steven’s face down to yours and pressing your lips to his soft ones. You’d followed your co-worker rule for years, but not anymore. Steven moans quietly, a deep throaty sound that shoots heat through your body.

It was like Stark had always said, rules are made to be broken.

Tag List: @love-on-the-murder-scene @bookfrog242 (Let me know if you want added to my Moon Knight list or if I missed you. I’m really bad at maintaining these.)

My Master List

2K notes · View notes

lioa7 · 5 months

Note

Oh? :D why ARE they here? gimme the explanation *takes out notebook* I'm Listening =] (AND AGGGGHHH I LOVE SERAPHIM! Their story is so interesting and I honestly wanted to see what they were gonna do after they were in the coding area with Gaster)

OH YEAHHHHH

HELL YEAHHHH

EAAAAAbhdhjkdjbk/vdsjbk/cascbjkbjkdv s/

BE aware CUZ THIS might… MIGHT… be a little long…

You asked 4 this, so I’m free of charge. And I tend to lose track of theeee uhhh… words when there is a lot of text…. so I’m going to TRY to keep it understandable... :D

Ok so FIRST!

(these are in no order, just how uh I’m writing about them) THE OG (UNDERTALE) [kinda also no]

SO I’m not going to go on about how great the game that Toby fox made is, because we all know it is! And I feel a bit nervous to try and explain what we all already know, plus I’m not too good with words or meanings… and I’m not sure I’d be able to write just how much I love this silly game.

Uhh… BUT BUT!!!

But I also LOVE LOVE!!!! The stuff people do with the “after” game. What I mean by that is those silly comics or artwork of life on the surface, like I feel like it can be taken to so many places!!! Like character studies or just a mundane routine that they adopt when they move.

AS ASSSS!!!! Like what do the characters think of the new change of scenery? What jobs do they get? DO they struggle with the change? Are people rude to them? Do they still carry a burden??? DO THEY GET PAST THEIR TRAUMA???? Or does it become worse? Do they ever get a happy ending? Are we seeing their journey to getting used to all of it? WHAT THE ABSOLUTE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK IS FLOWEY GOING TO DO?????? SO MANY POSSIBILITIEEES!!!!! One that I loved a few years back was Growth Spurt by potoo brigham (on Tumblr), where we follow Asriel trough what can be best described as an awkward phase. (tho I haven’t read it in a while)

Or other can be Unexpected guests by undertalethingems (on Tumblr), that APPART FROM THE MAIN STORYLINE BEING THAT THE GASTER BLASTERS NOW GOT A FULL BLOWN BODY it also explores some of the topics I put at the beginning… (mind you, I haven’t read it in a long time so I’m sorry) (I realized I’m kinda bad at keeping up with comics I like… L)

And I also talked about the art, in general Undertale fanart is just SO beautiful to look at, and that (unsurprisingly) also happens when people draw the monster in the surface, like I dunno… Toriel and Frisk taking a train home when the sun is setting and that stuff…

In general, I just love the ideas it can bring to the table, and how artists can like grab a piece of cannon (or fanon I dunno) and mold it to a story they want to tell with character that they love.

OK NEXT

The edge (Underfell)

Kinda short (doesn’t mean I don’t like it, it’s just more simple!)

I loved Underfell when I first came into contact with the fandom, it became my fave au of ALL time (probably because it was… well…edgy lol), and I loved pretty much everything it had to do with the au, if you had a thumbnail on Youtube with Underfell little me would have clicked that mf within the millisecond.

But of course, it was all mostly fanon, as I don’t really think in the 2016 or 2017 canon was too popular?

AT least not on Youtube…

little story.

I had a phase going on when I was… I dunno, 15? 16 maybe? That I thought everything Undertale related was cringe (As you can see that was just a phase), and I was repelled by it, not sure why but it was what it was.

But many months after (I don’t really remember the specifics) I came back to the fandom, because the 4 u page just kept showing me Undertale and I decided to watch a few videos for the sake of nostalgia… then few months later I created my personal tumblr to see sOME of the art… then I followed a few people… then twitter… and before I knew it I had already jumped into the UNDERTALE bandwagon again.

But one of the AUs that made me stay for sure was Underfell (shocking I know), because I had found Fella/Vic’s (twitter and tumblr) posts and drawings, and I loved all of it. The canon is just so fun to find out about, I love to just scroll down and just read the comics or the pictures.

I really love the characters, just the little differences with the OG cast makes them super COOL.

VERY COOL!!!

I really love sans! He’s actually very very ummm…. He’s unflusterable.

Like, how many pf you knew that Fell sans does own a spike collar, but it’s FOR the pet rock, and how when papyrus found it assumes it was sans’ and was confused but ready to support sans in whatever weird shit he was into.

Like I LOVE THAT… Or or or how papyrus HATES Asgore with all his might, but stands him BECUASE of Undyne.

I gained a full appreciation for canon stuff since then. (fanon is ok!)

Plus, the fact that the au even exist is because someone asked Vic to draw “evil Toriel” just makes it better.

(PLUS PLUS have you seen the designs????? oR THE ALT OUTFITS!! THE ART!!??! They are AH! Just… just… cheff’s kiss) THIRDah

WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE FUCK (Horrortale + a little story)

Funny thing, I’m not a fan of any type of horror, ironic yeah?

But surprisingly enough, I enjoy Horrortale enough that I can just go about it with ALMOST no problems. The art is beautifully horrifying in the best ways, Sour Apple studious’ art style does everything right at the time of conveying just how horrifying Aliza’s journey is, like I remember that one animation they posted like a few years back where It’s just an animated screenshot of one of the pages from the comic. BUT MAN did I get scared. In general I think Horrortale conveys everything so well, from the sheer horror that the general story and topics bring, or maybe even the corruption of our favorite characters.

Like we have The Queen Undyne, she went from the hero of the story to a dictator who got corrupted because of gigantic amounts of pressure. Like the KING died, the Queen is nowhere to be seen, the human massacred a lot of monsters (the same human that Undyne considered a friend even), and all hope that the 6 human souls brought is gone, and to make matter worse the CORE has stopped working.

It’s a terrifying experience to go through, I don’t think I would have been able to handle that trauma. And the worst thing is, that Undyne being able to live through that trauma is what made her the person that she became in the present Horrortale.

Like you would NEVER see Undyne threaten to kill someone for a candy, of course it’s limited food down in the underground, but the Undertale Undyne would have done her best to help others.

Or Papyrus, who is pretty much the only monster who still holds a semblance of a moral, but that doesn’t mean he’s naïve in the context of Horrortale. Papyrus was tricked (in a way) to eat humans, for bad and good intentions. And that messes someone up, because I don’t think he doesn’t know.

And It’s not just that, every character that we see is just twisted in horrible ways that the situation has pushed them trough.

Horrortale takes a few years after Undertale, Aliza comes like 7 years after (8 now?) the player came and left everything to rot, and consider that monsters have been feeding of the little flesh that they can get, even the snow has become uneatable. Children are dying, magic is just not what it used to be (for fucks sake Grillby is the BEST fucking example of the undergrounds’ situation).

Now you might wonder that even after all that, why do I like Horrortale so much?… When I was a little lad (if I wanted berries and cream, mummy made me do the little lad dance), I was a FNAF fan, and one day I was watching “FNAF FUNNY AND CUTE” video (I distinctly remember one where the animatronics where in a sort of band that was playing a silly tune and the other was that the animatronics jumping into a box, and the foxy one couldn’t get through the box because it was metal) and I was enjoying myself.

Then in a moment of distraction Youtube auto played into another video, not FNAF tho, Undertale. And I DISTICTLY remember it (my memory is very weird, I don’t remember almost nothing but THAT I almost have a photographic memory of), it was a fan made video of the AU Horrortale. It was a fan’s interpretation of what could have happened to sans’ head, how did the situation play. And I believe it was before Sour apple studios released the “past arc” and we knew how exactly did Undyne break sans’ head.

I have researched a bit and it seems it’s called “Horrortale the law” I don’t remember the exact video, but I’m pretty sure it was a dub in my language… I think it was like 7 years ago?

Shortly after, I got into the fandom.

In any case, I was left pretty confused, as I didn’t know who the characters where or anything, but it’s left a bit mark on me. And that’s why my appreciation to Horrortale will always remain strong… even if I can’t really stand horror stories…

Angst, angst for everyone (Gztale) [the point where I can’t put my feelings into words]

Gztale, ah yes, little me’s roman empire. I kid you not, I CONSTANTLY thought of Gztale, I was OBSESSED with it. And sometimes I still do.

Gztale, tarts with our favorite non-cannon buddy, GASTAH. With our favorite non- cannon theory, DADSTAH. He takes some Determination from the already fallen human souls (I believe they were two at the beginning) and make some pills. And like ANY GOOD SCIENTIST he tests them on his kin. He’s like “take these son, they’ll make you STRONK, like vitamin… but with human essence in them… BUT THAT JUST MEANS IT’LL BE STRONGER!!!

NO DON’T CRY!!! TO SHOW YOU THEY WORK!!!

I YOUR FATHER, A GROWN ASS MAN, WILL FIGHT YOU (my who knows how old son… maybe 12?) TO SHOW YOU THEY REALLY WORK AND THAT I’M NOT BEING ABUSIVE!!!!”

Fatherly love y’know?

The comic mAINLY focuses on Sans going through, y’know… the usual stuff you feel after your dad experimented on you and physically abused you to see if his experiment worked.

PLUS!!! (I don’t think I saw this anywhere, so take it with a pinch of salt) I believe Gaster also gave pap some of those pills too? AND PAPYRUS WENT TROUGH AN ACCIDENT AND EVERYTHING JUST…. BWAAAAAA!!!!!!!

AND EVERYTHING went TO THE DEEPEST SHIT.

CUZ PAP’S IS ALREADY COOL AS FUCK, GIVE HIM DT!! AND HE’S COOLER!!!

And If you ARE FAMILIAR with Gztale, or at least saw some pics, you know that Papyrus is…kind of an antagonistic force!!! WHYYY?? People ask in the back. WELL You go and find the comic NOW, It’s very VERY COOL.

Ok so now, I will admit, I never got to finish the comic for reasons I forgot, but I’m sure one could have been that the guy who was dubbing the chapters stopped for who know what and the second could be because my brain was SRTUGGLING to grasp the plot accordingly.

But of course, I re-read the entire thing just now to do this because my 12 to 13-year-old self’s’ mind is not the best example of a sharp memory, and I tell you I would have loved it SO MUCH.

LIKE… SO MUCH!!! In any case I always loved the…. uhm… essence? I couldn’t really say, just every time I see Gztale I just… :D, y’know?

And I really REALLY wish I could explain why, like I did with the others, but it’s such a raw emotion that I can’t possibly put it into words… Or maybe better? I dunno.

In any case, the creator golzybladedee (tiktok, twitter and Instagram) deleted the comic because they created Gztale in a not to happy time of their life and it brought them distress… BUT NOW if you go to twitter you’ll see that golzyblade has handed over the “ownership” of the AU to Nixensibrat (twitter), so we MIGHT see some uhhh Gztale in the future…

YEA!!!

YEHI!!!! WOOO

YIPEEE

KILLER QUEEN!!! (killer! Sans) So this one’s a little obvious, cuz we all love Killer sans. HE’S SUCH a VERSITILE CHARACTER, like I’ve seen comics back to back, where in one killer is a little shit who’s going to do the thing he was SPECIFICALLY told NOT to do, and the other is JUST PAIN, PAIN COATED IN LAYERS OF PAIN.

And I love him for it. Like, he has so much potential in every spectrum!!!! I personally enjoy when people make him sympathetic. Like yes, he kills people, but not necessarily because he wants to kill people. Does he have a bloodthirst? Yes. Is he interested in giving into the bloodthirst? Not necessarily! like, Killer sans usually kills because Nightmare orders him to do so, if Nightmare hadn’t found him killer would probably stay in his AU rotting away. PLUS, if Dream had been the one to find Killer first, Killer would be as loyal to him as he is with Nightmare!

Killer is so out of it, that the moment a gooey version of him appeared and was like “Be my servant, the pay will be torture” he was like “sir I will now be by your side for no reason at all”. Witch also gives him a bit of (forgot the word I was thinking of, it’s like… SAD). Like ALL OF HIM could be better, HE COULD HAVE A BETTER OUTCOME!!! LIKE HE COULD HAVE ALREADY CAME BACK TO HIS AU????

Like it’s crazy to think about what happened to him, if it weren’t for Nightmare he would probably be in a better state now, probably not being in stage 0 (just sans) But like, better mentally at least. Like Core could have taken him to the OT, and he would have a better time there than alone rotting somewhere in an empty space, where his only company are the usual hallucinations and the NOT so usual people. also, his AU is still there, like it’s a sans-less AU, because once le left the world was left without its greatest source of DT, so naturally the next biggest DT person would have been Flowey. I believe that SOMEHERE in rahafwabas (tumblr) there is something explaining that. And that Flowey reset the world and that everything’s normal again, except Papyrus is looking for his missing brother.

In general Killer (with everything, including stages and all) IS SUPER INTRESTING. Like I could stay here writing how much I love each stage and all BUT… But…

I’m struggliN as it is with 11 faves.

…

Ok maybe a bit… In any case we all know the second stage, the “I’m sponsored by target” stage, it’s the most common, mainly because Nightmare keeps him in that stage as it is the most manageable while also being the most servant.

Like we’ve seen Nightmare change Killer from stage 1 (the target in heart form) to stage two, BeCAUSE that is the one he likes the most. Even then, stage two isn’t entirely serviceable (is that the word??? Like uh… he takes orders?), sometimes we can see that stage 2 has a little white pupil, that is a sign of “the sans we know”. Stage 1 Is (as I said) the target in shape of a heart (Dunno how to explain better),that is the most chill stage, like is ALMOST sans, but it’s also the more prone to hallucinating stuff. Stage 3 is KILLER GO APE SHIT (which is still great potential for angst, like Killer doesn’t remember when he goes ape shit, and even then, he is pretty tired after that and immediately goes back to two. And he can only tell he went ape shit because of the surroundings, it’s like he wakes up, sees mess and is like “aw shit”) Stage 4 we’ve never seen, but it’s probably APE SHIT multiplied by (imagine funny number). And I love them for that… BEFORE I pass onto the next(s) one(s)… A little smth smth… that liquid is his eye melting. Like you know the amalgamates right? Kinda like that.

NEZT

I messed up my painting (Error! Sans………… and Ink! Sans) [we talk a little about ships… JUST… a wee bit] Ok I’m putting these together… it will make sense in a bit… OK SO WHO ELSE SEARCHED FOR INK OR ERROR SANS AND GOT ERRORINK??? OR… LITTERALY ANY AU AND GOT (you guessed it) ERRORINK???? Well, it MIGHT not be a universal experience, but it was for me I suppose. SO for the longest time, I just assumed Error and Ink were just… Errorink (wow I deserve a noble price for that AWESOME WRITING).

In any case… Uh I never really cared for that ship, I mean people can do pretty cool stuff. But still, it was JUST there. But if you remember from the Underfell thingy, I found my appreciation for cannon stories. And this WORKS SO WELL WITH THESE TWO ESPECIFICALLY!!! Like I FUCKING WATCHED A 3 HOUR LONG VIDEO ON GENO’S AND ERROR’S uhm.. lives? Deaths? UHHH JUST PASTS???!!! And I love it so much, you should check it out… If… if you know spaniSH.

Español y esas cosas, con la ñ y todo eso.

[Todo detras de Error Sans y Geno Sans (+teoria) by Mat002] Now we complicate ourselves a bit

we now talk about Error: Error sans, much like Killer, Is SUCH a complex character. And he’s kinda doing it my accident??? As CrayonQueen (twitter and Tumblr) has said, Error is a mess, he’s a big man baby! As his name suggests he’s an error (wow), and everyone who has had an error on their computer will know that those fuckers are everything but easy. AAAND that’s what you need to understand Error, he’s unpredictable. In any given situation he’ll act completely different depending on… who knows what??? People usually portray him as this grumpy old man, which it’s not bad! But he’s more of a Grumpy baby, who is mad because you peeled his banana and HE WANTED IT WITH THE SKIN!!! AND IT WAS THE LAST FUCKING BANANA!!!!

SO NOW HIS DAY IS RUINED!!!! AND YOU DID THIS BECAUSE YOU HATE HIMMMM!!!! AAAAAGHAHGSCAHJCDGJVVDJVDB<VDOIP!!!!!!!!! Y’know?

And I love him for that. Like he’s a cutesy guy sometimes, and sometimes he’s an ass. …manbaby.

Plus, the whole Geno backstory just makes Error’s more (AGAIN THE WORD I FORGOR!!!! But it’s kinda like miserable??? Like LIKE um YOU GET ME???). Because CQ told us that Aftertale had 3 possible endings, Miserable, Bittersweet, Good. We can assume that the one we got in Aftertale was the happy one…

So that makes Error the miserable one, the worst ending.

And you know it’s just sad… Error is just the result of someone’s worst ending.

DW tho! Some Geno out there still got their happy ending!

And of course we also have Fatal! Error who IS A WHOLE ‘NOTHER THING!!!!

You from the future messed with a you from the past and made an even worse you, kind of scenario.

Now INK:

Ink is a little straight forward, but also no.

Like Ink is all about Creating, but not necessarily in parallel to Error, while also sorta yes. Ink’s backstory goes like this.

He’s from an AU that was never finished, the creator gave up on it. The only one who got any semblance of emotions was (ironically) Ink sans, but of course, he couldn’t bear to be alone. So he erased himself, it provided a HUGE problem for him, as he was emotionless, he had nothing to live for. But the creations, the creators, all of that was what gave him meaning. And this rings incredibly close to me…

I have it since I was probably 14 or so.

I have an AU… not the silly post-it sans OC with a cool bro OC. I have an AU that was based of of a LOT of stuff in you might see in this long ass post, it started as a sans solo AU (because of course it was), and It evolved with me as I also grew up.

I’ve been working on and off of it for years.

And you might not see it honestly, because I feel so wrong about it, like the story is just bits and pieces I saw in bed just before sleeping. I barely tied those together. And the designs are… WELL… designing clothes is pretty hard.

And I almost gave up on it…

But I really want to continue, I want to y’know…? And um… Ink’s story kind of put that into perspective for me… …

ANYWAYS! UM… it got gloomy… IN ANY CASE! Ink’s story hits very close to home for me, as I explained a few moments before. But also, I just feel it makes sense for a character like him, I mean… He LIVES for the creations, and not only because he “protects them” and more like… All we (as creators) do is what keeps him alive. Like Ink’s immortal right? Well kinda, he’s almost immortal. The moment the creations stop the paints that give him a perspective into life will also vanish. He might not die entirely, but he’ll just be an empty shell, alone in a white space. So It kinda rings hard for me that he’s literally feeding from our stuff, he’s here because of u and me. And well… APART from that he’s also just an interesting character. Ink is a shell that he himself fills with temporary feelings, this kinda makes him a bit dense in some situations and might act a little out of place. BUT he doesn’t mean wrong!!! I have seen a lot of like “evil” ink, and I feel that the idea can be interesting, but also, I think that a lot of people read “NEUTRAL ink” and assume that must mean he’s just a little mean?

Maybe unintentionally so, usually it’s portrayed as a thing that’s out of his control but that he’s also not bothered by it and does nothing to change. And I don’t really think he would act like that? Ink is a little forgetful, but he does write stuff to try and remember! Ink struggles to understand situations, but he is trying (I think)!

He likes to play pranks but I don’t think he intends them to be mean! And he’s just a cool character… Plus he’s as much of a fan of AU’s as we are. (in a way, kinda)

And all that good stuff.

And I feel like comyet (tumblr) really did make a memorable silly.

… thanks for making him…

…

UMMM NEXT IS AAAAA mirror (Anx! sans) [be aware… this gets a BIT personal]

So this one’s not too much like the others, I mean… I dunno… you get me.

SO this one might be shorter, cuz it goes into me a bit?

Ok…

So in 2022 (I THINK), I was ready for life! Until I wasn’t. so… y’know I went to get help!

I have severe social anxiety.

Yeih.

And it’s stopped me from doing a lot of stuff…

And it wasn’t too peppy. Until I found THIS GUY!!!! I was scrolling through Tumblr and I found hheisa’s account here, and would you look at that… they have a Sans (my personal favorite thing [kinda] since I was a child) with what I have! (kinda, almost!) So he helped me a lot! In a way, this might be cheesy, but I felt pretty alone but… then he’s there and I felt that maybe I wasn’t. and you know, that’s about it.

Hheisa hasn’t posted much of him, but I still love whenever he pops out in my FYP.

Um that’s it.

OH and because of a comic I found out that sucking on ice is pretty good for uh, not good times.

Hheisa I hope you never see this, cuz it’s embarrassing as FUCK. But thank you… your silly helped me get through some stuff.

…. AND NOW

A BIT OF A PROBLEM (bitty au) [self-indulgence] So if you’ve been a long time in the fandom you’ve probably seen at least ONE SOMETHING with bitties!!! It is very self-indulgent too, but it doesn’t need to be. Like m pretty sure some of you know Poetax right?

They have a string of comics about UT, UF and US sans’ and papyrus’ with their respective bitties, and as weird as it is to have a miniature version of yourself on your shoulder, they make it work yaknow??? Fucken-Crybaby left the Au for reasons I’m unaware of, but left it open for people to still use the bitties.

ok so! In any case! Bitty bones AU (or I don’t know the official name) is an AU where your favorite characters are miniature versions of themselves!

And these fuckers are tiny! Like stupid tiny. Like you do a “call me” sign and try to make it as big as you can, and that’s about as big as bitties get. this one!

But of course this isn’t a rule, you can make bitties as smol or as big as you want.

And you can adopt them!

With such an interesting prompt the AU got very popular, because you could: Give your favorite AU a mini version of whoever you wanted, you could be self-indulgent and draw yourself (or an OC) with a bitty! It was very cool! Y’know??? It was your tiny silly! There are uh, like BASE bitties, like for example a Sansy bitty is always hungry, seepy, is funny, and lazy. Or like a Fell who is like an angry cat. He will fucking destroy your stuff, is going to bite, is prone to fighting other bitties and stuff!

And there’s also Papyrus bitties and Grilbitties (love that name)!

And there was even a chart of how some bitties reacted to others! But you were allowed to make your own! Let’s say you had an OC of who knows what, and if you wanted to make it a bitty to just play with the idea, you can! Like if you wanted a Toriel bitty you could make yours! And that’s about it! I hold this AU very dearly, is very cute and even if bitties aren’t as popular as they once were, I still think they are neat.

