#The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently by Thomas Lux | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

drmmyrs · 3 years

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The Way I Loved You (Poppy x MC)

Soo bear with me since I think this might be a long series. This part is mostly just establishing the story so there is little to no fluff yet.

But stiiill, let me know what you guys think and I’d really appreciate feedback/constructive criticism. Hope you enjoy and if not, thanks for reading anyways :))

tag list: @whackawriting @samanthadalton @crazzyplays @uselesslesbianfr (ithis is my taglist I thiiink, but if you wanna be added or removed just let me know)

Pairing: Poppy x MC (Bea)

Word Count: 1650

Warning: Little swearing (at least for this part)

A/N: This is from the part before Poppy and MC were paired for a project

Bea had been at Belvoire for two months now, but she still wasn't used to waking up on a queen-sized canopy bed fitted with luxe sateen sheets in a bedroom which probably cost more than her family's house back at Farmsville. She glanced at the clock–11:30 am. She still had some time to spare before her first class. How people managed to wake up early on this luxurious bed made of clouds, she didn't know.

After a few more minutes of daydreaming, Bea begrudgingly pulled herself out of bed. She was preparing her outfit when the smell of heaven wafted through the bedroom door–bacon and pancakes. Like some kind of puppet on strings, Bea let herself be led by the delicious aroma to the kitchen where Zoey was expertly pouring pancake batter on a pan.

"I didn't know I was roommates with a master chef," Bea jested.

Zoey turned around at Bea's voice, and as she saw her, a smirk crawled up her lips.

"Well, don't you look sexy." Zoey eyed Bea up and down with an amused look on her face.

Bea glanced down at her outfit and saw that she was still in her pajamas. "Whatever Zo, not everyone can rock designer outfits even in bed."

"Hey, I'm not complaining. Besides, Spongebob PJs do have a certain charm."

Bea rolled her eyes while smiling. "So, what are we having for breakfast?"

"I'm pretty sure it's lunch. And aren't you supposed to be in class, like, right about now?"

"Nah, my Tuesday classes aren't until one o'clock."

Zoey stared at Bea. "Babe, it's Wednesday."

Bea's eyes widened at Zoey's words. "No, no, no, Professor Roberta is gonna kill me."

Bea rushed to her room and hastily changed her clothes faster than she thought was possible. She contemplated going to class au naturel, but ultimately decided against it. Bea was not ugly by any means without makeup, but in a sea of extremely contoured cheeks and false eyelashes, having no makeup was basically social suicide, especially since Poppy was in that class. Ugh, great. Of course, I'm late to the only class I have with Poppy.

When Bea thought she was presentable enough, she sprinted out the door but not before grabbing a handful of pancakes and shoving it to her mouth, looking like a chipmunk in the process. The T is gonna have a field day if someone saw me like this. Bea slowed her sprint to a stride as she swallowed the last of the pancakes.

Bea arrived in class forty-five minutes late.

"Look who finally decided to join us," Professor Roberta said in disdain.

"Sorry Professor, won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't. And since you decided to join us so late, you're gonna have to work with Ms. Min-Sinclair over here for your community service project."

Oh hell no.

Sure enough, Poppy was sitting alone, glaring at her, and Bea could almost swear she could see smoke coming out of her nose.

Bea hesitantly sat down beside Poppy.

"Look Poppy, let's be civil about this and finish this project fast so we–"

"We're not going to do anything, Farmsville. I will ace this project and you will stay out of my damn way."

"Like hell I'm gonna let you take all the credit."

"Is there a problem here?" The professor glowered at Poppy and Bea.

"None professor, we were just calmly discussing the details of the project," Poppy responded with a fake smile.

Bea rolled her eyes. Kiss ass.

Once the professor was out of earshot, Poppy sharply turned to Bea. "Be ready on Friday, we're going to a foster home in Middletown."

"Middletown? But that's like an hour away!"

"I don't see you coming up with better ideas," Poppy hissed.

"I–I–"

"I thought so. Do not be late, Farmsville. I don't want you taking more of my time than you already do," Poppy said with a glare before she grabbed her Chanel purse and strode away.

***

Back at her dorm, Bea was resting her head on her hands on the dining table when Zoey arrived.

Upon seeing Bea, Zoey immediately took a seat beside her and placed her hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "Aww, babe. Was Professor Roberta that mad?"

Bea turned to face Zoey. "No, but it was much, much worse."

Zoey raised her eyebrow.

"I was paired with Satan for our project."

"Poppy?"

Bea nodded. "She even wanted to do the project in Middletown. Middletown. That's like an hour away! I mean surely there has to be another community that needs servicing that doesn't require an hour drive with Poppy."

Zoey pretended to think thoughtfully. "Hmm, maybe she finally found a way to get rid of you permanently?"

"I'm serious, Zo." Bea glared at Zoey.

Zoey laughed. "Okay, okay, sorry. But do bring holy water just in case."

Bea groaned and stood up from the chair before ambling to her bedroom. "I'm going to bed."

Before Bea was able to shut the door, Zoey called out after her. "You'll survive, babe! Give her hell for me."

***

Just a few minutes after Bea got back from her classes, she heard the sound of consecutive horns outside which she immediately knew were from Poppy. No one else is obnoxious enough to disturb an entire dormitory. With a sigh, Bea grabbed her things and trudged outside.

When Bea got outside, Poppy's Range Rover was parked at the curb. Bea walked to the passenger's side and opened the door.

"Be a dear will you and don't touch anything, I don't want your filthy hands staining my car."

Bea rolled her eyes. Hello to you, too.

The first few minutes of the drive were silent except for the light rain that started drizzling on the windshield, that is, until Bea asked Poppy, "why are we going all the way to Middletown anyway? There's probably some–"

"Remember that time when I asked for your opinion?"

Bea just glared at Poppy.

"Me neither. So, shut up, Hughes."

"How about you take a day off from being a bitch, Poppy. Seeing that you've had your whole life being just that," Bea rebuked.

The entire car ride was spent with both girls hurling insults at each other that it was honestly surprising that Poppy didn't kick Bea out of the car in the middle of the road.

After one looong hour, they finally arrived.

"Don't get in my way, Farmsville," Poppy warned as she approached the house and rang the doorbell. After a few moments, a middle-aged woman opened the door.

"Poppy! What a pleasant surprise. Come on in." The woman gestured them inside.

Hang on, how does she know Poppy?

The woman led Bea and Poppy to a couch and asked them if they wanted something to drink, to which both of them politely declined.

"So, Brenda. How is the family?" Poppy was wearing a smile that might actually be... genuine?

Bea stared at Poppy in shock. Not only were they on a first-name basis, but Poppy was actually nice to someone that doesn't involve sucking up.

"They're doing great! Thomas actually just got promoted recently