And the stuff you could do with them! You can just do a homey story with bitties, just hanging out. Very cute story where you (or whoever you want) adopts a bitty and you now have to learn to live together with antics and all that good stuff! Or you can try and make all the stuff of: HOW MORALLY OK IS IT TO HAVE THAT THING??? ARE THEY OK BEING SMOL? HOW ARE THEY MADEE????

And if you are into bitties like I am you’ve probably seen some of these!

Even some mixed I believe?

Ok uhhh next!!!

OH HELL YES!!! I LOVE TOUCANS!!! (Seraphim! Sans) (GOF FUCKING DAMNIT WE’RE ALMOST AMOST DONE!!!)

Ok so Seraphim sans comes from this cool comic known as “the thought”.

It comes from sans’ thought. “What if one day, the human doesn’t reset? What is one day we just cease to exist?” So he acts, he attacks the human when they leave the ruins.

He takes the human’s soul, and takes it to Asgore. So they’re going to break the barrier to just have an ending. But Asgore, doesn’t really want to, he wants to wait, as he has killed so many humans… KIDS for that matter. And he’s afraid, humans were always stronger than monsters, and there are millions of more humans then monsters. But sans is like “Dude, I didn’t just break a promise to just sit around” so he makes a not so thought out decision. He’s going to do it himself.

And of course he turns into… TOUCAN.

And shenanigans happen…

I highly recommend looking for the comic made by tratserenoyreve (on tumblr). Or look for the comic dub by Starbot Dubs (yes, they are the ones from CPAU too).

I ABSOLUTELY love HOW the author brings this story. Like come ONNNNN!!!!!

Ok so, one of my favorite things is how the characters are portrayed! Like the human souls, they are faceless here, nameless, but they still have that little bit of personality and I love that even when they are literally faceless, they aren’t completely gone! And even so, the story has a bit of a bittersweet ending. BUT FIRST WE TALK ABOUT THE STORY! So after sans does the stupid, everyone’s just… confused and hurt on what to do? The human souls are permanently attached to sans, who didn’t really stop to think about the AFTER. And they want to extract the souls from him. But now here comes the interesting part, they are all there, like Sans can communicate with ALL 8 kids, and he’s not necessarily sure of how to feel? He’d just expected to have unlimited power and that’s it, but the human souls are here to stay. So, papyrus has to take sans home, the King, Undyne, Papyrus and the former Queen decide to keep the broken barrier a secret. Until they can safely get the human souls back, of course. So that means that they’ll have to wait until Alphys has messed with the DT extractor as it wasn’t BUILT for 7 human souls. The days go by, and Alphys has finished it.

Sans gets into the lab and kinda opens up about what he knows to Alphys, why he acted so rushed? Why of everything. And it seems it’s a good start to a new beginning, but things aren’t to well. The DT extractor begins to hurt Sans’ soul, and the kids are freaking out, so Integrity tries to help by teleporting. That of course leads to them getting lost in between the files, the space between. And they find the code to the game, and get exited! That means they can mess with it and make everyone live; they can make Frisk… well Frisk! Instead of a shell we use to play. But they encounter… (drum roll) OUR FAVORITE SILLY!!! GASTER!!!!! And of course, he tell them that this is bigger than they could ever imagine, and the fact that they stopped “it’s” game could mean the erasure of the world.

(As in, imagine you are playing Undertale, sans kills you JUST before the ruins and your game is a permanent GAME OVER)

SO shit goes down.

I’m not going to explain the WHOLE thing cuz you HAVE TO read it!

And then Sans and the kids are left with a choice, Reset or continue. Reset means everything goes back to the loop, continuing means the possible end to their world. And It ends in a tie 4 to 4. And it’s all left to Frisk to decide.

They choose both, they ask if they can copy the game and hide it somewhere where the OG copy is the one that’ll continue in the endless loop, the one that is hiding is just them continuing to live.

AND I AAAAARGGGGGGGG!!!jvdhkbjvdsbhdvsj’vds

I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!

I re-watched the comic dub to refresh my memory a bit, and to understand the parts that I didn’t when I was younger (because English bad).

And I cannot express HOW much I loved all of it! It’s a great story with great moments.

And I REALLY REALLY recommend it!

Just love the use of how they manage to at least save ONE COPY of themselves. Like somewhere there’s the other copy going through the loop again and again and again.

And I just can’t begin to explain the feeling that that gives me! Love it with all my heart. Now WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK!!!! THIS IS EVEN WORSE?!?!?! (Underworld)

Simple enough. Not fan of horror, but I found underworld’s designs and fell INLOVE with them. Not much to say, just that it has the potential of a hundred suns and that is it. LIKE LOOK IT UP AND YOU’LL SEE???

Personal favorite is Undyne and Toriel.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok so here’s the kicker, I said they were 11, right?

But I’ve put Error and Ink together… so they count as one, right? Because I forgot one. (I actually forgor two but let me have my moment) SURPRISE (YOU GUESS BEFORE I SAY THE NAME!) So I’m pretty sure this AU isn’t known as much, as the others.

Like I’m sure there ARE people who like it.

But it’s died down a HOLE lot, the fandom grew and from the AU’s that have managed to survive it, I feel this one’s been left behind. I mean there’s still fanart, but like it’s not popping up like others. The aesthetics are MY ABSOLUTE favorite, because there’s not too much of a change in story. I mean there IS, and it’s pretty cool. But what sells me is the aesthetics, just the whole vibe!!! And I’m sure that if you like dark fairy vibes, you’ll like this one.

Ya ready???

YA READYYYY?????? I don’t think you are ready!!!!

AAAAAHHHHHH

It’s Masktale.

Did you guess it?

(end of my thing) …

…

And there’s also Quantumtale because they are cute kids with stupidly strong powers, and Gaster is a cute guy and I love it.

But I haven't researched a ton of the last two sorry.

but im tired sO

(We’re officially done.)

and uh thanks for asking :,)

#JESUS FUCKING CHRIST #anyways #undertale #underfell #horrortale #gztale #killer sans #error sans #ink sans #anx sans #bittybones #seraphim sans #underworld #masktale #quantumtale #we're fucking done here.#with 20 pages and 5671 words. I think?#MAn I really feel stupid after posting this #imma try not to delete

12 notes · View notes

wildflowers-of-trolberg · 1 year

Note

Give us a snippet of an upcoming fic 👀 (if you want to ^_^)

So - this is for a very maybe fic idea I've had today. IDK if I'm going to write the full thing, for a couple of reasons, but:

"Mr. Bellkeeper?" she asked idly; he paused, looking back with a murmur. "You don't know any famous ravens, besides the Great Raven, do you?"

"Well," he hummed back, a spark of interest in his eyes, "that would depend on what the context is?" He raised one bushy eyebrow; she squirmed just a tiny bit at that, knowing he probably wouldn't approve of what she was about to say. Then again, she knew, he'd probably heard worse from her before.

"It's just..." she began, deciding to trust her gut. "I was talking to a marra recently." His eyes widened just a little at that, but he didn't stop her. "She said she was much older than I thought, but she wouldn't say by how much; all she said was that she'd seen 'the Raven' fight 'the Light'. So I asked Raven if he knew anything about that, but he said he didn't.

"I know his memory's not the best, but..." she couldn't help a small smile, "I also know he doesn't like fighting people, so I don't think she was talking about him."

"Aye," the Bellkeeper replied, something twinkling in his gaze. "I suspect she wasn't. Hold on a minute, Hilda."

He got to his feet, turning away from the table and towards the narrow shelf of books that stood high up on the cabin wall. For a moment, his fingers danced along old and dusty spines, before his shoulders shifted in quiet triumph, and he pulled a heavy book free, turning back to set it down between their mugs of tea.

He flipped it open before she could see the cover, thumbing briskly though broad pages; in the blur Hilda could see glimpses of dark outlines, detailed illustrations disappearing into paper, before he abruptly stopped, leaving her staring at a double-page spread of drawings. Those dark lines carved out the shape of a ship, all of its angles shown in stark contrast, and there was a smile under the Bellkeeper's beard as he sat back down.

"I think you'll find that's your raven," he said fondly, patting the edge of the paper. Hilda looked down; she didn't know enough to be able to read the scale, but it looked, big, bigger than the Draugen's ship even, long and low-set with jutting masts. Huge wheels hung at its sides, half-cowled in wooden frames, and a chimney rose high between the 2nd and 3rd masts.

At the top of both pages, in thick, black letters, the old reference book labelled it plainly:

"TNS Raven's Thunder?" she read softly; he nodded, murmuring again.

"First iron-hulled warship ever built in Trolberg," he explained, idly tracing the shape of the hull. "Ordered by Harland Ahlberg in eighteen-thirty-nine."

"What happened to it?"

"Well," he began again, tilting his head just a little. "She was built for hunting pirates; during the Battle of Trolberg Harbour, she got into a brawl with one of their ships, the Light of the Ocean. When the pirates couldn't damage her with cannons, they rammed her instead, and both ships were sunk." Hilda's felt her eyes widen; had Ashley really seen a pirate-ship battle?

"Really?" she breathed; he nodded, his smile turning wry.

"Oh absolutely; there's even a song about it, that claims the captain of the Light sacrificed her ship to let the others get away. I don't know if there's any truth to it, but it's a good tune.

"Roll on, you Light of the Ocean Roll on, into the night, For the sun has set on your old gun-deck And there's no wars left to fight."

#ask pika #hilda the series #hilda netflix #hilda (hilda)#bellkeeper hilda #fanfiction

4 notes · View notes

captainkurosolaire · 3 years

Note

I challenge you to pick five Tumblrs in your social circle and tell them something you admire about their blog!

Only 5? I could probably do 500. However, that's determined by what's considered my social circle. I'm often in my head being incredibly social continuously is really a challenge of mine. I'm always actively marching to something, my flame of passion when I have it, I can do some crazy stuff but it diminishes relatively quickly, so I try to cling. But I'll up your thing and list 25 of my fave people. Ask me this same thing in a Month, I'll keep doing 25, until I do all the people. How about that? (If anyone wants to be taken off mention let me know.)

@eligos-venator

- Has one of the most intelligent and sophisticated minds, I've had the pleasure to know. Literally admire all his aesthetics, work, head-cannons, ideas. It's only a benefit that the dude shares some OC characteristics to my own (Winning features). I really enjoyed the short-thread we did. It was incomplete, mainly because of my faults. I want to actually be better to give him a proper delivery and RP worth his time, but he's incredibly worth the investment of eyes.

@mischiefandmystics

- If there was a Mount Rushmoore of writers who kept me in this endeavor, encouraged me. Sun'ra is one of them. His characterization skills, writing, the delivery and how believable his character is, they're masterful acts.

@mishivymendi

- I wouldn't be nearly tamed or as creatively freed if it wasn't for this gem. She broke my shell, I really didn't at a time ever see myself being anything really beyond a smut writer, but Mishi not only saw potential in me, but brought it out. Her stories and world's she brings to life are so majestically colorful.

@asymphonyofash

- My go-to. He's another pillar individual who saw things in me past just the obvious perception, (Probably second longest XIV RPer I know.) Taught me a lot of the lore, I shot him up and he's sort of become my stapled rock. He's right aside Sun'ra met them about the same, both took me under their wing's as I quietly observed and absorbed.

@lavender-hemlock

- We're always up and front with each other, never feeling like I couldn't say anything around, extremely rare to share that these days. Her gif's are legendary, something on my own terms I want to soar in quality. The writing she does is astounding. Character has so many mysterious pages that are quite addictive to want to explore and learn them. (Encore 20 below-cut)

@under-the-blood-moonlight - Her sweetness and artwork and overall is just a friendly presence to be around. I cherish them so much. One I can jive with more darker undertones with. She's one the most hardworking and ambitiously creative people. I'd mail them infinite hugs if could. Thanks for being you! @roxinova - I owe a lot of credit to her. She's constantly OOC and everything was nudging me too be more inclusive to things and involved heavenly. It's rare for me. I'm really horrible about that my autism sets me back socially, I constantly will be drowned by the next day and be reverted back to better off alone, that's my major crux and weakness. But her thoughtfulness, these things, aren't ever foreign to me, I do pay attention probably better than any would ever give me credit. She's a beacon model to have as a friend. @corpse-dancer - Haven't ran into many words with them, but her character, screenshot game, expressiveness, they're all a marvel to constantly see, alongside her attitude and bringing life character. I do think if I were better, we would click quite splendidly. They've recently reminded and motivated me to pick-up my daily-practice, or try too. Keep being a rockstar. @fair-fae - Few who wouldn't know who she is in this community. She's been in my opinion a huge core. I'm certain she's inspired many who weren't even RPers too try it by seeing her at the Quicksands or elsewhere, a tyme ago. Making no exception, I was even one of those. I used to be in QS every-single day and was often doing my shameless stuff. Though her presence first did show me there's a lot more. I admire her in all fields. Also appreciate her adopting me to the FC and her always thinking of others and giving events, or her aesthetics and portrayal, its the epitome of swan elegance. @thorcat - One of my most treasured friends. Been RPing with them for a longtime. There's never anything complicated between us or a rift of drama, it's just let's go and have fun. We really mesh well, I've welcomed nearly ever character and got the privilege to RP with nearly all them. They always open up envelope and help me, settle on back and just laugh. Whether used to be waking up to their characters humping my afk one or use randomly having a hardcore banter between Ufah and Captain and capturing them as a voidal pet. Memories with them isn't something I'd ever want to lose. I love ya! Never stop enjoying life for anything. @lukawarrioroflight - I get in the gutter find myself lacking motivation or writing, discouraged even... But I never have felt, I could ever do any wrong with this person, they bring the light out of me. So no matter what, how many hospital-beds I yearly visit, it's because of this rare nature, that I come back, even if they're the only one's ever to read my stuff. I would do it for them alone. @scholarlybreadbun - I've only been back recently and they've so much warmth. Their presence is the sun of inviting. The couple and posing all the shipping that stuff makes me even melt. I'm not particularly talented in regards to posing couples, but I took notice of them along time ago and set on quietly improving. Really like them for them, wouldn't ever want them to change that. Ideally look forward to be in their orbit longer so I can bask in them. @seascrapes - Been mutual with them for a while. Their aesthetics and character is all S+ level. I appreciate throwing back tagged prompts with them, one of many people I really think would be enjoyable to collab with any other seafarers. The artwork and pieces of Tal Brook, are breathtaking as ever exceptionally too, not to mention. Love your stuff matey, you're a king. @mai-takeda - Is a myth. Her absolutely sheer friendliness and her attitude, are so positive influencing, I was so thrilled to be welcomed with her and boosted by them early on. I couldn't see myself, wanting to exist where they didn't have happiness like the same she always delivers by just doing so many soft-things. Not to mention her writing... She's a whole world to throw yourself gazes

under. @zhauric - It doesn't go far either without the same breath of Mai, I could say about Zhauric. He's someone worthy to look-up and also recognize they're passionate and inviting, hoisting up literally everything. Could easily find any of their characters comrades with my own, or jiving alongside. Not to mention last XIVWrite, they slaughtered it. So enjoyable to read them all. I like how organized their blog is too, motivated me recently to redux my entire thing. @cadrenebula - They have so many diverse characters and their entire roster is vibrant and is imbued with a massive flux of life. They are able to encapsulate so many character's voices and portray them so effectively too, I really admire that greatly. They've made me think bigger and try myself recently at actually undertaking a huge roster of characters too. I've taken many breaks, but I always am so graciously returned often with them close-by and that's so incredibly sacred. I've seen a lot of people get discouraged or quit, leave, departure, etc. But they always seem to have a bigger house then they had last I took a break and I enjoy peaking in. @silvernsteel - Her artist and gif-work are awe-aspiring, there's little unrecognizable by her photo-sets and edits. They helped me even tip-toe into uncharted with giving me the recipes to try incorporating gifs into my arsenal. Plus so delightfully pleasant to actually talk with and just chill. I want nothing less in life, than the beauty they give, to be returned to them for eternity in all their glorious air. If ever needed anything of me, they've got me. @spotofmummery - We talk about passion or friendliness or overall a person to even remotely try to be, I got to include them. Their web-series and writing, screen-work, everything they do is fantastic. And that's furthered back nearly any I've met showcase or immortalize how just genuine of stellar person they are. I wish them always the energy to create and sparks. @snow-covered-moon - They've never been anything less but absolutely a diamond to know. I enjoy their character, their almost always abundant of energy that's very rub inducing. Their WoL character stories, writing, screen-shots, everyday they open up a new pandora box of joy, there's no mistaken love behind their character and that's infectiously easy to also enjoy something when the author does too. Always healthy to be around, I never feel short of vitality when they're close-by. @letheofthelost - Always cheerful or least encapsulates with me, they're a carnival ride. Just pure epic story-telling and engaging equally as passionate, constantly writing characters, not looking for anything outside of RP or anything really just being their selves, they fade all others. I love their presence, them as a person. Enjoy any character they'll ever come and throw under me, or a change of pace. Always feels easily understandable between one another. @crow-iv - Together we're an unfiltered, unstoppable wake of pure passionate writers and art. But I would say they're far ahead of me, in every regard. Already able to portray multiple characters in a scene and do such in-depth thinking, alongside even sketch or draw right afterwards or a scene. They're so talented, huge reason I set-out on giving them a Crew of cast and actual stories to-tell when I'm actually caught up and if they interested and we both have the room, I really think if further myself, I can be better and supply more for them to draw and I want to see them soar. I want to give them all my improvements and effectiveness. @trishelle - They've such a reinforcing personality and aura around them that easily bolsters anything that dares thinking they're about to be depleted so energizing. Aesthetics, characters, all them are so lively that further compliment their own mun's great welcoming presence. Worth hundreds of smiles and stars, keep high. Wish I had more time to dedicate to learning you! But I do notice and appreciate you. @fracturedfantasia - One of my people, I like to retreat and just talk my full

head-cannons with or learn, share insightful and inquisitive thoughts about philosophies and multi-culture things. Or plotting and in-general, they're a well of information and brimming ideas, they are every making of what makes a quality friend. When you can generally be open-about-all that's a real one right there. Their characters and tarot readings, I always would implore if they're offering. Thanks for giving me any-time. You're truly a treasure. @violet-warder - Never have even came to words with them yet unfortunately but didn't mean as a mutual, I haven't admired all their screenies, writing, or the aesthetics they bring of their character. Glamours is real end-game, I like all what you've done and put together. I care strictly about what represent and give, I don't want to see them ever think anyone want's them gone, they are abundantly so talented and possess things only they can deliver. I think recently came back too, and I'm glad to share, hopefully, overtime I can build you better up. Or eventually even talk, but I'm certain you are a busy-body person too, so we're relatable. @layla-grey - I have a lot of underline issues that set me back as a flawed person, but I've never not been anything but someone who's open, it's why I always do include my f-list in anything or etc. I'm not here to present this facade, and really don't care to be an image crafted by another. No one as of recently or now, am I close with as an RP partner or friend with then this stunning masterpiece. I never let-up on story-telling or anything so I can eventually use my Crew or other Characters, to give them anytime a master entertaining day, they push me to not be short-changed. IC and OOC I would devote my full attention too cause they've never shed from me. Didn't ever matter how much silence or anything, they're always around. And don't expect anything out of me or pressure. Just accept me and I equally share that sentiment, I want you to have everything in this world has to offer. ----- This is just a fraction of people, I've paid attention, noticed or know. I've been around in this Community for many years. There's a lot of things I could say about it, more probably then anyone else. But what matters to me, is recognizing the people who are here, that work hard, build others up, support, constantly are a beam. I don't need to interact with everyone, to know when someone is generally out for good. Or they're out for bad I've learned inquisitiveness longtime ago, I had to survive and remain afloat. I just go out and be me, and along the way, I get to find people like these, who help bring out the best me. I am nothing without these people, creators, writers, artist. I'm a terrible friend, horrible person, I don't have the energy to interact NEARLY with as much as I'd like with you all, If I could clone myself, or if things were different, I would drop it all to be in your orbits more if could. But, do know I appreciate you. And even if you ever do depart from this whole community or anything, know that anything you share, or give, that stuff does matter, somewhere, someone was aspired, if nothing else, by me. ONLY you can give the worlds you see and I am thankful. Do love yourself.

#I acknowledge you #Love you #Keep doing you #Asks answered #I'm the one guy who's never not going to be filtered or unspoken #To many people have left or been broken #Don't you ever think about it.#There's so many many more #But I'll recharge for next time

39 notes · View notes

yoditorian · 3 years

Text

lacuna - part 9

din/reader

well shit guys,,,,this is the last one.

this has been a labour of love and i just want to say a huge huge thank you to everyone who’s commented and reblogged and sent me asks and even just lurked and read it. seriously, from the absolute bottom of my heart, thank you. i’d also love to extend a special thank you to @keeper0fthestars and @chatterbean for consistently cheering me on throughout this fic. and an extra extra special thank you to @bee-dameron for being the most incredible sounding board, and without whom this fic literally would not exist. this was really my first jump back into writing fic properly and i couldn’t be more grateful for the love its received. it might be the end for the main storyline, but it’s definitely not the end of this universe 💛

series masterlist // main masterlist

word count: 4.9k

warnings: angst angst angst, rebel is healing, din is having the worst time of his life (all of season 2), swears, yes i am referencing That Monologue

He can’t stop hearing it.

How you pleaded with him, how you begged him to stay, how you cried when he left. Din’s sure it’s a sound that’ll haunt him for the rest of his life.

Din has been staring out at the swirling lights of hyperspace for hours when the kid clambers up into his lap, his stomach lurches when he notices three little green fingers curled around a corner of your old blanket. The kid leans over to frown at the second passenger seat. Empty.

“I know, buddy. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.” His voice is wrecked, the sound of it so harsh through the modulator that even he flinches.

Din’s still not completely sure that the child understands him, but his little ears droop down at the apology and he wraps himself up as best he can in your blanket. Five minutes and you’ve charmed the little thing. Din isn’t sure why he’s surprised, you did the same to him all those years ago.

The kid settles back down to sleep in his lap, curled up in the thinning fabric, and one of Din’s gloves hits the floor before he even realises that he’s slipped it off. The wool is a little stiff with age under his fingers, but it’s been well loved. And been well loved on if his memory serves. He wonders if it smelt of him afterwards. If you spent nights curled up in it, trying to inhale the last memento you had of him before he saw you again, the same way he spent so many nights wallowing in his own memories. He used to wish he had something physical with him to keep close, the cruel irony of your forgotten blanket doesn’t go unnoticed now.

Part of him wants to bring it back. A peace offering, maybe. He wants to let you get to know the kid better, to help him on his quest to find his home. Or maybe just to stay, like you asked. But he fucked it all up. You’d probably slam the door of your little home in his face now. Honestly? He’s pretty sure it’s the least he deserves. He wouldn’t be surprised if you pulled a blaster on him with all the ways he’s hurt you.

It feels like grief. The way the sorrow settles on your chest, curling it’s cold hands around your lungs and squeezing. You hope it chokes you, if only so you don’t have to feel like this anymore. You curl up on the kitchen floor, the cold tile freezing through your clothes, and wonder if this is it.

Kes finds you there, hours after the door was slammed and the sun has set.

“Is there something wrong with me?” You can’t help but ask, you can’t help but wonder. Because even through the pain and the silence and the arguments, you still love Din. Maybe you always will. But you’re not sure it matters anymore. Kes looks at you, confused, and you press on.

“I mean, I laid out how I feel so many times and all he ever did was push it away but- but I know that if he walked in that door right now I’d let him back in.”

“I think that’s love, kiddo.” He sinks down to join you on the floor, and if the chill of the tile raises goosebumps on his arms, he doesn’t mention it.

“Love is stupid,” You pause when he shoots you a look, “No offence to you and your ridiculously happy marriage, but this sucks.”

You sound like a child, you know that. Just like you know that things with Din were always going to end the way they have. You’ve always known you came second to his creed, so much so that you can’t even bring yourself to be angry about it anymore. The alternative is to cry until you lose your voice, so childish seems like the way to go.

“What?” You huff. Kes is watching you carefully, in that pensive way that he does when he’s about to call your bluff in sabacc and take the game. Like he always does.

“I’m not sure you really think that.”

He’s right on the money yet again, the fucking asshole.

A fresh wave of tears stings your eyes. thankful at least that Kes has found a spot on the floor to look at instead of turning those big sad eyes onto you. You’re not sure you could take it. It’s frustration at yourself, mostly, instead of just the heartbreak of being left behind so willingly. So angrily. What is it about you that made the idea of sticking around so repulsive, so disgusting, that he left without a second thought. You thought he loved you, you really did. But you’ve been wrong about things before. However much you hate it.

“I can’t stay here. I can’t.”

“I know.” Kes’s eyes lift from the floor finally, settling uncertainly on yours.

“I’m sorry, it’s not that I- I want to be close to you guys but,” You flounder for a moment, desperate to think up a reason, “I just can’t be here.”

He understands, you know he does. You’ve all lost enough people, physically and emotionally, to know when a place is no longer welcoming. And you do, genuinely, love the little house on the edge of their land. You love the way the sun hits through the kitchen window in the late afternoon, you love the way you can hear the birds in the trees when you wake in the morning, you love the way any of them can drop by anytime they want to. But it’ll always be the site of the last time you loved Din, the last time he kissed you. Ground zero of your relationship. If you could even call it that.

“I’ll be alright. I’ve been without him before.”

You have, you’ve been without Din. You’ve spent years without hearing the comm you gave him so much as click. You’ll be alright. In time.

Only, there were never arguments before. All those times you left, or he left, he’d never shouted at you the way he did. You’d never felt the rage he keeps so carefully locked away, not with you in the crosshairs anyway. It sends your stomach churning, remembering the way he denied you so easily.

You eye the pouch of credits on the table, just visible over the top of Kes’s head. Why would he leave something like that behind? The Crest is falling apart, he’s got the kid to think about now, why would he forsake a payday for someone he’d so readily abandon.

The dam breaks, and your brave face along with it.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Kes shuffles over to sit closer, to draw you into his arms and let you cry it out on his shoulder. So, in turn, you let yourself feel it. Properly. Sobbing until you’re half asleep, breath hitching every now and again, and the sun starts to rise.

You don’t know why Din left the credits there, and it feels odd to think about using them when he’s the reason this house isn’t a home anymore. But he could never give you much, and despite everything you know he’s never been a heartless man intentionally, maybe this is his way of making up for that. A clean slate.

The first thing he thinks of as Din comes to, only seconds after the e-web cannon explodes in his face, is you. Of course it is.

You with your feet up beside you on the passenger seat and the child in your arms, wrapped up and snoring softly. No idea of what was coming. It’s that image that stays at the forefront of his mind, even through the pain of being dragged across the ground into the almost safety of the destroyed cantina.

That’s the view he wants, regardless of however futile it is to realise that now. Regardless of the fact that he’s dying and you’re not here. You don’t even know. Maybe you wouldn’t care if you did. He wouldn’t be surprised.

But he gave it up for what? For this? Denied himself and the kid safety and a life just for both of them to die on the grotty floor of the cantina on Nevarro. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Maybe he always has been, for refusing you at every turn, refusing to let himself give in and reassess and have the life he’s so desperately wanted with you for years now. Who is he, without his creed?

Yours. He knows that now.

There’s something profoundly wrong about you not being there as the blood trickles down the back of his neck and soaks into his clothes. As he hands off the child to the people he’s come to think of as his friends and trusts them to do the one thing he can’t.

“Take him to Yavin,” He tells them, desperately, “Find the little house at the end of the farm track.”

You’ll take care of the kid, despite everything. You’ll take him in without a question, in a heartbeat. The same way you so effortlessly ingrained Din into your life when you first met. Even if it was accidental on both sides.

Din can’t stop himself, as the IG unit lifts his helmet, from remembering the way you did the same. This feels so clinical, mechanical. There’s nothing of the warmth and reverence that had been in your touch. Even this close to death, it’s like his bones themselves are calling your name.

“What do you think?” Your voice echoes in the empty space. The smell of fresh sawdust is strong in your nose, but you don’t mind. It’s oddly comforting, as though the shop was built just for you. The sound of little footsteps pound over the upper floor and a messy mop of curls appears over the top of the railing.

“I love it. Can I live here too?” Poe grins cheekily.

“Your parents might have something to say about that, buddy.”

He thunders down the stairs beside the little back office and comes to a skidding halt in front of you, kicking up a little dust in his wake. You catch him easily, whirling him around in a circle as he laughs. The way the sound fills the space starts to stitch the edges of your heart back together. Maybe this is what you need to do, fill a new space with light and laughter and the people you love. Somewhere to exist, somewhere to grow. The workshop seems like a good place to start.

A child of The Watch.

What does that even mean?

His covert, his family, it’s- it’s not a cult. It can’t be. The way she talked about it, like even the thought left a bad taste in her mouth, sends a shot of anger down his spine. He is not a religious zealot. But, would he know if he is?

Is he?

Din’s never had cause to doubt his creed, or his covert. They saved him, rescued and raised him. They taught him to fight and to protect and to provide for the covert. Foundlings are the future, right? Would he be less, maybe, to those born on Mandalore? To people like Bo-Katan who wear the armour from generations past, who fought to defend their homeland and their clans. Din doesn’t wear ancestral armour, but has he not defended his family with his life? Ancient way or not, it seems like the kind of thing that would be important in any kind of Mandalorian culture. Traditionalist or otherwise.

No one has seen his face since he was a child. And yet, he still took off his helmet, every time, for you and believed he was breaking his creed. Sure, you never saw his face, but does that matter? Is it not the principal of the thing? Then there’s the glaring evidence that there are Mandalorians who can remove their helmets. What does that make him, if he’s neither followed the letter of the creed or whatever rules Bo-Katan has.

With the kid safely tucked away and snoring in his little hammock, Din pulls the helmet off and glares at his distorted reflection in the curve of the visor. He can feel your hands on him like you’re there, smoothing over his shoulders and curling around his waist. And as all the tension melts from his body, he knows what you’d say. That he is himself. Din Djarin, and it’s up to him what he wants that to mean. Whether it includes Mandalorian or not. Whatever he wants to be is what he is and you’d never love him less for it.

Love him.

He scoffs at himself. There’s no way you feel like that about him now.

“Can you reach right up in that corner?”

You’d let Poe pick the colour for the walls of the main attic space, and so he and his dad are flecked in bright orange paint as they swirl brushes over the wood they’d primed yesterday.

Kes has him on his shoulders, fully in charge of the high up sections as he’d so politely asked, while you and Shara are screwing together the fittings for the kitchen units. A pastel blue this time, also chosen by Poe. Although Shara had kindly guided him away from the neon purple cupboard doors that had caught his eye with a quick wink at you. Maybe giving a small child free reign over your interior decorating was a bad idea. But he’d proven to have quite an eye on some things.

The four of you had travelled all the way to an inner rim market to find your furniture, deciding on a deep red fabric couch that fit all of you comfortably and takes a considerable amount of effort to rise from. It’s been pushed back against the half wall that hides the attic living space from the workshop floor. Your bedroom furniture is brand new as well, all light polished wood and soft bedding. The credits Din had abandoned had gone a long way, almost long enough that you can forget where they came from. Sometimes.

It hits you again, cross legged on the floor as Shara hands you another piece to slot into place, that there should be an extra pair of hands. Pulling more pieces out of crates or rearranging the layout in the bedroom or hanging lampshades. It’s nice to be making this new house into a home with your family, but there’s still a gaping hole where there should be someone else.

A warm hand settles on your knee, breaking your focus from where it’s settled at the top of the staircase. Shara. You turn to her with a smile, and blink back a wave of tears when she returns it. You have your family, right here, you don’t need him. You don’t need him.

“Get down!” Shara calls, just as a shadow looms over you.

Poe’s feet swing over your heads and he laughs when Shara just misses grabbing his ankle, Kes lifting him deftly out of the way at the last second. This is what your life is supposed to be, definitely. The sound of everybody else’s laughter lifts the weight off of your shoulders just enough for you to breathe, to laugh along with them. For a little while.

Din loses everything in a matter of moments. Everything.

Methodically searching through the ashes of the Razor Crest, of the only home he had left, is the final barrier between him and the guilt about the child. About Grogu. The kid’s become his, undeniably, and he couldn’t do the one thing a father is supposed to do. Gideon has him at his mercy, has Din at his mercy now. Whatever the Moff and Dr Pershing have in store, it’s not good. The kid might not even survive.

All he can see is his little face, his little arms reaching out as the droid climbed higher and higher towards the cruiser. What kind of a father is he, to just let his son be taken from him? No man who would so willingly see the child in his care delivered to his doom deserves to be called such a thing.

Din kicks the dust at his feet in frustration, all too aware of the new eyes watching him. Grief is a difficult thing in and of itself, it’s even harder when it’s observed. He feels like an exhibit. Sure, the two of them stayed and defended the child without even being asked to, but that doesn’t mean he wants them sitting and watching as he sifts through the ruins of his life.

Fitting, really, that the one way he always thought he would keep you in his life went up in flames, exploded in much the same way your relationship did. That was his fault too.

But it’s all gone now. The Razor Crest, his home, Grogu’s bed, your old blanket. Grogu and you. Maybe for good, maybe this is his life now, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get either of you back. Maybe he’ll launch a rescue mission only to find his son dead and hitch a ride to Yavin only to be turned away at your door. Maybe that’s what he deserves.

“Thanks!” You call as the couple stroll out of the main doors and into the sunshine, newly repaired pit droid trotting after them.

“Which one goes to this one again?” Poe catches your attention, waving the motor over his head. He’s sitting on the desk in the back office, little eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You’ve been teaching him small mechanic things here and there on his days with you. How to wire a basic console, how to program a droid, how a hyperdrive motivator works. You’d taken him out with you on a call once, so you could show him the different engine parts of a ship that his mother doesn’t treasure. Today, it’s hotwiring lessons.

Kes and Shara had pretended to disapprove when you asked them what they thought about it, and they still would if Poe was the one to bring it up. But the larger community on Yavin still sleeps far too lightly, still sleeps far too little. The kids are learning their history and their life skills, but alongside basic combat and strategy lessons. The older kids can enroll in weapons training and piloting lessons. The war will never fully leave this moon so long as it stands.

“Which one do you think?” You ask, settling down into the chair with your datapad and a mountain of forms to fill out. Poe ponders for a moment, glancing between your expectant expression and the dead motor in his hands.

“This one?” He touches the exposed wires together carefully, huffing when nothing happens.

“No, wait! This one!” The little motor whirrs to life the moment the wires make contact, and subsequently dies again when he drops it to throw his arms up in celebration. You catch it before it can hit the floor and burst into pieces, your own smile wide enough to make your cheeks ache.

You’re living. For the first time in years you’re living, without watching over your shoulder for the Empire, without wondering when you’ll see Din again. You’re spending time with your best friends’ kid and making a living as the town mechanic. You have regular customers and people who drop by just to say hi, and things don’t seem so bad anymore. Even though there’s a gap inside of you that aches and misses him, you’re starting to be at peace with it.

He doesn’t know why he was so stupid as to think the facial scan might work with the fucking helmet on. And now the terminal won’t stop beeping and he’s pretty sure people are looking over at him and there’s only one option left and- fuck it.

Din’s hands shake as he lifts the plastic helmet off, the habit of a usually much heavier one makes the movement almost too forceful, and he sets it down.

This is wrong. It feels so wrong. The first time any living being has seen his face since he was a child and it’s a room full of Imperials. The organisation that took his parents from him, that massacred whole planets and drove his people underground, that you have spent your whole life fighting against. He feels sick.

It was supposed to be you. He’s thought about it a lot, since the first time you took him to that little house on Yavin. He envisioned standing in the bedroom, curtains thrown open to soak up the last of the afternoon sun, and you’d smile at him in that way you always did. He would pull you close to press his forehead against yours, he would take your hands and bring them up to close around the lip of his helmet. He’d tell you it was okay, and you’d lift it off together. You’d smile, maybe a stray tear would linger in the corner of your eye, and you’d finally get to see him. You’d trace your fingertips along his cheekbone and press a kiss on the little spot on his jaw where the hair doesn’t grow. You’d tell him you always thought he had brown eyes. He’d tell you you’re beautiful. And then he’d kiss you, and you’d let him.

The terminal beeps again and Din pulls the drive from the port, just in time to turn and face an Imperial Officer.

Your head is in an engine hatch when you hear one of the wide metal doors at the front of the shop creak open.

“We just closed up, but you can swing by in the morning if it isn’t an emergency!” You call, and hope your voice carries to whoever is standing in your doorway. You don’t really have the time for a customer, this speeder repair is already a day late because you were watching Poe last night, but Yavin is a community.

However long it took you to get used to after being back on the station, it’s almost like being a part of the rebellion again. Everybody works together to make things a little easier for everyone else. You hear a shuffle of footsteps, slowly edging closer to you, and you’re about to call out again when they say your name.

When he says your name.

You hit your head on the hatch as you pull yourself out of it.

“No.”

You can’t do this. You can’t.

All the work you’ve done to piece your broken little heart back together starts to unravel, just seeing him standing in your workshop. Every staple and stitch and strip of tape loosens until there’s nothing left and that gap inside you, the one that sits right under your heart, starts to ache something fierce.

How dare he.

How dare he think he can walk into the one place that you have, the one place in the whole galaxy that doesn’t stink of betrayal and heartache and him. How dare he think he can disturb the life you’ve begun to build without him, however much it hurt. There are nights where you don’t think of him now. Nights where you don’t wake in the middle of dreams of his touch and his voice and his kisses. And now he’s here and all of your work was for nothing.

“Please-”

“No. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back and undo everything. You can’t.” At least your voice is steadier than you feel, as you square your shoulders and plant your feet in a vain attempt to stay upright. Or to stop yourself running right back into his arms.

“I know.”

No, that’s what breaks the final piece of your heart off. The heart that belongs to him anyway. It always has, even when you didn’t want it to. He sounds so broken.

“Did you leave the baby on the ship again?”

You don’t miss the way his shoulders tighten, just barely, or how his fingers twitch nervously.

“The ship’s gone. So is- so is the kid,” Din takes a shuddering breath, “I lost everything.”

Everything? What does that even mean? Your stomach flips at the thought of what he might mean, that the kid is gone. You’re almost afraid to ask. And you hate the painful tug in your chest when his knees give out and he hits the concrete floor with a thud. There’ll be bruises in the morning.

“He’s with a Jedi, he’s with his people but-” He gestures vaguely, and you know what he means. You felt the same way every time he left you. If the kid’s a Jedi, he probably should be in the care of people who know what to do. But you can’t imagine how it must have felt to just hand the baby over.

“He’s where he belongs.” You’re trying to stay cold, you really are.

“Is he?”

It’s hard to be cruel to a man who’s just given up his kid. To a man you love.

He says your name again, softly, tearfully. The shudder of a sob ripples through his body and he heaves a deep breath at the same time you do. You can feel it creeping back, every uncertainty you had the day he walked out of your old house. Every bone in your body screams for you to reach out to him, to comfort him the way he should have comforted you when he left you crying for him on your kitchen floor. He can’t be here. You have to make him go.

“Mando-”

“My name, please use my name.” He interrupts you, desperately. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t hear you call him Mando. It never sounded right, not the way his real name does when you roll it around on your tongue. He needs to hear it.

“Din, you can’t stay.”

It’s so hard to hold steady, to keep your voice even, to not just throw it all away and gather him into your arms the way you want to. The way you need to. You were right, all those months ago, when you told Kes you’d take him right back if he walked through the door.

“You’re home, you know that? It’s you.”

You say nothing, for fear your words will crack and give you away.

“And- and every time I left or you left it just, nothing felt right. Not until we were together again, and it scared me. And I hurt you because of it, that’s my fault.” He sighs, defeated, but continues on when you stay silent.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I- it’s inexcusable. I don’t know how to- how to fix it. I don’t know if I can,” Din hangs his head in shame, “You should hate me. I do. I pushed you away and hurt you, when all I ever wanted was you. Just you.”

It’s not enough to soothe the scars in your heart, the ones that settled deep and angry and split open time and time again. The ones he put there. But maybe there’s room to make a start.

“I don’t hate you,” You press on even as his head shoots up in surprise, “Against all my better judgement, I love you. Pretty sure I always have.”

It’s quiet for a long time. And you think this is when he tells you he’s not good enough for you, that he never will be, and he leaves for the very last time. You know you won’t see him again if he does, but he’ll take your heart with him anyways.

“Cyar’ika.” He breaks the silence. Again. But it’s softer than the last time you were in this position.

“You’ve called me that before.”

“I’ve called you that a lot of times, you were only awake once.”

“What does it mean?” You’re almost afraid to know the answer.

He lifts his hand to his shoulder, to a pauldron with an unusual skull welded to it, and detaches the mechanism. It clatters to the floor, but Din’s gaze remains firmly locked on yours. He does the same with the other and lifts the bandolier over his head. That too is abandoned on the ground.

“Sweetheart.” His vambraces, this time. One, two clang as they hit the floor, followed by his thigh plates.

“Darling.” The chest plate.

He’s kneeling, surrounded by his armour, by the definition of the man you thought he was. All but the helmet. You love him, you can’t deny that. He’s baring himself to you in ways he never has before and you know what it means to him to do this.

“Beloved.”

Your brain stops working. You were so ready to shout and scream and punish him for what he put you through but suddenly none of it matters. Because he’s here, he’s finally here, and he’s telling you he loves you and that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

“Take it off, please?”

And so you do.

Your feet are moving towards him before you can even register what they’re doing and you haul him up off of the ground. Din winds his arms around you automatically, without a second thought, until there isn’t a breath of air left between your bodies. No armour, no barriers, just two people who have done far too much damage to each other to ever know anyone else the way you do.

His eyes. Oh god, his eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” You whisper, careful not to disturb the peace that’s settled. Finally, finally.

“That’s my line.” He chuckles as you smile, as you feel that gap in your ribs quiet after all these years. An unfilled space, no longer.

Din kisses you, and you let him.

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @rebloogggs @keeper0fthestars @remmysbounty @sirianisrock @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @altarsw @darnitdraco @greeneyedblondie44

#lacuna #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #star wars #fic #liz does words #oh my god........oh my god its over #sfw

82 notes · View notes

onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 4,598)

--------------------

Part Three: Wilbur

Wilbur oversleeps.

He doesn’t mean to. He never means to. But he does, and when he wakes up and finds the sun halfway to its peak, definitely mid-morning rather than the predawn he was hoping to find, it serves as a shock to his system, and all he can think is, shit. Because sure, he’s been pretty fucking exhausted lately, but that’s no excuse. He’s supposed to be the leader here, and leaders can’t lead when they’re sleeping.

And gods above know what Tommy’s managed to get into this morning, or what Dream’s done, because Dream’s been suspiciously quiet over the past few days and there could be an attack at any moment now, and shit, shit, shit.

He fumbles his way through dressing, tries to neaten his hair, fails utterly, and gives up and pulls his beanie on over it. Not very professional, but it’s fine. This is fine. He can’t hear any screams, so nobody’s dying. Probably.

He steps outside of the hastily-constructed house he claimed for his own, and it’s less of a house, really, than a single room with walls and a roof liable to cave in at any second, but it serves for now, and he never claimed to possess his father’s building prowess. There will be time for infrastructure development after independence is secured. But he steps outside, squinting against the sunlight, and finds—everything in order. Everything looks fine. Nothing is on fire, except for the ever-burning camarvan. The walls still stand.

That should be his next step. The walls.

He climbs his way up, surveying the area. The surrounding lands appear just as they were left last night. No ominous structures set up. No fucking TNT cannons. All is calm, peaceful, and he has learned not to trust peace, these past few weeks, but if everything is alright for now, he’ll accept it gladly. Even if it doesn’t last.

He sighs, bracing his hands against the battlements. All too often, these days, he’s found his mind wandering down paths they never would have before. He can’t help but wonder what Phil would think if he knew the full extent of what he’s up to. His father tried so hard, when he was younger, to shield him from war, from the legacy that he and his best friend laid out behind them. And Wilbur cannot blame him for that protectiveness; his first experience of war has only been a few weeks long, and he’s finding he doesn’t care for it, even if he’s discovered a knack for tactics.

The thing is, though, he’s always wanted a legacy of his own.

Phil always said that it would be through his music. He never told him that he had his doubts about that, that he loves his songs but that something in him always calls for more, something just out of reach, just beyond the crest of the next hill. He’s not sure his father knows how ambitious he really is, in the end.

He should probably write him. He’ll do it after the war is over. After he has a country to invite him to see. After he’s built something that his dad will be proud of. And if he leaves out the struggle it took to get it, nobody has to know but him, because it’s certainly better that Phil doesn’t.

“Hello, Wilbur,” Dream says, right by his ear, and he jerks, pulling his sword from his inventory in an instinctive motion. How he missed the bastard’s approach, he has no idea, but Dream is standing right there, right on the walls next to him, covered head to toe in netherite armor, smiling mask firmly affixed to his face. He holds no weapons yet, but Wilbur knows all too well how quickly that can change.

“You’re trespassing on L’Manberg property,” he snaps, trying to disguise the frantic racing of his heart. His feet shift into a ready stance, a movement that’s old hat by now, both from this war and from Technoblade’s training when he was a kid, even though the sword will never be his weapon of choice. “With armor on, too. You’re not allowed to wear armor within our borders.”

He doesn’t know why he bothers to try. Dream won’t obey. He never does. That’s why they’re at war in the first place.

But then, to his shock, Dream chuckles, inclining his head. And then, piece by piece, the armor disappears, accompanied by the familiar clink of metal landing in an inventory slot.

“Right, right,” Dream says, as if he hasn’t just blown all of Wilbur’s expectations out of the water. “Of course. I guess I really should be trying to get off on the right foot with you, here. Congratulations, by the way. I’m sure you were happy to hear the news.”

What is he—?

What is this? Is he trying psychological warfare now? Is that what this is? Because Wilbur has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. Is he supposed to know what he’s talking about? Dream’s acting like he should know what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t particularly want to give him the upper hand by revealing that he does not, in fact, have any idea what he’s talking about.

“Thank you,” he manages, a beat too late, but Dream doesn’t seem to notice, just continues on blithely.

“I just figured we should set up an official meeting of some kind,” he says. “One country leader to another. Get some peace treaties drawn up, write some trade agreements, draw some official boundaries, all of that stuff. I’ll admit, I’ve never done any of that before, but it can’t be too hard, right?”

“Right, I’m sure,” Wilbur replies, nodding along. Because, what?

“It doesn’t have to be right away,” Dream continues, and he just keeps talking. “I can give you a day or two to settle in, get stuff in order. There’s no real rush, but we should get it done soon. I don’t want to leave anything up in the air. That’s not the kind of thing that promotes stability.”

“Of course,” he says.

Dream goes to say something else, and then stops, tilting his head again. This time, it’s less mocking, more curious. “You do know what I’m talking about, right?” he says, and the game is up. Wilbur feels caught, but he breathes deeply, fights off his rising blush, gathers up all his composure.

“I’ll be entirely honest,” he says. “I’ve got no idea what the shit you’re on about right now.”

He’s not expecting that to make Dream laugh. But he does, tossing his head back and carrying on, loud and long, and then it devolves into a tea kettle wheeze. Genuine amusement, then, though at what, Wilbur isn’t sure. He doesn’t appreciate being laughed at, but he can’t help but feel like there’s something going on here that’s going straight over his head. He doesn’t appreciate that very much, either.

“Oh my god,” Dream manages, as soon as he’s capable of speech, mirth still dancing in his voice, “he didn’t tell you? Still?”

Something icy gets its claws around his heart.

“Who didn’t tell me?” he demands. “Who didn’t tell me what?”

“Tommy,” Dream answers, and those claws squeeze. His heart skips several beats, and suddenly, he’s casting back in his mind to the last time he saw Tommy. It was last night, wasn’t it? Just last night? He sent him to bed, because Tommy often tries to take late watches, claims himself capable, but he’s not even quite sixteen yet. Wilbur may have pulled him into a war, but he’s still a teenager, and Wilbur’s going to do his damnedest to make sure he comes out of this as intact as possible. And that means getting enough sleep.

He looked fine, last night. He was fine. He has to be fine.

He’s moving before he realizes it, his hand fisting in the front of Dream’s hoodie.

“If you’ve done something to Tommy, I’m tossing you off this wall right here and now,” he snarls. “Don’t test me, Dream.”

A year ago, a month ago, he never would have pictured himself making a threat like that. Never would have imagined himself capable of following through. But he is different, now, from the way he started, different already, and there is a part of him, a part of him that whispers to him in crows’ voices, that is scared of what he will be by the time the war is done.

“I haven’t done anything to Tommy!” Dream protests, raising both hands, though he sounds unconcerned. “I swear, I haven’t. He gave us a really good chance to, last night, but we didn’t take it. You should thank us for that. It was pretty stupid, what he did.”

“Explain,” he demands. “Explain right now.”

Tommy’s a resourceful kid. He can picture him getting himself in and out of an altercation easily. But the way Dream says it, it’s like he put himself in the situation in the first place, like he sought it out, and what the hell was Tommy even doing, outside of the walls so late at night? The walls are there for a reason. The walls are there for protection. The walls are there to keep his people safe, because maybe he didn’t exactly set out to start a country, in the very beginning, but he’s going to see it through. By all the gods, he’s going to see it through.

If, that is, this kid doesn’t give him a heart attack first.

Dream shoves at his hand, and he lets him go without an argument. Dream takes a step back, putting a bit more space between them, and then leans against the wall.

“Tommy came to us last night,” he says, “and traded his discs for L’Manberg’s independence.”

It’s a simple sentence. A very simple sentence. But somehow, the words don’t make any sense.

“Congratulations, President Soot,” Dream says, and he knows, he knows the bastard is smiling under that mask. “I look forward to establishing relations between our countries,” and he isn’t, Wilbur knows that he isn’t, but he’s enjoying this because he’s just dropped a bomb on him and he knows it, because—

“Leave,” he rasps. “Get out.”

Dream does a little salute, short and mocking, and then hops over the side of the wall. Wilbur hopes he takes damage, hopes he breaks his fucking legs. The sound of water hitting the ground tells him that he doesn’t. He can’t even be upset about it, because his heart has jumped into his throat, pounding in his ears, and all of the words were fine individually, but all together, they’re too much to process.

Tommy gave up his discs. And now L’Manberg is free. Just like that, the war is over. And Tommy gave up his discs. Tommy walked straight into enemy territory without telling him and handed over his most prized possessions, all for the sake of L’Manberg’s independence. And he succeeded. He got it. He sacrificed something dear to him, something that Wilbur never would have asked him to give up, and he did it for them. For L’Manberg.

Giddiness is the first emotion that fills him, and next is pride. Because this—this is above and beyond. He never would have asked Tommy to trade away something so important to him, but somehow, he found it within himself to do it, and he got what he wanted from it. He got what they all wanted. Somehow, Tommy managed to end their struggles in one fell swoop, and they’re not related, neither by blood nor by adoption or anything like that, but Wilbur thinks that this must be the sort of pride an older brother feels when watching the younger grow up, watching the younger go on and accomplish great things.

They are free, and it is because of Tommy. He feels like he’s on cloud nine. He feels like he could fly.

And then reality crashes back in.

Tommy didn’t tell him that he was planning this. Tommy didn’t tell him, might not have told anyone at all, and that means he strolled straight into the arms of their bitter enemies, people who might have killed him without a second thought. No one has died yet, and he always intended to keep it that way, but the thought of Tommy alone, at night, creeping his way into the belly of the beast, sends a chill down his spine.

Tommy could have died. Tommy could have died, and he wouldn’t have known until he woke up this morning, woke up late, and saw the message on his comm. TommyInnit was slain by Dream.

And then, another thought occurs to him: Tommy hasn’t come to him. Hasn’t come to brag, hasn’t even come to just tell him, to tell him that he’s just single-handedly won their independence. And that is not a Tommy-like thing to do, to let something like that go unremarked upon.

Something is wrong. Dream might have lied. He could have hurt Tommy. Tommy could be injured right now. He doesn’t even know for sure that he made it back.

Tommy gave up his discs for L’Manberg.

It still barely makes any sense to him. But there’s no time to make sense of it. He rushes back down the wall as quickly as he can manage, and then it’s off through their settlement, eyes darting around, hoping for a glimpse of him. He checks Tommy’s house, first, the ramshackle, makeshift thing he’s been sharing with Tubbo until they can get better buildings erected, and he’s not there, and Tubbo isn’t either. The camarvan turns up nothing. He’s considering leaving L’Manberg entirely, going to check by Tommy’s other house, the one built into the hill, when Tubbo comes up beside him.

“Morning, Wilbur,” he says, and then frowns. “You alright, man? You’re kind of pale.”

“Tubbo,” he says, and grabs him by the shoulders. Maybe a bit too emphatically, because he suddenly looks a bit alarmed, but he’ll be concerned with that later. “Tubbo, have you seen Tommy today?”

Tubbo’s frown deepens. “I was coming to see if you knew where he was,” he says. “He was being a bit off last night. Think he had a nightmare or something. But he’s not with you?”

“No, he’s not.” With every word out of Tubbo’s mouth, he feels his own panic grow. It is one thing for Tommy to hatch some sort of plot and not tell him. That is—well, it’s not fine, but Tommy doesn’t tell him everything. But to keep Tubbo out of the loop? To, presumably, visit him before leaving and yet still not tell Tubbo what was going on? It’s unlike him. Very unlike him.

“Okay, well, he’s got to be around here somewhere,” Tubbo reasons, his brows creased. “L’Manberg’s only so big. Should we go look for him together, then?”

“Right,” he says. He breathes, in and out. Tubbo’s a good kid. Very sensible. Very down to earth. And he’s right, of course. Tommy has to be around here somewhere. Any other possibility is out of the question. “Right, of course, let’s go look.”

So they do. They take a systematic approach, first checking all the most likely places and then combing every inch of their land in a grid formation. Tubbo’s suggestion, again. But that turns up nothing, either, and he can feel the panic creeping back in, because what if he actually didn’t make it home? What if he was out there in the dead of night, distraught and alone, and something took advantage of that? What if some mob looked at him and recognized him for an easy kill?

He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. There would have been a notification. But he could be injured somewhere, incapacitated, in pain and all alone, and he can’t let that happen, can’t let Tommy be hurt like that on his watch—

“Oh, wait,” Tubbo says, and pulls on his sleeve. “There he is.”

Wilbur jerks, and stares in the direction he’s pointing. And sure enough, Tommy’s there, right in front of the camarvan, and Eret too, it looks like. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt relief as pure as in this moment.

“Gods,” he breathes, and starts toward them, calling out, “Tommy!” And as he approaches, he gets the sense that something is off.

The first thing he notices is Eret’s expression. Pure, unbridled confusion, mixed with what perhaps might be something like anxiety. And the reason for that is clear enough: Tommy is holding their face very firmly in his hands. Which is bizarre, and Wilbur blinks a few times to make sure he’s seeing this right, because Tommy doesn’t—he doesn’t just do that. That is a gesture reserved only for people he is very, very close to. Tubbo gets that treatment. He’s been on the receiving end a couple of times himself, but not often. And he knows that Tommy and Eret get along just fine, are friends, just like all of them are, but he really didn’t think that the two of them were close enough for this. And judging by the look on Eret’s face, they didn’t think so either.

And Tommy is just standing there. Not speaking, not doing anything else. Just staring Eret in the eyes—or the glasses, rather—with a startling intensity.

“Tommy?” he asks, as soon as he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout. “Is everything alright?”

And Tommy startles. Withdraws his hands from Eret’s face as though he’s been burned. Turns to look at him, and Wilbur freezes in place, because just for a second—

There is fear on Tommy’s face.

He doesn’t understand what could have caused it. But it is undoubtedly there, only for a moment before it is smoothed away into something more neutral, if strained. And he hates it, hates it viscerally. He never wants Tommy to look at him with that expression on his face. It makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“Ayup,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds—rough. Like he hasn’t slept at all. “Morning Wil, Tubso.”

It’s casual. Far too casual for what Wilbur has just learned, for the panic he’s felt for the past half hour or so, unable to find this kid, this kid who is basically his brother, for all he pretends to protest against the moniker. Tommy is his family. Tommy is his family, and he risked everything last night, gave up everything for the sake of Wilbur’s everything, his grand ideals, his great vision, and now he’s standing there like nothing at all has changed.

“Ayup, Tommy,” Tubbo says. “You feeling any better this morning?”

At Tommy’s side, Eret shifts uneasily. Their expression is still one of concern, and Wilbur wonders exactly how long Tommy had been standing there like that, or what their interaction even was to get them to that point in the first place. It’s confusing. He’s confused.

“I’m great,” Tommy says, and—no, no, they’re not going to do this.

“Tommy,” he breaks in, and Tommy stiffens. “Tommy, last night, why did you—you just—why wouldn’t you tell me?”

It’s not quite what he should be asking, but it’s what comes out. And his voice is annoyingly desperate, and he hates showing off so many emotions like this, especially in a public space, but he can’t stop himself.

“What about last night?” Tubbo asks.

“Last night?” Eret echoes, and looks to Tommy, who blinks, his gaze darting between the three of them but landing on Wilbur most of all, and it’s like he’s nervous, almost, anxious about how he’s going to react, and—does he think he’s going to be angry about this? Perhaps he is, but only in the sense that he’s angry that Tommy took such a stupid risk. Below that anger, that anger born of fear, his pride burns bright. Surely, Tommy must know that?

“I—look, I knew you’d say no, alright?” he says. “But I knew that I could do it, so I did it. Simple as that.”

Simple as that, he says. As if he didn’t give up his greatest possessions. As if he didn’t win them the war, win them their freedom, win for them the reality of the values that this country was founded upon.

“What’s going on?” Eret asks.

“Yeah, does this have something to do with what you were saying to me the other night?” Tubbo says, and then looks at him. “Wilbur, what are you talking about? What happened last night?”

Tommy sighs, and says nothing. Wilbur swallows, and maintains eye contact with him as he speaks, searching for some kind of reaction.

“Dream came to me this morning,” he says, and does not miss Tommy’s flinch at the name, “not even an hour ago. He said—he said that we were free. That the war was over, that L’Manberg was its own nation, that he wanted to set up a meeting for diplomatic ties and whatnot. He called me the president. And, um, he said that you won it for us, Tommy.” He pauses, just for a moment, trying to get his emotions under control. He mostly fails. “He said that you came to him, last night, and you traded your discs to him for L’Manberg’s freedom.”

“You did what?”

Tubbo’s voice is dismayed and disbelieving all at once. And Tommy flinches, draws into himself a little, and that’s not the reaction Wilbur would have expected, but literally none of this is what he would have expected.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding quiet, a bit defeated. “Yeah, I—I did. I knew he’d take the deal. And I just wanted—I wanted the war to be over, yeah? Before anybody got hurt. And I knew this would work, so I just went and did it.”

“You couldn’t have, though,” he finds himself saying, before he even know what he’s going to say next. “Maybe you could’ve guessed that he’d go for it, but—Tommy, what if they’d killed you? Taken what they wanted and killed you right then and there? I just—” He breaks off running a hand through his hair, remembering too late that he’s got his beanie on. His fingers dislodge it, and he readjusts it with more fervor than is necessary. “I just can’t believe you did that without telling someone. Without telling—” Me, he wants to say, but holds himself back. No matter his feelings regarding Tommy, the deep respect and even deeper love that has grown in him over the course of their friendship, he doesn’t have a monopoly on Tommy’s attention. Perhaps he would have preferred for Tommy to tell him, but he’d have settled for Tommy telling anyone.

“What, are you worried?” Tommy says, and Wilbur only spares a second to wonder why he sounds so disbelieving, because—

“Yes,” he bursts out. “Gods, Tommy! Dream came to me with this and my first thought was that you’d died! Or that you hadn’t made it back, that you were out there somewhere, alone and needing help, and I didn’t—Tommy. Tommy, please tell me you thought of this. Please tell me, tell me that you were prepared, at least. Tell me that you—” He cuts himself off again, shaking his head hard, and under any other circumstance, he would be kicking himself for the display, for the outburst of emotion, for the lack of eloquence, but he thinks he can be excused for the moment.

Tommy’s mouth works for a second.

“Oh,” he finally says, weakly. “Um, right. Sorry, Wilbur. No, I had it handled, trust me. Sorry, I didn’t, um. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. Sort of just—did it, y’know?”

“It’s okay,” he says, even though it kind of isn’t, because Tommy’s continued to shrink into himself, and he doesn’t want that. “It’s okay, Tommy, I’m just glad you’re okay. And, gods above, what you did—” He steps forward, then, unable to help himself, and takes Tommy by the shoulders. Tommy stares at him with wide eyes. “I never would have asked that of you. I couldn’t believe it when Dream told me. And Tommy, I—I’m so, so sorry. But I am so damn proud of you. You hear me? So damn proud. I know what that must have taken, for you to do that. And I’m so fucking proud of you.” He smiles, then, wide and a bit watery. He’s not going to cry, he’s not, but emotion is rising up in his throat, thick and overpowering. “You did it, Tommy. You won us L’Manberg.”

Tommy returns the smile, if a bit tentatively. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess I did, didn’t I?” And then, the smile widens, and he puffs out his chest, putting his hands on his hips. “I hear that makes me the leader now. You’re speaking to Mister High President King Lord Innit, so show me the respect you owe me, eh?”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” he replies, but he’s laughing. “No, no, enough out of you, go, take Tubbo and go get yourself whatever you want out of our rations, you’ve fucking earned it, Toms.”

Tommy offers him one last grin, and then he ducks out of his grip, grabbing Tubbo’s hand and dragging him in the direction of their storage. He can hear Tubbo’s voice already, high and offended at the fact that Tommy went and did this without telling him, and perhaps all is right with the world after all. Some things do not change, even when everything else does.

He went to sleep last night a rebel, a general. He woke up a president. How about that?

“Do you think he’s alright?” Eret asks, and he starts, almost having forgotten they were there.

“Probably not,” he admits. “Not entirely. Those discs meant a lot to him. But we’ve got time to figure it out.” He turns to them, then, makes eye contact with himself in the reflection of their sunglasses. “What was he doing with you, before we walked up?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” they reply. “He came up to me, sort of yelling a bit? Punched me in the shoulder a few times. Couldn’t figure out what that was about. Then he thanked me for something, and then he hugged me, which was a bit odd, and then he did the, uh, thing, with the holding my face? And then you and Tubbo arrived. I honestly don’t know what any of that was about at all.”

He hums, and looks out after the boys, at their retreating backs. As he watches, Tommy slings an arm around Tubbo’s shoulders, his other hand gesticulating wildly.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says softly. “It’s Tommy. He makes it his job to be unpredictable.”

“You’re right about that,” Eret says. “I suppose congratulations are in order, President Soot?”

President Soot. It’s got a nice ring to it. He is the leader of a free country now, and it is thanks to the kid he sees as a younger brother, whether he’ll admit as much out loud or not. He is the leader of a free country, and that means there is much work to be done.

But he gives himself a moment longer, and smiles at the way the midday sun shines in Tommy’s hair.

It’s all for them, after all. Land is just land; as long as he can give his loved ones the freedom they deserve, that’s enough for him.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #dreamwastaken #tubbo #eret #/rp #cw swearing #cw death mention #cw injury mention #both of those are hypothetical #cat writes fic #long post #time travel au #surprise!! bet you weren't expecting a new chapter of this today!!!#:DDD

44 notes · View notes

asunshinepuff · 3 years

Text

Secrets of the Darkened Seas

🧜🏻‍♀️ Hello! Welcome to chapter one! This has been a long time coming and I apologize for the wait. Please give a follow to my co-author and best friend Luna ( @ladynightmare913 ) because this story would not be where it’s at without her help!

This chapter features one of my own ocs, and I really hope you like him! As always, a reminder that there is some lore included within this, however it will be explained over time so no worries. There’s no mention of lore for right now.

The Included lore on different types of merfolk will be taken from the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose. I will not take credit for it’s writing. It’s a childhood book of mine that I adore dearly and sincerely think you should all check out!

Anyways, that’s about it. I hope you enjoy! 🧜🏻‍♀️

Chapter 1: The Tail of Fates

The gulls glided across the scorching sky, the sun beating down on the portmen docking the ships that traveled across the sea. The merry drunken men who stumbled their way out of the taverns filled with jolly music made their way to the docks. Wincing at the harsh rays of sunlight, the sweltering heat and humidity offers no reprieve for the men who indulged in the advantages of liquid courage to disregard their tasks. Merchants bring in goods from the islands that seemed worlds away to a mere boy at the age of fourteen.

The boy had medium-length tawny brown hair, tanned skin from days working out in the sun, and very bright amber-colored eyes which seemed to capture the same essence of the crystalized equivalents of the color. Dressed in a rather modest attire appropriate for his status - consisting of a white long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves were rolled up due to the heat, light brown slacks, and dark brown boots. Around his waist was a light blue scarf, supposedly what he had been found swaddled in when he was just a babe. He could never find the strength to part with it. The guilt overpowered him.

“The beauties of the islands lads, best three days of me life mate.”

The group of three jolly sailors laughed in merriment as the sailor who was sharing his tale shoved the other two in embarrassment.

The boy had been sweeping the dock nearby the sailors, rolling his eyes at the stories. It was always the same. Seamen making port and bedding the beauties from the mysterious island that he himself has never traversed. Internally, he began counting the seconds till one of the sailors again made mentions of the maidens of the sea, and as always- it took only a count of ten.

“I wager the beauties on that port can’t hold a candle to their maidens of the sea.” A sailor with three scars slashed across his face grinned.

“Oh not this, again,” The first sailor, with a fancy for the beauties, with tattered clothes and blonde hair groaned. “Bloody hell mate, you say that cursed tale every time. The women of the sea, with a fishes tail.”

“Aye, and you’d best heed it.” The sailor with three scars eyes his mates in suspicion. “Lest you never return to land, drowned like a dog and fed to the fishes.”

“No one has seen those monsters for centuries mate. Let it go. It’s nothing but stories to scare sailors, nothing more.”

“No!” The sailor yells. “I’ve seen them! The war didn’t wipe them out. They were the ones who scarred me face! There ain’t anything like it, to hear the songs of those maidens. You try to pull away, to drown it out with your thoughts, but ya can’t. There is no escape, it invades your minds, pulling you to the sea and into their webbed claws!” He grumbles out as he touches his scarred face tenderly. As if the scars were fresh, open with fresh blood spilling.

“You lads wouldn’t stand a chance, I should be at the bottom of the sea, but these maidens be fickle things, they are.” He looks out to the sea, calm waves kissing the shore. “To see one, changes your fate. To hear one’s song, is your doom.”

The boy paused momentarily as he heard the scarred sailor's warning. His thoughts race across his mind before he returns to the present when he’s called.

“Oi boy!” A man from upon the ship called down, leaning overboard. “Come up here lad! There’s a job I need ye to take care of!”

The boy looked up to the adult man, he couldn’t discern fully from this far away the man’s appearance. The high rays of the sun give the wooden docks a shadow of coverage. He was rather reluctant to leave the cool reprieve, however, it would be worse if he neglected his duties of the port, “Be right there.”

Walking upon the loading dock to the deck of the rather large ship, it was difficult to fight the urge to look around in a strange awe, even though it’s appearance is rather haggard and beaten. Although he has spent many a day upon ships for moments at a time since beginning his work a few years back, there was a certain mystery behind each ship that entered the ports of this bustling town. Each ship held a story behind its experiences. Each cannon battle, the waters of the seven seas it has traversed, the storms it has survived possible destruction, treasures it has held and lead its captain’s to discover.

“Yes sir?” The boy looks up to the bulk of an angry looking man whose face always seemed to have a sneer. Even in his sleep. The bulk of a man was dressed in a shirt that looked two sizes too small, and a tattered grey coat that squeezed the man, fitting his frame with strain as his arms were always pulled back. His pants were faded from black to grey, his boots were old and worn. Smelling like a dead rat. His teeth were ghastly to gaze upon, yellow with brown stains, his breath could probably kill a man. His eyes were a beady black like the sharks that swam in the shallow waters, a bald head with black spots. A pity, he must’ve looked worse as a child. As most children do. He glowers at the scrawny boy before he looks away.

“Go search the taverns for this ships’ Captain. We leave at dusk. Blokes probably drunk beyond hell, feeling up the women.” He shakes his head as he waves the boy off with a mere wave of his hand.

With a nod in confirmation, the boy exited the deck and headed off in search of the tavern so that he may find the Captain of the ship, rather grateful to being away from the rather disgusting first mate. If that bulk of a man looked that haggard, he could only imagine the Captain with a shudder at the thought. In the distance, he could see another ship that seemed to be a practical stark contrast. The masts that were open, were as white as the very clouds that floated in the sky, the wooden haul was a rich brown mahogany, the railings were painted gold like the sun. The sailors looked well-groomed, their clothes neat and fitted to their frames.

The boy searched from tavern to tavern, until finally, he came across the Buccaneers' Oyster. With a sigh of exasperation, he opens the doors and enters the busy tavern hoping that this time he had finally found the correct one. The tavern was dark with dim lighting from the candles that were scattered about the establishment. The windows were the only source of natural sunlight that seeped into the tavern that reeked of alcohol and vomit. The sounds of clinking glassware and cheers from sailors echo all around, the soft giggling of women sitting on the laps of the drunkest of seamen. Ignoring the commotion, and his disgust at the reeking smells, he makes his way to the main counter where a man was the barkeep. The wall behind was lined with large kegs and the shelves were lined with clean pints.

The captain in question was a tall lanky man with a hooked nose, horrible teeth, a large mole on the side of his neck, tanned skin, and green eyes. His clothes were an absolute mess which could possibly be vomit, or mashed potatoes. The boy was very much hoping for the latter. A white shirt with a red stain, rum possibly, short brown pants, and his shoes seemed to have vanished. Hopefully, the shoes walked away themselves, saving what little dignity they had, and drowned themselves in the sea. The stench dying with them. Or the captain had lost his shoes in a gamble. That seemed more likely.

Taking a deep breath in preparation, he makes his way over to the back of the tavern so that he could finally fetch the man and get out of this place. The man seemed practically worse close up, if that was even possible. “Excuse me? Captain Barclay?” He asks, hoping to gain the drunken Captain’s attention and draw it away from the woman. “I was asked to fetch you by your first mate. And bring you back to your ship.”

The man makes a small noise of acknowledgment as he turns to look at the deck boy. His alcohol glazed eyes look over the small boy before he shrugs him off and turns the lady he had in his lanky finger. “Bugger off boy, the adults are talkin.’” His hand waves him off with the pint of rum that sloshed to the ground in his sluggish gestures. “Now where we?”

“Please sir, let me go. I do not work here. I am merely looking for my fiancé.” A pale soft face young lady pulls her hand to try to free herself from the seaman. Her soft brown curls bouncing as she turns her head to the boy. Her hazel eyes lock eyes with his, her skin pale from her bold green dress. Help me she mouths.

The boy’s eyes widen a small fraction, trying to figure out a way to help the woman out of her predicament. “Captain. I insist.” He repeats, his tone much more firm and without argument.

With a sneer, the lanky captain looked to the boy before he points at the boy with his pint. Standing up, he was two heads taller than the boy. “Listen boy,” he stumbles closer, the pint in his hands dropping what little rum it had to the floor. “I spent six months at sea, I ain’t about to let a lass like this slip past me, now runoff. Before I beat you.”

“You chose quite a profession that allows you to be at sea for months at a time, Captain.” He says, looking up at the man, “Guess there’s sacrifices to make now isn’t there? And if you actually listened with your ears rather than another part of your body, then you would understand that this lady has no interest in you. And is taken.”

“Why you little rat!” The man grips the boy's collar, forgetting the pint, dropping it to the floor, letting the lady go as he raises his fist. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“You’re really going to punch a child mate? How low can you get?” A voice interjects as a rather handsome young man walks over. The tall young man, around the age of twenty-one, had short tousled red-brown hair, fetching blue eyes, and light tanned skin. Dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt with a light brown vest on top, a burgundy red long buckled coat with bright red accents, dark brown slacks, and black boots. On his left hip, a wide looking sword was sheathed in solid black and red with gold accents.

“Who the bloody hell are you? Bugger off!”

“No one of consequence. Just let him go.”

“Why the hell would I do that, a good beaten ought to teach about being respectful to his elders!” He looks away and aims for a punch.

The man scoffs, “As if you’re worth giving respect. The boy was just doing his job.” He steps forward and grabs the man’s fist in a hard grip as it nears the boy. “If you want respect, then earn it.”

“Why you!” The man drops the boy and turns to punch the man who stopped him from giving the boy a lesson.

The man can’t help but roll his eyes with a sigh, “Oh for Heaven’s sake.” The drunk captain isn’t even able to reach him before he retaliates with a punch of his own, knocking the captain out cold. A satisfied grin falls upon his lips. The lady gasps before she quickly runs off after giving the man a quick thank you. The man turns to the boy.

“Are you alright there boy?”

The boy nods, looking up to the taller man who intervened. Why did he? He cannot help but wonder. Most people would've just ignored the ruckus and not bat an eye. “I’m alright. Thank you, Mr…”

“Sandoval, Quinn Sandoval. But please just call me Quinn.” He smiles down at the boy. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you boy now can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” He replies with a light chuckle, “My name’s Remus. Remus Lupin. It’s nice to meet you, Quinn.”

“Well, Remus, it’s nice to meet you as well.” He looks down to the unconscious captain with an exasperated sigh, lightly kicking his leg. “Best take him back to his ship eh?” He looks at Remus with mirth in his eyes before he walks over to the captain’s head, grabbing ahold one of his arms before pulling him up. “Grab his other arm will you? Let’s take him back to his ship. Although I doubt he will be useful.”

Remus nods quickly before he walks over to the other side, grabbing ahold of the other arm to help hold him up. “Doubt he will as well, to be frank.”

The pair carry the dunkard back to the docks without much strain. Aside from the occasional bump to the head. They walk up to the ship where the first mate sees them approaching, walking down the loading dock.

“What the bloody hell happened to him? I have been waitin’ here for hours boy!” The bulky man marches to Remus. His face red in anger.

“Well rather difficult to track down a man with this many taverns in this town isn’t it?” Quinn says in defense, looking down to the unconscious man before continuing an explanation, “Your Captain got himself plastered and in a tavern fight. I had to help the boy carry him back.” He glances at Remus and gives him a conspiratorial wink.

The first mate begrudgingly orders two men from the crew to take the captain onboard. He looks to the boy with a scowl. “What are ye waitin’ for, get back to work!”

Quinn frowns lightly as he looks to Remus. “You work the docks?”

Remus fights the urge to flinch at the hard scowl under the first mate’s gaze. He looks to Quinn at his question before nodding. “I do.”

Quinn can only nod once slowly in understanding. He looks to the first mate, then to the docks, then to Remus before he smiles. “Well not anymore.”

Remus’ eyes widen as he looks quizzically at the man he had just met. “What?”

“What the bloody hell are you talkin’ about.” The first mate growls out.

Quinn ignores the man as he looks over the young boy. “Tell me honestly Remus, would you rather work the docks for men like him, or come with me to my captain’s ship and actually live your life without regrets.” He looks back to the docks and the wrecked ship the bulky man sent the drunk captain to dock. “I know what I’d chose. And it wouldn’t be a life with little to no rewards.”

He looks back to Quinn with a skeptical look, “Why are you offering me this? You hardly know me. I could be a thief for all you know.”

Quinn smiles. “Because I like you, you have wit and you clearly are a hard worker. I have a good feeling about you.” He looks to the sea. “So, what will it be, Remus? A life of servitude, or a life of freedom?” He looks back to Remus.

Remus cannot help but smile in return, “Freedom.”

#wolstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #quinn sandoval #asunshinepuff oc #pirate captian #mermaid #pirate and mermaid au #alcohol cw #cw drinking #cw drunken #secrets of the darkened seas

63 notes · View notes

valhallanrose · 3 years

Text

Seven Devils

Astoria’s Cursebreaker arc picks up about five years after the events of Show Your Fangs, which you can find here along with the rest of their canon backstory.

Major thank you to @apprenticealec for letting me borrow some of her pirates for the next few installments of Astoria’s journey. Sorry to Rodrigo (and especially Jacqui) for getting Astoria inflicted upon them in the process.

Fic Title: Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine

2.1k. No CWs apply.

It was supposed to be like any other transport.

The sea and the sky were near perfect mirrors, as if the Fae’s Folly sailed on an ocean of stars that carried them toward the Sea Palace. It was a long journey, but one that its crew had made many times before, through the Frozen Sea and up into the Persephia when the Scourgelands were too perilous to cross by land. It was the preferred route to reach the western side of the continent, rather than risk the Strait of Sirens to the north, and they’d faced minimal skirmish on prior trips.

But the Folly was under contract, and a demanding one at that, meaning some had let their guard slip when the rare chance came to rest.

It would be too late when they heard the pounding of drums over the sea, rousing the crew from slumber and drawing them out on the deck to investigate, then sending it into chaos as they tried to open the sails and escape the ship in their shadow.

And then El Corazon Sangrante split the night with cannon fire.

* * * * *

The Fae’s Folly wasn’t equipped for conflict, and surrender came quickly - about when the captain realized the winds would give them enough momentum to keep moving, but not necessarily to get out of range. So he chose, rather than risk the lives of his crew, to wave the metaphorical white flag. He’d been instructed by the harbormaster to preserve the vessel at all costs - the goods could be replaced, or at the very least they could recoup the losses, but a damaged ship was far more painful for a trading port’s business in the grand scheme.

The captain had watched with tongue between his teeth as pirates boarded his ship, some remaining above deck to watch his crew while the others scattered across the ship to raid its cargo hold. One, a tall man with dark skin and equally dark hair, had asked him where his manifests were - information which he’d given, begrudgingly, when he eyed the hand settled on the pistol holstered at his hip.

Another would board after a few moments - wearing, of all things, a spotted fur coat - at around the same time the previous man emerged from the captain’s quarters, flipping through sheafs of paper with maps tucked under his arm.

“Jacqui, could this have been more underwhelming?” He almost pouted as he fluffed the collar of his coat, lifting a hand to keep his hat firmly planted on his head.

“You’re the one who saw a ‘big ship’ and insisted that we see if it ‘had anything good’, Rodrigo.” The man, presumably Jacqui, made air quotes as he read without so much as looking up. “Which, no, it seems you picked a common cargo ship. No matter. Never hurts to resupply -”

He paused mid sentence, eyes fixed on a line on the manifest long enough to make the fur-coated man step closer and find what had caught his attention.

- Personal gift from Baroness Canonach of Kintyre to Lady Chiara D’Oria.

Jacqui’s pistol came free of its holster as he strode across the deck, tucking the weapon beneath the captain of the Folly’s chin and giving him a stormy look.

“Tell me something.” He said quietly, gold eyes dark as Rodrigo’s hand fell to rest neatly on the hilt of his blade beneath that fur coat. “What exactly are you delivering to the D’Orias?”

* * * * *

The sun beamed across Astoria’s face where they stood at Cliffs of Balgaire, wild breeze ruffling the hem of their coat around their knees and carrying the smell of salt up from where they lashed at the base of the cliffs far below. One leather-clad hand pushed their bangs back while the other held the pages of the letter firmly in hand, eyes flickering over the ink as time ticked by.

Sachairi Canonach, the cousin closest to them in age and next in line for the barony of Kintyre after Astoria themself, had called them back to Rosinmoor. After a long-winded bout of pleasantries, he’d asked them to come when their project in the Bulan mountains had ended for the season, and that they assist him in a personal favor.

They agreed - on the condition they met near Mistwatch, for returning to the family estate meant dealing with their mother, and they wanted absolutely nothing to do with her for the time being.

So with the shadow of the ruined Canonach castle at their back, Astoria turned their face to the sun, closing their eyes to let the warmth seep into their skin. There were a few long, peaceful moments, where all they could hear was the roar of the sea and the call of the birds before a voice drew their focus back to the rest of the world.

“You know, I’m just glad we didn’t plan to meet in the castle. I know you agreed to meet me here, but this place has always given me the heebie jeebies. I’ll never understand why you loved it so much when we were kids.”

Astoria turned, smile lifting the corners of their lips as they stepped forward to meet his embrace halfway.

“You’d hate me if I gave you the history lesson.” They teased, burying their face in the tartan draped across his shoulder and chuckling as he thumped them on the back a few times.

“I probably would.” Sachairi leaned back, giving them a broad smile as his hands fell on their shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “You look well. How was the trip back? I’m assuming you took the Emerald Sea into the Strait of Seals, and then into Rosafearn?”

“Yeah, it’s probably the quickest route. Especially when my travel is funded by the clan, who apparently made it very clear to the quartermaster and the captain that the ‘heir to Kintyre was going to need efficient travel south’.”

They gave him a displeased look, and Sachairi at least had the decency to look sheepish when they folded their arms across their chest. “I couldn’t decide if I wanted to stay up north or come here and skelp you myself for pulling that. You know I hate it when people throw their titles and names around to get their way, why would you make me out to be a hypocrite by doing the same?”

Sachairi’s hands lifted in a gesture of surrender as Astoria huffed, shoving their hands in their pockets and giving him something of a glowering look.

“I know, I know, and I’m sorry, Astoria - but I promise you I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it was necessary. I need your help with something a little time critical, but I couldn’t risk the letter getting intercepted on the way.”

“Well, start talking. Your personal favor is on thin ice for now.”

Wordlessly, Sachairi offered his arm, and Astoria tucked their hand neatly into the crook of his elbow before they began to walk the overgrown path that circled the walls of Mistwatch. They waited patiently for him to gather his words as they walked, the wind sweeping the hair away from both of their faces as he heaved a sigh.

“A few weeks ago, the baroness ordered a small shipment of jewels and ore be sent to the Sea Palace - supposedly a sampling to attract business from the D’Oria family, but I digress. It left aboard the Fae’s Folly with a full load of cargo, the rest of the shipment made up of the standard goods, but when the Folly returned to port, the captain informed us the ship had been raided by pirates out in the Sea of Persephia.”

“And you don’t believe that.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe it - the Folly’s been surveyed and definitely sustained an attack, but I’m not confident that it was a simple raid. The only things missing from the manifests were basic supplies any sailor would use, some regional maps of the Frozen Sea and the western Scourgelands, and the jewels. From what little knowledge of the family I have, I trust the D’Orias as far as I can throw them.”

Astoria let out a small snort at that, the sound swallowed by the wind as they tucked a few pieces of hair behind their ears. “If they’re friends of my mother, I’d be inclined to agree. So what’s my role in this, Sachairi?”

He slowed to a stop, turning to face Astoria with something of a serious expression on his face. His hands fell to rest on their shoulders, giving them a squeeze as he held their gaze, not even moving to brush curly hair out of his eyes when the wind blew them out of place.

“I want you to find out if the raiders were working on behalf of the D’Orias. Of all our family, I trust you most to both keep this off Senga’s radar for now, and to keep yourself safe in the process. If the jewels were stolen by true pirates, they can keep them, we have enough at our disposal to manage trade without them and I don’t want you in more danger than you have to be. But if they were stolen by the D’Orias or on their behalf, I want you to gather whatever evidence you can to prove it so that we can nip this relationship in the bud. The baroness won’t believe it unless I can put it on the table in front of her, so I don’t want to level any accusations without knowing exactly what I’m walking into.”

Astoria heaved a long breath, mulling over the proposition for a little while as they tugged on the beaded chain on their glasses.

“You do realize that this is wildly out of my skill set.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s just within it.” Sachairi chuckled, reaching forward to push their glasses back up their nose. “Have you not made a life for yourself in the pursuit of knowledge and answers? Perhaps not in this manner, but I have faith that you’ll find a way to make it work. You’ve always been the most stubborn of all of us.”

They scoffed, folding their arms across their chest and giving him a sour look, but he only smiled and took a step back to give them space. A few moments of rustling in his satchel eventually turned up a neatly folded stack of papers, bound together with ribbon and stamped with the green wax crest of the Canonachs. Sachairi held it out, brow raised and trying to maintain a stoic face, but they could see the way his lips threatened to lift at the corners in a sort of knowing smile.

“...fine. Fine, I’ll do it, but you owe me. And you have to answer to Myrna if I get hurt during this shit, because she’s not getting my hide for it.” They snatched the papers out of his hand, smacking him lightly on the wrist with them before popping the seal. Idly they flicked through them, brows pulling together as they read through the documents in hand.

“You’ve already booked my passage? What would you have done if I refused?”

“Never crossed my mind.” The younger Canonach turned, beginning to pick his way down the path that would lead him eventually back to where he left his horse. “I can always take the hit from the cost if you decide not to go, we both know that the clan has more gold in its coffers than we could spend in all our lifetimes combined. But you’ve never been one to turn down the chance for something new, have you?”

They stood there for a long, long moment, eyes fixed on the point where he eventually disappeared over the hill and travel papers clasped tightly in hand.

He wasn’t wrong, there. They’d spent the nearly five years since they’d been home traveling the world, only staying in one place for a few weeks at a time and diving straight into archaeological work that buried them up to their waist in busy work, but something like this? They couldn’t remember the last time the idea of a journey had inspired such a thrill in them, even if they didn’t want to admit it.

They still loved their job, they had no doubts about that. It was monotonous sometimes, day in and day out in burial mounds and crypts or seemingly endless hikes to the middle of nowhere, but...was that really all they wanted from life? Was that really all they wanted to do, after fighting for some sense of freedom for so long?

With a sigh, they shoved the papers into the pocket inside their coat, turning to look back out over the broad blue sea to where it met the sky on the horizon.

They supposed they’d just have to find out.

#astoria fenharrow #i'm vibrating #the brainworms are off the string and doing their dance

7 notes · View notes

ladynightmare913 · 3 years

Text

Secrets of the Darkened Seas

Welcome to Chapter one! Apologies for the delays but life threw responsibilities. Thank you for your patience and a thank you to my co-author and dear best friend Olivia ( @asunshinepuff ), if it wasn’t for her, this story would not exist.

This chapter includes the OC that my friend Olivia has created and I sincerely hope you like him. Hints of mermaid lore is included within the chapter of different types of merfolk that were inspired by the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose. We are not taking credit of her work. Now enjoy.

Chapter 1: The Tail of Fates

The gulls glided across the scorching sky, the sun beating down on the port-men docking the ships that traveled across the sea. The merry drunken men who stumbled their way out of the taverns filled with jolly music made their way to the docks. Wincing at the harsh rays of sunlight, the sweltering heat and humidity offers no reprieve for the men who indulged in the advantages of liquid courage to discard their tasks. Merchants bring in goods from the islands that seemed worlds away to a mere boy at the age of 14. The boy had short tawny brown hair, tanned skin from days working out in the sun, and very bright amber colored eyes which seemed to capture the same essence of the crystallized equivalents of the color. Dressed in a rather modest attire appropriate for his status - consisting of a white long sleeved shirt, the sleeves were rolled up due to the heat, light brown slacks and dark brown boots. Around his waist was a light blue scarf, supposedly what he had been found swaddled in when he was just a babe. He could never find the strength to part with it. The guilt overpowered him.

“The beauties of the islands lads, best three days of me life mate.”

“Three days of only looking at the dames.” The sailor snorts a retort as he leans against a pillar on the dock. “ They probably ran off in the other direction just at the mere sight of your pathetic self.” The group of three jolly sailors laughed in merriment as the sailor who was sharing his tale shoved the other two in embarrassment.

“I wager the beauties on that port can’t hold a candle to their maidens of the sea.” A sailor with three scars slashed across his face grinned.

“Oh not this, again,” The first sailor, with a fancy for the beauties, with tattered clothes and blonde hair groaned. “ Bloody hell mate, you say that cursed tale every time. The women of the sea, with a fishes tail.”

“ Aye, and you’d best heed it.” The sailor with three scars eyes his mates in suspicion. “Lest you never return to land, drowned like a dog and fed to the fishes.”

“No one has seen those monsters for centuries mate. Let it go. It’s nothing but stories to scare sailors, nothing more.”

“ No!” The sailor yells. “ I’ve seen them! The war didn’t wipe them out. They were the ones who scarred me face! There ain’t anything like it, to hear the songs of those maidens. You try to pull away, to drown it out with your thoughts, but ya can’t. There is no escape, it invades your minds, pulling you to the sea and into their webbed claws!” He grumbles out as he touches his scarred face tenderly. As if the scars were fresh, open with fresh blood spilling.

“ You lads wouldn’t stand a chance, I should be at the bottom of the sea, but these maidens be fickle things, they are.” He looks out to the sea, calm waves kissing the shore. “To see one, changes your fate. To hear one’s song, is your doom.”

The boy paused momentarily as he heard the scarred sailors warning. His thoughts race across his mind before he returns to the present when he’s called.

“Oi boy!” A man from upon the ship called down, leaning overboard. “Come up here lad! There’s a job I need ye to take care of!”

Walking upon the loading dock to the deck of the rather large ship, it was difficult to fight the urge to look around in a strange awe, even though it’s appearance is rather haggard and beaten. Although he has spent many a day upon ship for moments at a time since beginning his work a few years back, there was a certain mystery behind each ship that entered the ports of this bustling town. Each ship held a story behind its experiences. Each cannon battle, the waters of the seven seas it has traversed, the storms it has survived destruction, treasures it has held and lead its captain’s to discover.

With a nod in confirmation, the boy exited the deck and headed off in search of the tavern so that he may find the Captain of the ship, rather grateful to being away from the rather disgusting first mate. If that bulk of a man looked that haggard, he could only imagine the Captain with a shudder at the thought. In the distance, he could see another ship that seemed to be a practical stark contrast. The masts that were open, were as white as the very clouds that floated in the sky, wooden haul was a rich brown mahogany, the railings were painted gold like the sun. The sailors looked well groomed, their clothes neat and fitted to their frames.

The boy searched from tavern to tavern, until finally he came across the Buccaneers' Oyster. With a sigh of exasperation, he opens the doors and enters the busy tavern hoping that this time he had finally found the correct one. The tavern was dark with dim lighting from the candles that were scattered about the establishment. The windows were the only source of natural sunlight that seeped into the tavern that reeked of alcohol and vomit. The sounds of clinking glassware and cheers from sailors echo all around, the soft giggling of women sitting on the laps of the drunkest of seamen. Ignoring the commotion, and his disgust at the reeking smells, he makes his way to the main counter where a man was the barkeep. The wall behind was lined with large kegs and the shelves were lined with clean pints.

“Excuse me. Do you happen to know if Captain Barclay is here?” The boy says, raising his voice over the loud cheering of the sailors in their merriment. The bar keeper doesn’t even spare the boy a glance as he simply points to the back of the tavern where a man was sitting, well more falling off his chair than anything, as he smiled stupidly at a lady. The captain in question was a tall lanky man with a hooked nose, horrible teeth, a large mole on the side of his neck, tanned skin and green eyes. His clothes were an absolute mess which could possibly be vomit, or mashed potatoes. The boy was very much hoping for the latter. A white shirt with a red stain, rum possibly, short brown pants and his shoes seemed to have vanished. Hopefully the shoes walked away themselves, saving what little dignity they had and drowned themselves in the sea. The stench dying with them. Or the captain had lost his shoes in a gamble. That seemed more likely.

Taking a deep breath in preparation, he makes his way over to the back of the tavern so that he could finally fetch the man and get out of this place. The man seemed practically worse close up in person, if that was even possible. “Excuse me? Captain Barclay?” He asks, hoping to gain the drunken Captain’s attention and draw it away from the women. “I was asked to fetch you by your first mate. And bring you back to your ship.”

The man makes a small noise of acknowledgment as he turns to look at the deck-boy. His alcohol glazed eyes look over the small boy before he shrugs him off and turns the lady he had in his lanky finger. “Bugger off boy, the adults are talkin.’” His hand waves him off with the pint of rum that sloshed to the ground in his sluggish gestures. “Now where we?”

The boy’s eyes widen a small fraction, trying to figure out a way to help the woman out of her predicament. “Captain. I insist.” He repeats, his tone much more firm and without argument.

With a sneer the lanky captain looked to the boy before he points at the boy with his pint. Standing up, he was two heads taller than the boy. “Listen boy,” he stumbles closer, the pint in his hands dropping what little rum it had to the floor. “ I spent six months at sea, I ain’t about to let a lass like this slip past me, now run off. Before I beat you.”

“You chose quite a profession that allows you to be at sea for months at a time, Captain.” He says, looking up at the man “Guess there’s sacrifices to make now isn’t there? And if you actually listened with your ears rather than another part of your body, then you would understand that this lady has no interest in you. And is taken.”

“Why you little rat!” The man grips the boy's collar, forgetting the pint, dropping it to the floor, letting the lady go as he raises his fist. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“You’re really going to punch a child mate? How low can you get?” A voice interjects, as a rather handsome young man walks over. The tall young man had short tousled red-brown hair, fetching blue eyes and light tanned skin. Dressed in a black long sleeved shirt, burgundy red long buckled coat with bright red accents, dark brown slacks and black boots. On his left hip, a wide looking sword was sheathed in solid black with gold accents.

“Who the bloody hell are you? Bugger off!”

“My name is of no importance. Just let him go.”

“Why the hell would I do that, a good beaten ought to teach about being respectful to his elders!” He looks away and aims for a punch.

“Why you!” The man drops the boy and turns to punch the man who stopped him from giving the boy a lesson.

“Are you alright there boy?”

The boy nods, looking up to the taller man who intervened. Why did he? He cannot help but wonder. Most people would've just ignored the ruckus and not bat an eye. “I’m alright. Thank you Mr…”

“Sandoval, Quinn Sandoval. But please just call me Quinn.” He smiles down at the boy. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you boy now can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” He replies with a light chuckle, “My name’s Remus. Remus Lupin. It’s nice to meet you, Quinn.”

Remus nods quickly before he walks over to the other side, grabbing ahold of the other arm to help hold him up. “Doubt he will as well, to be frank.”

“What the bloody hell happened to him? I have been waitin’ here for hours boy!” The bulky man marches to Remus. His face red in anger.

The first mate begrudgingly orders two men from the crew to take the captain onboard. He looks to the boy with a scowl. “What are ye waitin’ for, get back to work!”

Quinn frowns lightly as he looks to Remus. “You work the docks?”

Remus fights the urge to flinch at the hard scowl under the first mate’s gaze. He looks to Quinn at his question before nodding. “I do.”

Quinn can only nod once slowly in understanding. He looks to the first mate, then to the docks, then to Remus before he smiles. “ Well not anymore.”

Remus’ eyes widen as he looks quizzically to the man he had just met. “What?”

“ What the bloody hell are you talkin’ about.” The first mate growls out.

Quinn ignores the man as he looks over the young boy. “Tell me honestly Remus, would you rather work the docks for men like him, or come with me to my captain’s ship and actually live your life without regrets.” He looks back to the docks and the wrecked ship the bulky man sent the drunk captain to doc. “I know what I’d chose. And it wouldn’t be a life with little to no rewards.”

Remus looks out to the sea beyond the docked ships, watching the sun’s rays reflect upon the blue waking waters as he contemplates. This man hardly knows him, practically just met him about half an hour ago, and yet he’s offering him a chance to sail? A chance to leave this place? How can someone be this trusting? He looks back to Quinn with a skeptical look, “Why are you offering me this? You hardly know me. I could be a thief for all you know.”

Quinn smiles. “ Because I like you, you have wit and you clearly are a hard worker. I have a good feeling about you.” He looks to the sea. “ So, what will it be, Remus? A life of servitude, or a life of freedom?” He looks back to Remus.

Remus cannot help but smile in return, “Freedom.”

#wolfstar remus lupin sirius black remus x sirius pirate captain mermaid pirate and mermaid au #quinn sandoval #asunshinepuff oc

2 notes · View notes

lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Crowley’s Safe Space (Rated T)

Summary:

When Crowley is upset or angry or scared and needs his husband's comfort, he conjures up a storm as a wordless way of telling his husband that he needs him. ... And this one's a doozy. (1617 words)

(AO3)

“No, no, no! Absolutely not! I have no idea why you would even entertain such a ludicrous proposal!” Aziraphale slams a book down on a stack in haste, then pauses his rant to double check that he didn’t accidentally dislodge the binding.

“It’s one and done, angel,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and miracling the antique book back to mint condition. “After that, they’ll never bother us again.”

“They don’t bother us now!”

“Yeah, but they’re planning on it, aren’t they?”

“After ten years?”

“They say they’ve got us figured out. How we slipped past getting executed? They’ve gone back to calling me a traitor, but they say they’re going to make you pay!”

“And you believed them!?” Aziraphale walks over to his desk to fetch another book, shaking his head the entire way. “Crowley, they’re demons! They lie! That’s what demons do!”

“Whether they are or aren’t won’t matter because they’re coming back with Hellfire! They’re going to burn your bookshop to the ground with you in it, and this time, we don’t have the Antichrist to miracle everything back together!”

“I’ll set up protections. Blessings. I’ll hose the walls in Holy Water if I have to ...”

“Great. That’ll definitely keep me out!”

“… then we’ll go to your place. Hide out there.”

“You don’t think they won’t look there the second they don’t find you here?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snaps, turning on his demon with fire in his eyes. “I refuse to bend to the will of hooligans, whether they’re demons or not! I’ve been threatened before! I’m an angel! I can look after myself!”

“Not against this, all right?” Crowley closes the gap between them, itching to touch him, to hold him, to shake him, to make him see … but he keeps his distance. “We’re not talking about one demon, Aziraphale! They’ve got your number. They’ve been watching us. They’ll wait us out, find a time when you’re alone. And then ...” His lower lip wobbles. It’s obvious to Aziraphale that there’s more he’s not telling, something worse than Hellfire they intend on unleashing “… they’ll come for you.”

“Then don’t you think it would be stupid to go off on some foolish caper and give them the chance? Maybe this is all a set-up! Did you ever think of that? Maybe they’re planning on getting you out of the way so that they can enact this plan, and you’re playing right into their hands!”

“I have to try,” Crowley says, nearly pleading. “I have to take that chance. Can’t you just … pop back up to Heaven for a spell till it’s over?”

“No!” Aziraphale’s eyes nearly dislodge from their sockets at the suggestion. “No, I can’t! That’s part of what leaving Heaven and Hell meant! We left! Maybe you can go back, but I can’t! Michael will have me in chains before I’m off the escalator!”

“I can put you outside of time! I’ve done it before.”

“That might be an even more insane idea than me going back to Heaven!”

“There has to be some place you can hide while I suss this out!”

“There’s no place, Crowley! There’s no place to go, so I’m going to stay right here!”

“Grrr!” Crowley throws his head back, hands in his hair, ready to pull it out at the roots. “You’re not listening! Why can’t you just listen to reason for once!?”

“Start talking reason and I’ll listen! Till then, I can’t give you my blessing to do this! We’ll think of something else! Anything else!”

“There is nothing elssse!” Crowley growls, storming down the hallway to Aziraphale’s back room. “You’d know that if you were lissstening! If you weren’t ssso … ssso … damned ssstubborn!”

“That makes two of us then,” Aziraphale mutters, going back to his books. He stares at the cover of a particularly pricey novel and wonders if he shouldn’t start packing some of them away in his safe for the time being. Hellfire can probably incinerate a mortal made safe, so he’d need to bless it to be sure.

He tuts and sets the book aside. He refuses to have his life upheaved, to live in fear because of this silliness. It’s ridiculous to think that after all this time Hell would want Crowley back. He and Crowley have managed to stay low key, keep out of everyone’s hair. Why now? Why after all this time?

Possibly because, since Aziraphale has started working on the angelic projects he’s always wanted to work on and not the trivial things Gabriel drudged up for him, church attendance has started to go up in London and crime has gone down. Gang violence in particular is at an all-time low. Gabriel would never admit that it had anything to do with him, of course, but Aziraphale read all about it in the Celestial Observer. It even referred to him, covertly, as Rogue Angel A.

He kind of liked that. Wanted to get business cards printed up.

But that’s probably why Heaven doesn’t send him memos regarding frivolous miracles anymore, seeing as he’s become their secret weapon on Earth.

Crowley, in contrast, has backed off on his demonic temptations. He still does the odd one or two, but not at the level that he used to. He’s also had a hand in thwarting several demons who have tried to move in on, what he sees as, his territory.

As far as their little area of the world is concerned, Hell isn’t getting the numbers it used to.

And apparently they’re getting desperate.

A crack of thunder sounds outside, loud and close – too close for comfort. Aziraphale looks out the window. The sky is blue and clear. Cloudless, even. It’s a picture perfect summer day. Nevertheless, people are running into shops and down the street, trying to avoid the sudden unseasonal rain. A bolt of lightning streaks overhead, turning the sky into a blinding flash of gold, followed by another clap of thunder so loud and so close, people start screaming. Car alarms go off.

Aziraphale sighs.

He flips the sign on his shop from open to closed. He throws the locks and shuts the blinds.

Then he walks to the back room.

He finds his demon on the sofa. He’d expected him to be drinking, but he’s just sitting with his head in his hands; his long, fire-red hair fallen in front of his face. He sniffles and another clap of thunder sounds overhead like a cannon shot, powerful enough that it shakes the bookshop.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Can you please stop? You’re scaring the mortals.”

“I don’t give a shit about them,” Crowley grumbles into his palms. “I’m trying to protect my husband.”

Aziraphale joins him on the sofa. He takes the chance that Crowley might scoot away, but he doesn’t. That, of course, was the purpose of the storm all along.

To draw Aziraphale in here.

Their first meeting in the Garden of Eden has always remained, in Crowley’s mind, a turning point. He counts Aziraphale shielding him from the rain as the first time anyone has ever performed a selfless act on his behalf. He doesn’t even consider his own creation a selfless act. Quite on the contrary. He was created for a purpose, and when that purposed changed, he wasn’t given any say in the matter.

The only being who has ever done Crowley a kindness with no concern for themselves has been Aziraphale.

But from that first day forward, storms have always reminded him of Aziraphale, no matter where he was, no matter how long it had been since they’d seen one another.

Aziraphale is Crowley’s safe space. Even now, when Crowley is frustrated with him, furious with him, he needs him.

He needs his shelter from the storm.

So he created a storm to remind him.

“That’s funny,” the angel says, wrapping Crowley up in his snowy white wing and drawing him closer. “I’m doing the same thing.”

“I won’t let them get to you,” Crowley whispers, on the verge of frustrated, heartbroken tears. “I don’t care what they do to me. I won’t let them lay a finger on you.”

“Well, how about we take a page from your old contingency plan and leave for a little while? Together?”

“And go where?” Crowley asks sarcastically. “You said there was nowhere to go.”

“I seem to remember someone mentioning Alpha Centauri as a good place to hide. Lots of spare planets up there. No one would even notice us.”

“Are you … are you serious?” Crowley says with a giddy hiccup. “You … you mean it? You’d go?”

“Would you come with me?”

“Of course, I’m coming with you! What kind of stupid question is …?” A heavy sob cuts Crowley short. He buries his face in his angel’s chest, shaking arms wrapped around his torso, anchoring him to hope. The storm continues to rage outside as Crowley cries but Aziraphale doesn’t mention it – doesn’t mention the terrified populous running for cover as a tree down the block gets struck by lightning and goes up in flames, doesn’t mention the news trucks gathering down the street to record this phenomenon since the storm seems to be centered over Soho and Soho alone, doesn't mention the fish and the frogs that have begun to fall from the sky. He simply holds his demon, wraps him in his warmth and his love, and lets him cry until the rain dries up and the sun shines bright again.

“There, there,” Aziraphale says softly. “It’ll be all right. We’ll escape this strange weather as soon as possible. I promise. I hear Alpha Centauri is positively lovely this time of year.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #frankie writes

228 notes · View notes

jamesmydeer · 5 years

Text

royal raffoler. iii

sirius x royal! reader

notes: guess who’s actually in this part? that’s right, sirius orion. thank you to everyone who’s been reading this, I appreciate you greatly. let me know what you guys think!

word count: 1.5k

warning: none

masterlist

series masterlist

As the sun rose, a stream of light broke through y/n’s curtains and assaulted her peaceful sleep. Frantically blinking, she pulled the covers over her head and attempted to pick up on her dream where she left off. Her plans were disturbed when a voice she did not have the patience for so early in the morning came from her doorway.

“Pst, sis, are you awake?” Harry whisper-yelled across her room, assaulting her ears.

“No,” she spoke, voice muffled by the covers.

“Good,” he retorted, walking to her window and drawing the curtains.

“Hey! You know, you’re not being very nice to me on my birthday,” she spoke, popping up from underneath her covers and shooting Harry an unamused look.

Harry glared jokingly at her. “Well, I guess you don’t want to know the great news I have so graciously volunteered to climb innumerable flights of stairs to relay to you.”

This caused y/n to sit up straight in her bed and make puppy dog eyes at her brother.

“Please tell me,” she begged, trying to look as sad as possible.

“As of eight hours ago you are 16. No more puppy dog eyes,” Harry scoffed. “But, if you really want to know so terribly, I’ll tell you. You got–”

“Y/n Margery’s here.” William yelled from outside your door. Y/n groaned and rolled out of bed, slipping on some socks, knowing the floor in the foyer would be unbearably cold. She turned to her brother, who was sporting a suggestive smile aimed towards the oldest Windsor sibling.

“What are you making that face for?” Y/n questioned, looking at her brothers in a bewildered manner.

“Margery’s here,” Harry winked at his sister, before turning around and high fiving William. The two ran down the stairs, y/n chasing after them.

“That’s revolting! You’re both absolute tossers you know.” She yelled, almost tripping down the stairs.

“Y/n Windsor!”

Y/n cringed at this and turned around, meeting two stern eyes burning into her own. “Sorry mother.”

Margery placed her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter. Y/n elbowed her in the side, not finding her mother scolding her like a child very funny.

“If you three are done reeking havoc amongst the palace, I would like to start our breakfast.” Princess Diana spoke, throwing a warning glare at her sons. William must not have caught it, because while his mother was glaring at him, he was smirking and wiggling his eyebrows at his younger sister’s teacher.

“Numpty,” y/n mouthed at him, before being pulled away to the dining room by the center of her brothers’ attentions.

“I thought I wouldn’t be graced by your presence for another month,” y/n teased, pulling the chair out for the older woman.

“Well, today is a big day for you. I remember my 16th birthday.”

“What did you do?” Y/n inquired.

“Nothing,” Margery smiled down at the young girl.

“Ugh, that sounds wonderful!” Y/n cried out in envy. There was always an extravagant party or a royal banquet or public appearance; she could never just do nothing.

“You’re very strange, you know that? Most little girls would kill to be a princess,” Margery informed the youngest Windsor.

“Yeah yeah. They want the palace, not the paperwork.”

———————————————————————

“Harry, what was the important thing you had to tell me this morning?” Y/n queried, trying to stray the subject from ‘becoming a woman’.

Harry turned to his mother, feeling as if it was not his place to inform his younger sister of the big news. Princess Diana coughed, before standing and drawing the attention of the table.

“Y/n, I have some very exciting news to tell you,” she smiled, y/n’s nerves growing with every knowing glance at her. From beside her, Margery grabbed y/n’s hand and smiled giddily at her.

“This year, since you’re getting older and… more mature,” Princess Diana started, cutting her eyes at her daughter, whose previous actions contradicted the ‘mature’ statement. “We’ve decided to allow you to attend Hogwarts.”

Y/n’s eyes grew wide. She stood up quickly from her chair and reached over the table, wrapping her hands around her mother’s neck.

“Merlin’s beard!” Y/n yelled out in excitement.

“That’s the spirit!” Margery replied, a proud smile across her face.

“Who’s Merlin?” questioned Harry and William at the same time, causing the two witches in the room to give eachother a knowing look and snicker.

———————————————————————

As Euphemia set the table alongside her husband, two loud sets of footsteps could be heard running down the stairs and through the hall. James, intending to beat Sirius to the kitchen, pushed Sirius into the wall and continued running through the entryway.

“AH! I’m dying! Help!” Sirius yelled rolling around and groaning on the floor. As Fleamont peaked his head around the corner, Sirius sat up straight.

“Morning handsome,” Sirius spoke, causing Fleamont to roll his eyes and return to his chair. Upon entering the kitchen, Sirius gave James a swift smack to the back of the head. Euphemia, clearly having seen this, pretended as though she hadn’t, earning a betrayed glance from her son.

Sirius walked up behind Euphemia and kissed her cheek. “Don’t you look ravishing this morning.”

“Thank you dear. Would you be a doll and fetch the newspaper for me?” Euphemia requested, causing the two boys to share knowing glances at the word ‘fetch’.

“Of course I will,” Sirius spoke, leaving the room to find the paper.

“I know you saw him hit me.” James accused.

“Who hit you J?” she mocked ignorance. James scoffed, causing his mother to wink at him over her coffee cup. James opened his mouth to further scrutinize his mother, but was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

“I’m back. Did you miss me?” Sirius strutted in.

“Terribly,” James retorted sarcastically. Both boys laughed, Sirius plopping down next to James and sliding the paper across the table to Euphemia.

“So boys, who do you thinks gonna have the best record this year?” Fleamont questioned the two about quidditch.

“Chudley Cannons,” Sirius answered without skipping a beat, prompting James to spit out his food in laughter. Sirius joined him, Fleamont smiling and shaking his head at the pair.

When James and Sirius finally calmed down a bit, wiping tears from their eyes, they turned back to Fleamont.

“Puddlemore,” they said in unison. Fleamont shook his head and went back to his breakfast, only to be interrupted by a loud gasp coming from his wife. The three boys turned to Euphemia with worried expressions.

“Princess y/n is attending Hogwarts this year,” she spoke excitedly. The three boys’ faces dropped, thinking the news would be more intriguing.

“Isn’t she the boys’ age though?” Fleamont asked, wondering why she would be starting her schooling now, at the age of 16.

Euphemia nodded, her eyes scanning further down the article. “Ah, here it says that she has been acquiring her teaching within the palace.”

Fleamont nodded, turning back to his food. James and Sirius had started up another conversation about Merlin knows what.

“Are you boys not excited? This is a big deal, you know.” Euphemia huffed.

“Why? S’just a bird,” James informed his mother. Sirius turned to James and quirked an eyebrow. James imitated his face, causing Sirius to roll his eyes and look back towards the paper Euphemia had placed in front of them.

Still bewildered, Sirius turned towards the older woman. “Who’s Princess y/n?”

All three Potters turned towards Sirius with strange looks on their faces. Sirius recoiled into his seat. Upon being informed that she was a part of the royal family, Sirius threw up his hands in exasperation.

“I’m a Black, how was I supposed to know that?”

“You still live in England, don’t you?” James inquired.

“Wait, so England has like, Kings and Queens and stuff?” Sirius questioned in amazement.

“Godric Gryffindor,” Fleamont spoke, shaking his head at the poor boy. Euphemia looked at him in pity, almost sad that he was so excluded from the outside world as a child.

“Well, no matter who she is, I agree with James. S’just a bird.” With this, Euphemia stood from her chair and shook her head at the boys.

“We’ll see about that,” she teased, kissing both boys on the head and walking out of the room.

“Y’know, she’s probably gonna be a bore anyhow,” Sirius started, turning to James. “Bet she’s stuck up.”

No matter what he thought the Princess would be like, he couldn’t help but stare at the picture of her waving at the camera in the paper.

taglist: @pottair @theravenclawlover @party-like-its-2013

#harry potter #marauders #jamesmydeer #marauders hc #harry potter imagines #sirius black x reader #harry potter hc #harry potter imagine #sirius x reader #sirius imagine #sirius black imagine #sirius black

156 notes · View notes

xelinielx · 5 years

Text

Wednesday - A JadeRoxy pirate AU one shot

This story is for my friend @tentiginouslogophile (Jade) whose birthday is today!! I failed at drawing pictures to this so you’ll have to settle for a short story heheh. It’s a bit messy because it’s hard for me to find motivation right now, though I really wanted to give you something today. I hope you’ll like it anyway. Happy birthday again! I love you!! I will probably rewrite this when I get my motivation back so it will be as great as you are 💕

Warning: contains a lot of fluff, the striders being dumbasses and implied smut.

Out of all the pirate ships sailing the Sburban sea, two stood out and were renowned as led by the scariest captains by all who saw them - but their crew wouldn’t agree.

Pirate captain Roxy Lalonde on the Mutie was actually one of the most absent-minded people on the planet. If they were born in the 21st century, her crew would have likened her with the pirate captain Jack Sparrow from the pirate movies, and Roxy would find that absolutely hilarious.

She was a good captain though, despite not always acting like one. In battle, she was a scary blur of swordstrokes, and she had gotten the nickname The Cat from her enemies. They all saw her as a terrifying force of nature, but her crew, who had more than once seen her throw up over the edge of the ship and fail to pet their aggressive ship’s cat, didn’t agree in the slightest. There was only one pirate brave enough to fight her.

Captain Jade Harley.

They had been fighting for as long as they could remember, always chasing each other and trying to beat the other. Today was the day they would clash again.

Jade Harley was seen as eccentric by her crew. She was brave, fast and had no hesitation in throwing herself in dangerous situations when needed. Also when not needed. That’s why her crew felt more like babysitters most of the time. “No captain, diving from the top of the mast is not a good idea in this storm.” “Captain, if you try to steer the ship through that gap it will sink.” “JADE FOR FUCKS SAKE DON’T TRY TO SHOOT THE SEAGULL WHILE WEARING A BLINDFOLD!”

Her enemies called her The Witch. She appeared out of practically nowhere with her ship, cannons firing rapidly. In the harbors there were people spreading stories about how she must have contacted Feferi the fabled Sea Witch and sold her soul for power.

The first time Jade heard those stories, she’d laughed so hard that she got the hiccups and couldn’t talk normally for the rest of the day. After that, she of course made sure to scream some long difficult words that sound like a spell to spur the stories even further when she fought the crews who dared oppose her.

Jade kicks the door to her quarters open with a well-aimed strike and steps out onto the deck, striking a grin. “Good morning everyone!” she exclaims and puts her captains hat over her unbrushed mess of black hair.

“‘sup Jade!” Dave calls out from atop some barrels where he’s sprawled out, eyepatches over both eyes. He was supposed to be the lookout but he was usually too lazy to do so. He also never wanted anyone to see his eyes, so he looked rather comical with the eyepatches.

“Is it Wednesday again?” Rose, the first mate asks and rolls up the map she was analyzing. Jade saunters over and smacks her hands on the table with a huge grin.

“It sure is! Let’s go to that island we passed last night. I’m sure they’ll be there.” Rose had long since learnt not to question her captain’s directives. Somehow, she always manages to get them to where they are supposed to go — even if it’s the complete wrong way according to Rose’s very accurate maps.

Sometimes she felt like she wanted to believe the sea witch rumors. “John! Prepare the cannons,” Jade shouts down a hatch, jousting the poor boy from his sleep by scaring him so bad that he crashes into the ground.

“Not Wednesday again,” he mutters and goes off to work the cannons while wrapping a blue napkin around his head.

Jade flops down on the deck and starts to pick apart her gun to clean it. It’s an important day after all, and she can’t have it ruined due to poor gun maintenance. What would grandpa say? The fact that she cleaned the gun yesterday doesn’t matter.

Dave groans as he hears the telltale clang of metal objects hitting the wooden deck and Jade humming.

“Is it fucking Wednesday again? Wasn’t it Wednesday like yesterday?” Jade giggles and throws a dirty rag on Dave and takes out a new one. Dave jerks back and almost falls off the ship.

“Shit man don’t scare me like that.” He slips off the barrels (in the right direction) and takes a seat with his back against them. “Like do you want me to die before we even fight? That is so uncool of you. And you call yourself our captain.”

Jade shuts out Dave’s usual rambling and focuses on her gun. When she’s gone over it three times, she’s satisfied and puts it back together.

“There’s a ship to starboard, Captain,” Rose calls out after a while. Jade gives Dave a disapproving look that he doesn’t see.

“And what a good lookout you are then,” she complains before running up to Rose, who is steering the ship.

She could identify that flag anywhere. “It’s them all right,” she says, face turning serious. From the way people start moving on the other ship, Jade knows that they have seen them too.

I mean not that a huge pirate ship is that easy to hide.

“To your stations!” Jade calls and runs over to the side of the ship, tying a rope with a hook securely to the side. “We’re boarding them!”

It doesn’t take long for the ships to close in on each other. Jade scans her opponents with a stern face. There is the black haired guy who wields two small guns and uses weird words to threaten them. What even does “Tally-ho!” mean? Then, there is their cook who doesn’t really like to fight. She holds a kitchen knife in one hand and looks uneasy. She will be easy to take down.

There is the blonde guy who wields an odd sword and looks even dumber than Dave. They seem to have the same mindset about letting people see their eyes- and seeing, apparently. The only difference is that this guy’s eyepatches are cut into triangles. How does that even work?

And then, staring straight at her, a sword and pistol in each hand, blonde hair flying in the wind is no one else but the ship’s captain and Jade’s nemesis.

“Roxy,” she says, and the grip on her gun tightens.

Roxy’s painted lips curl into a smile, and the sun reflects off the small black cat she has dangling from an ear. “Hi there Jadie.” She places the back of a hand against her hip and blows a lock of hair away from her face.

Jade takes a moment to take note of the sleek, fancy pink coat with golden buttons adorning Roxy’s body, the headband she has tied around her head and the white tights ending in knee-high boots.

She can feel Roxy’s eyes scanning her, seeing the loose white shirt, her large captains hat and green pieces of fabric tied around her waist into a loose, comfortable skirt.

Jade can almost feel Dave roll his eyes. “Prepare to be boarded!” Jade suddenly shouts, knocking everyone out of their staring contests. She throws the rope over to the other ship and runs over on the taut line without even swaying. Her crewmates (except for John, who runs down the hatch to the cannons) grab ropes and throw them onto Mutie’s mast, swinging themselves over. They are not going to run over a rope. In just a few moments, swords are clanging and shots are fired.

Dave and Dirk engage in a fierce battle in the front of the ship. Their swords clash together with skill and precision — the fact that neither of them can see doesn’t seem to matter. They attack and block quickly, engaging in a dangerous dance.

On the opposite side of the ship, Rose is using her sword to strike Jake’s pistols rapidly, trying to keep him from shooting. She uses the ship to her advantage, swinging her sword to urge Jake into a more vulnerable position. Jane seems to have disappeared down into the ship again. That’s just as well.

In the middle of the ship, Jade and Roxy cross blades. They whirl around each other, anticipating each other’s moves. Roxy makes a jab with her sword, and Jade slaps it away with the front of her gun, twisting around to pound the back of it into Roxy’s stomach and make her loose her footing for a moment.

But only for a moment. Roxy charges immediately, knocking Jade against the edge of the ship with her shoulder. Jade kicks Roxy’s legs before she can regain her balance, but Roxy slips her gun behind Jade’s back, knocking her to the ground with her.

They tumble around for a moment, Jade knocks the gun from Roxy’s hand with a slap from the flat side of her blade as she struggles to get out on top.

Roxy fights back and straddles Jade, holding her sword at her throat. She feels some metal touch her chin, and her eyes dart down to see Jade smirking with the nozzle of her gun aimed at her. They make eye contact for a second, then two.

Unanimously, they drop their weapons, and Roxy leans down to kiss Jade as Jade leans up to meet her lips. Jade’s hands land on Roxy’s waist, and Roxy places her hands on either side of Jade’s face, gently brushing her hair out of the way.

The rest of the world fades away as the two of them relish in the feeling of each other. The closeness of their bodies, the beating of their hearts, and the taste of the each other’s lips.

Roxy knocks the stupid hat off Jade’s head, grinning against her lips. Jade retaliates by slipping her hands under Roxy’s coat, feeling the soft skin of her stomach.

“Hell no, I’m not watching this.” The two of them part to look at the intruder. Dirk is staring straight up into the sky, triangular eyepatches still over his eyes. Roxy snorts and gives Jade another peck on the lips.

They slip into Roxy’s quarters and shut the door as their crewmates sit down together at the back of the ship. Jane comes up to join them with a few bottles of rum, and John shows up too after a while.

“You’re getting better,” Rose tells Jake after taking a swig of the rum. “Just a few more years and you might beat me.” Dave snorts and almost chokes on the drink.

They chat and joke together until the sun sets. There are several empty bottles of rum between them, and at some point, Jane went away to get them some food to snack on as well.

They hear the giggling before they see Roxy and Jade slip out of the hut. Roxy’s coat is buttoned in the wrong holes, and Jade’s hair is even more of a mess than earlier.

“Clean up after yourselves,” Jane groans and rests her head against the floor, knowing that no one will listen.

Jade and Roxy hold hands, smiling warmly at each other. Jade leans forward to place another kiss on Roxy’s lips. “Same time next Wednesday?” she asks. Roxy can see the sun set in her green eyes.

She places Jade’s hat back on her mess of black hair and kisses her nose with a giggle. “Next Wednesday.”

With those words, Jade’s crew returns to their own ship and Rose sets the course for wherever she likes, as she does every Wednesday.

As the ships part in different directions underneath the night sky, two captains stand at the far back of their ships, staring longingly at each other across the sea that mirrors the stars in the sky until the other ship disappears from view, waiting for the next Wednesday.

#happy birthday jade!#homestuck #jaderoxy #roxy lalonde #jade harley #dave strider #dirk strider #john egbert #jane crocker #jake english #rose lalonde #piratestuck #homestuck pirate au #pirate au #ill rewrite this when my mind doesnt want me to stab myself dhkshdkdf

14 notes · View notes

dantetv · 5 years

Text

It was a story...

Ed bent over to pick up the next box off the truck and laid it on the loading dock. Sun wasn't quite up yet, the wind still had a chill to it from the night. A few stars decorated the sky still. But the ache in his arms pretty much occupied his mind. He looked into the truck at the remaining thirty or so bigger boxes, then just sat down on the dock.

Needed a minute, Ed thought. Few more months, then he'd retire. Maybe Malibu. Or someplace warm. Eh, who was he kidding? Probably just ignore the world til Christmas. Maybe longer. He looked up as a couple walked by. Plainly but nicely dressed, they looked like they had Asian features. He caught the eye of one, who gave him a nod. Then a wink. They kept on walking up the street, probably for breakfast.

Ed shook his head. He imagined the wink, had to. It was almost like they knew him. He stood up, shaking his head again then hands to loosen them up. Get distracted too easy these days Ed, he thought. Gotta stay focused on your work. Wasnt like there was a going to be a 'flash of light' or something that would appear out of thin air. He took the little blue egg-sized stress ball from his pocket, giving it a few pumps in each hand. Need to get my focus, Ed thought. Bang out this last batch of boxes then head over to Gregg's Shop for a slice and a cup of coffee. Could've eaten breakfast first. But with all the idiots that come flying in to unload thinking they are entitled to their own special spot on the dock, just ain't worth the aggravation. Tho watching that one guy gets into an argument with a lady over her delivery yesterday was priceless. Beat the shit out of Jerry Springer. Best guess is the guy did a bid on the delivery, parcel unseen, in a fit of rage to beat out another shipper. However, he didn't realize what she had wasn't a movie prop. It was full-scale, military grade. He tried to weasel his way out of it, saying he didn't have licenses after she blew up when he tried to hit her up for money. No shit. He can still hear her words echoing all over the dock at the top of her lungs.

"But how am I going to get my field cannon home????"

Ed was just waiting to see after the guy finally left her in the lurch if she was going to load it up and blast his ass. Would've been funny as hell. Tho anyone asked, he didn't see shit. But when he came in this morning, it was gone. Wonder what kind of home she had that she needed a field cannon. Or for that matter, why the hell she needed one. Ed heard a noise in the corner, a rat looked like it had been in a fight with something and was flailing in a puddle of trash. Didn't look so good, tho no reason anything should need to suffer an end like that. Ed took out a broomstick and moved away from the trash, flipping a piece of string that had gotten tangled around the rat's neck. There ya go, little fellow, Ed thought. The rat did a few flips on its sides before righting itself. After a minute, it ran down a dark side of the wall out of Ed's sight.

Ed then heard the sound of a bicycle tire squeal and a young voice call to him. Shoot, he forgot. He waved at the voice and walked into the trailer, grabbing a large stack of papers. As he came out, he dropped the papers on the dock in front of a young boy, wearing a ball cap and jacket. The kid already had his swiss army knife out, cutting the string and starting to roll the papers into a bag he had.

Ed smiled. Nice to see a kid up early, trying to make some money for some sort of dooflicky thing. Wasn't sure if it was a video game, book, or someplace the kid wanted to go to. Maybe it was a movie he meant. Ed didn't know nor did he ask. The kid was on a schedule and he wasn't going to mess with his mojo. Ed went back into the truck for another box and came back out, noticing a tall man standing by the lamp post watching them. He looked like a mortician. Probably some guy that had a long night partying and wound up here to sober up. Didn't seem like a freak and the kid didn't seem fazed. It had been a very long time since Ed saw any form of law enforcement down here. Have to think on over coffee the last time it was later.

Ed turned his back, the young voice saying something as it trailed off. Ed turned back around, watching the kid disappear on his bike. The tall man in black was gone. Heck, for that matter, Ed seemed to be the only one around. The kid had left a paper for him, one of the extras they get in case one gets damaged when they're delivering them. He glanced over the headlines, reports of the death of Harry Stone, some great TV producer. His stars were planning a benefit in honor of him for some charity or another. Probably wanting to use it as a launching event for a new company while there was still some of Harry's warmth in people's minds. Or wherever they wanted it.

Ed flipped it to the back, some ads for alcohol and small news story on another death in Millville. Cub reporter, Ed thought. It was only a few lines. But it got this kid their first credit. Gotta start somewhere, Ed thought.

Ed went back into the trailer and grabbed what looked like a light box. Idiot kids liked to do it ass backward, lifting all the heavy stuff then the light. It all has to get unloaded. This way, he could have more room to shimmy the heavy stuff out. Ed had just placed one foot on the dock when the bottom of the box opened and its contents spilled out. Ed cursed, flipping the box over and tossing the contents back in before anyone saw anything. The top was still taped so he could just fake...

It was a hat that stopped him. A Totenkopf. He froze for a moment, then pulled himself together and threw it all in the box. It wasn't his business nor his shipment. He didn't even want to know why there was a pair of black stiletto boots in there. He got it all back in and folded the box together.

Shit, he thought. That took a lot out of him. Ed was feeling the need more and more for that coffee. Just to take the edge off, he thought. He started to go back into the trailer, then just shook his head. Naw, I gotta get the coffee. A few minutes later, Ed was still laughing after the service Gregg gave some tourist about their food. Gregg was in rare form, dousing the entire plate of pancakes in syrup. Then he set it on fire. There's your crepes, he said. Yea. Gregg....

Ed stopped in his tracks. The trailer he was unloading was gone. All the stuff he unloaded was also gone. But that was impossible. This town was too small for theft like this. Plus any truck that could haul this thing would have made a ton of noise going past the coffee shop. Ed checked his watch and the clocks in the loading dock office. They said the same thing, he was only gone for five minutes. Absolutely no way. Ed thought he might have been finally starting to lose it when he saw the newspaper the kid had left him was still in the office. Ads for frying pans and the new Pixie camera plus the article on the Millville Deep deaths.

He went back out, jumping off the loading dock and into the yard. It was all pavement, so no tracks. Ed then noticed a woman in all black holding up a lamp post across the road from the dock. He opened the gate and started walking towards her. She took a long draw on the cigarette she was smoking.

'Ed, we have a deal.' she said. 'I can do my thing until sunrise without hassle. We agreed to that.'

Ed nodded. 'Yea, yea. Don't care. I do care about what happened to the trailer I was unloading this morning. Did you see who took it?'

The woman took another draw on her cigarette, weighing her options as to whether or not it was worth asking for money. Before she spoke, Ed already had a $20 in his hand. Her eyes riveted to it, her top starting to open reflexively when she caught herself. Ed smiled. 'Just the info. I already had my breakfast.' She grabbed the $20, tho Ed didn't let it go. 'And what happened..', Ed asked?

The woman took a last hit on the cigarette, then dropped it to the ground and crushed it out.

TO BE CONTINUED...

MILLVILLE DEEP MYSTERY An Acme Detective Agency Campaign

#dantetv #millvilledeep #gaming

3 notes · View notes

burclay · 5 years

Text

Heartbeats: Chapter 11

A huge emotional weight hit her all at once, and for a moment she was impossibly happy, sad, angry, afraid, in love, everything she had ever felt, all of this all at once.

Finally, the pain faded. The memories settled in.

And Rose Tyler opened her eyes.

AO3 Chapter 1

Rosie was dying.

She had flicked open the watch, and right away a soft orange glow had filtered out, and then suddenly it had consumed her, pouring information into her head faster than she could process it, and now every cell in her body hurt, her eyes were screwed shut against a blinding light, and this had to be what death felt like. Memories were their way through the pain-- all the things Rosie had dreamed-- standing on a beach while a figure faded away-- racing down a brightly-lit hallway-- and then the names of things, Daleks, Slitheen, and-- and the Doctor. A huge emotional weight hit her all at once, and for a moment she was impossibly happy, sad, angry, afraid, in love, everything she had ever felt, all of this all at once.

Finally, the pain faded. The memories settled in.

And Rose Tyler opened her eyes.

She was still in a sewer. Jane Smith-- no, the Doctor, now-- was still in front of her, fairly close, in fact, hands on her knees, breathing heavily. She could feel her extra heart beating away in her chest, she could feel the Earth spinning beneath her feet. The familiarity of being back in her own mind, with her own memories.

Just when she was almost done adjusting to all this, the Doctor straightened up and grinned.

“Brilliant,” she said. “Nice to see you again, Rose Tyler.”

“You too, Doctor.”

Rose held out a hand, palm-up, and the Doctor took it.

“Ready to save the world?” she asked.

“I’d settle for escaping this sewer,” the Doctor said.

“Baby steps,” Rose said. She glanced around, and her hair immediately fell in her face. “Did you do something with my hair tie?”

The Doctor blinked at her. “With what?”

“Sorry,” Rose said. “It’s not important. Used to get by with loose hair all the time, yeah?”

“That’s good,” the Doctor said, “because everything’s a bit muddled up in my head right about now.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Rose replied with a laugh. “So. Out of the sewer?”

They started walking fairly aimlessly, splashing in the water.

“So I’d guess our four-dimensional creature found us,” Rose said.

“Looks like it,” the Doctor said. “Can’t figure out what it’s up to.”

“If it’s four-dimensional,” Rose said, thinking about all the research she’d done to make her dimension cannon, “couldn’t it sort of-- mess with us? Like how we can write on two-dimensional surfaces.”

The Doctor stopped in her tracks.

“Of course,” she said. “That’s what it’s doing.” She paused. “Doesn’t tell us how to stop it.”

“Suppose that’s another question,” Rose said. “But walking around’s probably not doing us much good.”

“True enough,” the Doctor said.

“But,” Rose added, “if it can mess with our surroundings, why can’t it just mess with us? Just erase us from existence?”

“I suppose it can’t,” the Doctor said. “Must be why it sees us as a threat.”

“Or maybe it doesn’t want to,” Rose said. “Might just want to trap us. Study us.”

“Don’t fancy that,” the Doctor said.

“No,” Rose said. “Me either.”

“Which begs the question,” the Doctor said, fire in her eyes. “What can we do in three dimensions that a four-dimensional creature can’t handle?”

Rose took a step towards the wall of the sewer. She looked up and down, and then she reached out a hand and tapped the wall. It was regular concrete, a little slimy, but otherwise uninteresting. She stepped back.

“Concrete walls,” she said, turning back to the Doctor. “Not much we can do there.” She paused. “Do you think they can hear us? If they’re in another dimension?”

“Good question,” the Doctor said. “I’m thinking about what you said earlier, about how it’s like if we were drawing on a two-dimensional surface. I’ve dealt with two-dimensional creatures, actually. Weird experience. But right now I’m imagining what we can perceive of those creatures.”

“Just what we can see, right?” Rose asked.

“Exactly,” the Doctor said. “But I’m wondering-- what if these creatures can perceive more than just our bodies? They can clearly rewrite our space. What if they can see vibrations?”

“You mean like noise,” Rose said.

“Exactly,” the Doctor said.

“So you think if we just make a lot of noise, it’ll do something?” Rose asked.

“There’s a chance,” the Doctor said. “It might distract them. Everything here wants to be in its regular place; they’re probably using some force to rearrange it. So if we can really bamboozle them, these sewers might turn back to real sewers, which’ll let us escape and buy us time until we can get back to the TARDIS.”

“Suppose there’s no risk,” Rose said. “We could use our--” And then she realized something, and she slapped her forehead. “Oh! We’re both so stupid!”

The Doctor tilted her head, forehead crinkled. “

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve got mobiles,” Rose said. “I was about to suggest we get music up on our phones and blast it as loud as we could, and I suppose we should do that too, but, Doctor, we could literally just phone the others.”

“And tell them what?”

“I don’t know,” Rose said, her phone already halfway out of her pocket. “Find your sonic, maybe. Do something to the TARDIS. Tell them we’ve turned back, at least. If we do the noise thing, they could meet us here, bring speakers. They’re probably mad with worry, anyway.”

“Oh, my sonic,” the Doctor said, breezing past everything else Rose had mentioned. “I miss my sonic. I don’t even know what I did with my sonic.”

“It’s probably in the pocket of your jacket,” Rose said, flipping her phone on. “Someone’ll have it.” The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications-- missed calls and texts from Ryan, Yaz, Graham, and Cleis, plus some cheesy game reminding her her lives had regenerated. Rose took a moment to laugh at the irony of that, and then she tried to remember the passcode to her phone. Fortunately, muscle memory came through where her memory (or Rosie’s memory) wouldn’t. Her thumb tapped out the code, and she called the first name on her “missed calls” list-- Ryan.

He picked up right away and didn’t even give her a moment to say hello.

“Rosie!” he said. “Where are you? We’re all worried.”

“Sorry,” Rose said. “Not much time for an update. We’re somewhere underneath the bus stop by my flat. Can you get here? Tell the others. And bring anything you can that makes noise.”

There was a moment in which Rose was sure Ryan was going to ask more questions, but he just said, “You got it, then,” and hung up.

“Ryan’s on his way,” Rose said to the Doctor, who was rocking back on her heels waiting for Rose. She flicked through her texts, but there was nothing of note-- everyone was worried, which was nice, but not necessarily the most helpful.

“So, noise, then,” the Doctor said, getting out her phone. “Always wanted to get out of a situation by singing.”

Rose laughed.

“I’ll bet you did,” she said. “Just waiting for Broadway to come find you.”

“Oi, I’ve been on Broadway!” the Doctor protested. “Cats, mind, and only to step in for one of the real actors, but still Broadway. Had to fake an accent and everything.”

“You were in Cats?” Rose asked, giggling. But before the Doctor could answer, she made herself stop and shook her head. “Sorry, we’ve got bigger things to worry about. Don’t think you won’t be telling me all about it later, though.”

“Don’t think I’m going to go with Cats right now, though,” the Doctor said. “I mean, if we’re going to be singing.”

“Well, bring out your best,” said Rose, who had just been planning on yelling. She thumbed through her phone until she landed on her favorite alarm tone. “Bit of an echo in these sewers, hopefully that’ll help. Got something on your phone?”

“Human me has horrible music taste,” the Doctor said, making a face.

“Hopefully loud music taste,” Rose said. “Ready?”

“This had better work,” the Doctor said.

“Ready?” Rose asked. She turned her phone volume up to full. She took a deep breath.

And then there was complete chaos. Rose started yelling, her alarm tone blared, the Doctor was belting something vaguely familiar, some pop anthem was coming out of her phone, and all of this was echoing, bouncing off the concrete walls of the sewers. After half a minute or so, the thought rose amid the noise that she should have needed to breathe by now-- respiratory bypass, she remembered. Time Lords could hold their breath longer than humans.

She was just getting to her limit when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head and saw, barely visible in the dim light, a ladder, reaching down from the top of the sewer. She glanced back at the Doctor, who had clearly seen it too, and they both started running, still singing and screaming at the tops of their lungs.

Rose climbed up first, lifting the manhole cover on her shoulders and pushing it out of the way as she clambered onto the street, squinting in the sun. She was still yelling, her phone still blaring, and she saw passersby stare and jump back at all the commotion. She didn’t blame them, considering.

She glanced around, looking for the bus stop. It was a little to the left, filled with staring pedestrians-- but as the Doctor climbed out of the manhole, Rose saw Ryan, Yaz, Graham, and Cleis running towards them, carrying an assortment of things from metal pans to party noisemakers to a boombox to the lyre Cleis had somehow managed to track down. They were saying things, but Rose couldn’t make it out underneath her own noise.

“We have to get back to the TARDIS!” the Doctor yelled, interrupting her song mid-word. “We’re making noise so the creatures can’t detect us!”

She continued her song right where she’d left off, and Yaz glanced between the Doctor and Rose and, absolutely screaming to be heard over them, said, “Doesn’t seem like yelling will make us less detectable!”

“Trust us!” Rose answered, not even taking a breath. “Let’s go! Be loud!”

Ryan turned on the boombox, Cleis started strumming the lyre, Graham banged his pans together, and Yaz blew her noisemakers, and they set off with their din and clatter at a brisk pace-- as fast as they could go without Cleis dropping her lyre or anyone running completely out of breath-- until they were standing in front of the TARDIS.

Rose had vague memories of seeing the TARDIS as Rosie, of thinking nothing of it. Then, the light had gone out of its windows, and it seemed dull and dead-- now, she thought it might be waking up. The light was still out, but Rose could feel the TARDIS’s usual hum in the back of her head.

Of course, the true test was whether it opened when the Doctor didn’t have a key on her.

Rose watched, her thoughts almost blocked out by the complete cacaphony, as the Doctor approached the TARDIS with a desperation in her eyes that in no way matched the jaunty tune she was singing. She touched the door with a gentleness that Rose’s overwhelmed senses could barely process, and a moment later, the door cracked open, and they all piled in, still banging and singing and yelling.

And then the Doctor stopped singing, and everyone else followed suit.

“Should be safe,” the Doctor explained. “For now, at least. Not forever, but that’s just how it is, I suppose. I’ve got to rig something up with the TARDIS. I think I can make a sort of-- time arrow-- that’ll get these guys.”

“Time arrow?” Yaz asked.

“I’m not sure how it’s going to work,” the Doctor said. “I couldn’t get it to happen before. And it’s going to take a great deal of energy, we’ll have to stop off in Cardiff after. But I’m sure the TARDIS can work it out. Hopefully. Well, it’s our best hope, at any rate.” Her concentration gave way to a smile, and she did a little wave. “Anyway. Hello, everybody!”

“So, you guys are, like, back?” Ryan asked.

“Seems like it,” Rose said.

“That’s so weird,” Ryan said. “It’s been months.”

“What happened to Jane and Rosie, then?” Yaz asked.

“They’re part of us,” the Doctor said. “Always will be part of us. Just a much, much smaller part of us. We can talk about it later, no time now.” She launched herself towards the console, looking a little bereft without her usual flapping coat. But as she started flipping switches and throwing levers, she had her usual frenetic energy-- an energy that had been muted in her human self, Rose thought. Suppressed by the uncertainty that came with being human, maybe.

“Do you have any idea what she’s doing?” Graham asked.

Rose shook her head.

“Haven’t been Time Lord that long,” she said.

“What about the noise?” Cleis asked. “What was that for?”

“To sort of block us out,” Rose said. “So that we could escape and get to the TARDIS.” She explained what she and the Doctor had figured out earlier about the creatures they were escaping. The others seemed to understand, or, at least, they pretended to.

“But when did you turn back into yourselves?” Yaz asked.

“We both sort of fell into this sewer,” Rose said. “Through solid concrete. And we’d been having all these dreams about it, so-- Rosie and Jane thought it was time for the others to take over.”

“Did you at least kiss first?” Ryan asked, and Yaz elbowed him. He gave her a look, then looked back to Rose. “Well, did you?”

Rose blushed.

“Don’t see how it’s your business,” she said.

“Hey!” Ryan said. “I spent too long wingmanning for my efforts to go to waste. The two of you were being proper stupid.”

Rose rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, fine, just before we turned back,” she said. “And anyway, I’m not the only one with drama, Yaz-and-Cleis!”

“Sorry, what?” Ryan asked.

Just then, the Doctor called from the console, “Might need some help, you lot!”

“We are talking about this later,” Ryan said as everybody ran over to the Doctor. She started shouting instructions, and moments later everyone had a hand on a lever or a finger on a button or an eye on a monitor. The Doctor threw another switch, and everything flashed white. Rose screwed her eyes shut, feeling the smooth cold metal of the knobs she was holding in her hands, listening as the TARDIS screeched and groaned and then, finally, was silent.

Rose opened her eyes.

The TARDIS was entirely dark. Nearly every light had gone out; she could see the others in a feeble glow from the central crystal. The Doctor was looking at the crystal like she was waiting for something with bated breath. Rose couldn’t tell what, but then she jumped back and yelled as a blinding pain ripped through her head, leaving her just a little dizzy.

“Are you all right?” Yaz asked at Rose’s side.

“Fine,” Rose said. “What was that?”

The Doctor was still standing at the TARDIS, looking just a little paler than before.

“Sorry,” she said. “Would’ve warned you, only I didn’t know it’d do that.”

“What did you do?” Rose asked.

“Time arrow,” the Doctor said. “You and I could feel it because of our time senses-- it’s ripping through the fabric of time to get to those creatures. We’re going to have to come back and play clean-up later, but it’s going to take more from the TARDIS.”

“Do we have enough to get to Cardiff?” Rose asked.

“Should be all right,” the Doctor said. “It’s only a hop.”

“What’s in Cardiff?” Yaz asked.

“What is Cardiff?” Cleis asked.

“City in Wales,” the Doctor said. “It’s got a great big time rift right through it. All this energy for the TARDIS to feed on. And we’ve got just enough to get there, as long as we’re really gentle about it. Rose, fancy helping?”

“‘Course,” Rose said. “Tell me what you need.”

“Just get the stabilizers?” the Doctor said.

With a jolt, Rose realized she actually knew what the Doctor meant by that. She moved around Yaz and took hold of a lever, easing it into place as the TARDIS began a weak imitation of its usual noise. Rose almost wanted to cry, hearing it, feeling the TARDIS’s Herculean effort in the back of her mind.

She had forgotten about her time senses in the moments after becoming Time Lord again, but now she could feel the time vortex around them, the subtle shift of Sheffield, then Cardiff, seconds later. The TARDIS’s groan faded, and the group piled out onto the streets.

“Should be fine, then,” the Doctor said. “Takes 72 hours to recharge, then we’ll go back to Sheffield, see if our arrow worked.”

“How are we going to know?” Graham asked.

“I’ll be able to sense it,” the Doctor said.

“And if we make it here for 72 hours,” Rose added, “I’d guess it probably worked, wouldn’t you, Doctor?”

“Also that,” the Doctor said. “But now we’ve got time to kill. Who wants chips?”

And she slipped her hand into Rose’s, and together they started walking, feeling just a little lighter for the relief of this whole ordeal being over.

#doctor who #dw #writing #fic #anyway i'm going to start posting this on here now too #heartbeats #rose tyler #thirteenth doctor

2 notes · View notes

skiecas · 6 years

Note

Hi! Im here for the IwaOi prompt if that's okay so how about Oikawa thought that iwa-chan is cheating on him but actually is surprising him? I don't know if this makes sense. Thank you so much. Have a nive day!

Matsukawa pries open his eyes when he feels a dull ache erupt down his side, flickering down his sleepy gaze to where Hanamaki’s elbow was grinding into his kidney, seeking his attention. The boy points wordlessly with his chin towards some far corner of the campus cafeteria, and Matsukawa follows his line of sight with vaguely building interest.

Oikawa had just walked into the bustling atrium, a lunch tray in his hands. He turns heads wherever he goes, whether it be for his looks or his height, but only his two friends notice the pinch of his jawline or the slight darkness in his irises. He looks absolutely livid.

Hanamaki speaks aloud the exact thought that drifts through Matsukawa’s mind. “This oughta be good.”

They wave him over, and Oikawa changes paths once he notices, sliding into the seat across from them at the table with a noisy huff. His tray follows with a loud smack, and his curry almost tips out of the bowl from the force.

“What’s wrong, champ?” Hanamaki asks, dropping his chin on his knuckles like he was so excited to listen.

Oikawa delicately brings a roll of sushi to his lips, stills, then lets it tumble back onto his tray—likely for dramatic effect. “I’m sure you two have noticed,” he sniffs, “that Iwa-chan is not with me. I invited him to lunch and he completely blew me off. Said he has things to do.”

“What kind of things?” Matsukawa wants to know.

Oikawa blows up; he quite literally mimes an explosion when his arms fly into the air. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be upset, would I! He wouldn’t tell me!”

“So what you’re saying is,” Hanamaki says, stealing one of the rolls off Oikawa’s tray, “that Iwaizumi, after twenty years of life, has finally managed to saw off the super glue that binds you two together?”

“And now,” Matsukawa adds, plucking some of his apple slices, “he’s off doing secret, big-boy things… without you?”

Oikawa picks up his chopsticks in either fist and pokes at both of their hands, fending them off his food. With a cool stare, he says, “You two can snicker like the hyenas you are, but Iwa-chan and I have always been together.”

“So he’s evading you. He’s being dodgy, not telling you why. He doesn’t want to have lunch together or braid your hair or do whatever it is you two get up to in his room late at night.”

“Definitely not fuck,” Hanamaki interjects, like he could will it to be true.

Oikawa tuts, impatiently. “I’m sure you two must have a point, but I find myself quickly losing interest.”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

They speak in exact succession, one after the other.

“He’s cheating on you.”

Oikawa seems aghast at the mere suggestion, the ends of his hair rising like readying for an all-out war. “He is not—he! wouldn’t! How could you even say that!”

Half of his lunch tray gets wiped clean by his two friends as he phases through several different reactions; his hands move in useless motions; his lip protrudes; defiance burns in his eyes; and then, finally, he stares into his hands in horror and whispers, “Oh, my god…”

Then he snaps back up, picks up his empty lunch tray to be discarded, and sweeps out of the cafeteria without another single word.

Hanamaki, in the midst of licking his fingers clean, stares after his retreating back with an unbothered expression.

“Do you think he knew we were joking?”

The subject of Oikawa’s relationship gets pushed to the sidelines and almost forgotten altogether, at least until the end of that day’s practice. It’s an earlier time than they would normally be let out; the sun’s still up, and most of the team breaks off into groups, excited to make the most of the sunlight with evening plans. Hanamaki is the one to suggest trying the new croquette stall across from the campus, and Matsukawa is never one to turn down an offer for food. They round the gym wall, carrying five pounds of gym equipment but freshly showered and eager to stuff themselves full.

But Oikawa is waiting there, like the troll at the end of a bridge whose duty was to deny them passage. Noticing their presence, he kicks away from the wall and stalks over, seething, “I hope you two are happy. He is cheating on me.”

Hanamaki looks unenthused. “You two seemed fine at practice.”

They’d seemed more than fine, in fact. The boys had considered inviting them for croquettes, but both Oikawa and Iwaizumi had vanished so quickly following cleanup that they’d assumed the couple had sneaked away to get handsy in a bathroom stall somewhere. They’d certainly been tactile enough all through practice.

Matsukawa takes a different approach. “Iwaizumi?” he says, with a shake of his head. “He really doesn’t seem like the type.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Oikawa snaps. “But my sources are undeniable. I heard from Suga-chan, who heard from Dai-chan, who heard from Tetsu-chan, who heard from Boku-chan, who heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.” He takes a deep, stabilizing breath, before revealing, “It seems Iwa-chan has been spending a lot of time lately with Akaashi Keiji.”

There’s a lingering, dramatic pause among the trio of boys. Then Matsukawa inclines his head. “Who?”

“The pretty boy from our economics class,” Hanamaki fills him in. “I think.”

Oikawa nods solemnly. “That’s the one.”

“That’s who you’re worried about? I doubt anything is happening there. The guy’s practically a fetus.”

“How d’you reckon that? Isn’t he just one year below us?”

“Yes, but, see. Now that we’re of legal drinking age, anyone below the age of twenty is automatically considered a fetus.”

“Huh. I never thought of it like that, Matsukawa-sensei.”

Oikawa groans. “Can you two please focus on the matter at hand?”

“Which is what, exactly?” Hanamaki asks, very clearly losing interest in the conversation at breakneck speed. He digs a pinkie into his ear, then flicks a piece of lint off his fingernail, as if some ear fuzz was more worthy of his time than Oikawa’s love troubles.

“You’re probably not aware of this,” says Oikawa, one hip cocked, “but Akaashi-kun used to be a setter back in high school.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see the correlation.”

But Matsukawa does. It sinks into him slowly, just like the number twenty-five over time becoming synonymous with the sensation of loss. He’s unable to keep one corner of his mouth from twitching up into a bemused grin. “Wait… Is this, what, setter envy? You’re afraid Iwaizumi’s sneaking around behind your back, asking someone else to send him tosses?”

Oikawa pinks, and though it’s subtle, it’s also a tell-tale answer. “This is no laughing matter!” he hisses, when Hanamaki begins to chortle. “They were seen going into the public gym together a couple days ago!”

“Two volleyball players, walking into a gym. The audacity.”

“Let’s hope they used protection.”

“This isn’t just about that,” he insists, braving onward despite their guffaws. “The fact of the matter is, Iwa-chan is still being evasive and distant and he won’t tell me why.”

“Then ask him.”

This is where Oikawa hesitates, drawing back slightly until he’s toed a line into the dirt. “Well. That’s the thing. See.” He presses his lips together, before looking up at them through his lashes with a look of innocence that could not have meant anything good. “I thought maybe you two could ask for me?”

“Pass,” Hanamaki replies, flatly.

“I can’t ask him! He’ll think I don’t trust him, and he’ll know I’ve been asking about him. Then he’ll get angry, and not in the cute way.” His teeth catch the skin of his bottom lip, gnawing there, as his outburst dies down. It’s almost with an unprecedented weakness in his voice that he adds, “I can’t lose Iwa-chan. I can’t.”

He speaks with complete sincerity, that much is made clear by the tremor behind his words. Hanamaki groans, likely affected by the plea despite his best wishes, but Matsukawa is the one to eventually agree.

He sighs. “Let’s hear Iwaizumi’s side, then.”

The conversation they eventually corner Iwaizumi into having can only be classified as bizarre.

He’s impossible to find, for one, and after scouring the campus and coming up empty, they’re forced to camp out in front of his apartment, croquettes in hand. For another, when Iwaizumi finally arrives—at a very late hour, at least for him—and spots the two of them lounging in front of his door, he stutters to a halt, shoves his belongings behind his back, then very slowly approaches with caution.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, eyeing them both.

“I think the better question is,” Hanamaki replies, getting to his feet and dusting off his knees, “what were you doing not here?”

“Croquette?” Matsukawa offers blandly, holding out their bag.

Iwaizumi makes a motion like he might be about to accept, except a bag crinkles behind his back from the movement of his hand, and he freezes.

“No, thanks.” His eyes flit over their heads to his apartment door, as if formulating the easiest escape route. Matsukawa might have been offended if he wasn’t so intrigued.

“Whatcha got there?” Hanamaki asks, pointing to the corner of a shopping bag they can see looking out from behind Iwaizumi’s thigh.

He quickly shoves it out of sight. “Nothing.”

“Oh, it was definitely something.”

“Is that where you disappeared to after practice? To get that?”

“I saw something that looks like a bow inside. Is it a present? Is it for Oikawa?”

Iwaizumi scowls and, barreling his way in between them, barks, “What’s with the third degree? Go bother someone else.”

“‘Someone else’ told us to bother you,” Hanamaki mutters.

With one last glare, Iwaizumi slides into his apartment and firmly shuts the door behind him. The sound echoes like a cannon through the empty hall, signifying a rather final end to their conversation.

“What do we think? Fishy?”

“Definitely fishy,” Hanamaki agrees, before leaning towards the door and banging a fist against the metal frame. “Asshole!” he calls inside. “You’re not even gonna invite us in?!”

It takes a well-timed cough from a disapproving, elderly resident two doors down for them to hang their heads in apology and vacate the premises.

Oikawa arrives in a flurry of flushed cheeks, broken sentences, and flyaway hair. “I knew it!” he hisses between his teeth, gliding straight past the duo of his friends to make a beeline for his boyfriend’s room. “How could he do this to me? Me! Oikawa Tooru! His Tooru!”

“Shouldn’t we let them settle this on their own?” Matsukawa wonders, as they follow the seething setter up the apartment steps.

“And miss the show?”

Oikawa presses numbers into the keypad without missing a beat, tossing open the door when it beeps to allow them entry and kicking his way past the front entrance. They clearly catch Iwaizumi unawares, who looks up from pouring himself a cup of what looks like scalding tea. Not that this stops Oikawa; he yanks the cup from his hand and throws it at the ground in dramatic fashion, only saved from slicing his toes with broken glass by the incredible luck of it being made of plastic.

“The hell, Oikawa!” Iwaizumi barks, setting down his pot. “What was that for!”

“That’s what you did to my heart,” Oikawa returns, his nose in the air. “And then you stomped on it.”

Hanamaki narrates off to the side, muttered into Matsukawa’s ear. “I give him a nine for presentation, but a five for that dialogue.”

Iwaizumi crosses his arms over his very sculpted chest in a defiant stance, which does not go over well with his boyfriend, even before he grumbles, “What the hell did I supposedly do now?”

Oikawa’s nostrils flare. “Supposedly?” he repeats, jabbing at one of his pecs. “Supposedly, you’re a dirty, rotten, lying cheat.”

His boyfriend raises a single brow. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t even try to deny it. Makki and Mattsun told me everything about your cheating.”

This elicits a response from the duo in the background.

“Now, hang on—”

“That’s not exactly what we said—”

“We said something was fishy.”

Iwaizumi ignores them, though he quickly rises to the bait and falls into the argument.

“What else did these fuckheads tell you, huh?” he demands, which elicits another round of protestations. “Did they see me actually with someone? See me kissing anyone else? Loving anyone else but you?”

“You were seen going into a gym together with Akaashi Keiji,” Oikawa tells him, coolly.

At this, curiously enough, Iwaizumi blinks, the darkness in his eyes visibly clearing as if someone had suddenly placed a cap on his temper. If anything, he looks as if someone had pulled the rug out from underneath him. “How do you know about that? Is that what this is about?”

“So you admit it,” Oikawa accuses, his nose so high he could have drowned if it started to rain from the ceiling.

Iwaizumi recovers quickly, and grinds his teeth together. His hands ball up into fists at his side. “Yeah, I admit it. Is it a crime to go somewhere with a classmate now? I did it for you, asswipe.”

Oikawa snorts once, without mirth.

His boyfriend takes a deep, calming breath, and then, with serenity that does not translate over at all to his hardened face, he explains, “Akaashi has a family acquaintance who is close, personal friends with Arita Kenji. We went to the gym so I could meet him and ask him to get a signature for me—for you.”

All three of them perk up at this.

“Arita Kenji?”

“The pro volleyball player?”

Oikawa seems the most aghast. “My favorite player*?”

Wordlessly, almost with a pin drop silence, Iwaizumi moves around the three of them, towards the entrance where he had seemingly discarded his bags upon returning home. He picks up the gift bag in the front and thrusts it into Oikawa’s hands, still without a word.

Inside, there’s a frame, with a small bow stuck to the corner. Dear Oikawa, reads the paper pressed behind the glass. If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks. Arita Kenji.

There’s a long, ringing silence, which Hanamaki breaks.

“Well…” he says. “I, for one, could not have predicted this.”

Matsukawa shakes his head in solemn fashion. “I knew Iwaizumi wasn’t the type.”

But Oikawa seems the most affected, even behind the cover of his bangs. He quietly slips the frame back inside, sets the bag down on the bed, then glides over to his prickly, scowling boyfriend and takes his face into his hands. “Iwa-chan,” he murmurs, with a guilty look. “Iwa-chan, I’m sorry. I was just afraid. I thought I was losing you.”

Iwaizumi, despite a visible struggle to remain hardened, softens under his touch—a complete sucker for his boyfriend. “Hey,” he says, gently, gripping him about the wrists and holding him to his face. “You’ll never lose me.”

Oikawa bites down on his quivering lip, fighting back the grin threatening to split his face, before swooping in and planting a fierce kiss on his boyfriend’s mouth. Iwaizumi returns the passion with equal intensity, his hands sliding up around Oikawa’s shoulders to tangle into his hair and hitch him close, to, essentially, chew his face off. They kiss hungrily and without pause.

“Ugh.” Hanamaki sticks a finger in his mouth, pretending to gag. “Why are we still here?”

“The better question is,” Matsukawa says, rubbing his aching forehead, “why do we always humor them and their disgusting relationship?”

“‘Cause we’re just awesome friends.”

“True, true.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

“Please. Before clothes start flying off.”

They tiptoe out of the apartment, slowly easing the door shut behind them. The last thing they see, through the part in the frame, is the kissing couple inside tumbling as one onto the bed.

later:

oik: i can’t believe makki and mattsun tried to sabotage our relationship like that. how horrible of themiwa: they’re just jealousoik: yeahhhhh*resume making out*

*note: arita kenji is not a real player, but rather the actor who portrays ushiwaka in the haikyuu stage plays. i just thought the irony would be hilarious, lolol.

also, i can totally see iwaoi as one of those obnoxious couples who have really dumb fights and “““break up””” every other week for, like, a day, before reconciling in the grossest, sappiest fashion, and matsuhana are just banging their heads in the background x)

#fic #haikyuu #iwaoi #i know exactly what you mean nonnie ;)#though this became more of a makki+mattsun shenanigans fic #bc y'all know I LOVE SEIJOU OT4 #also. since the punchline is right there in the prompt. i felt like i had to make the fic interesting in another way. if that makes sense

33 notes · View notes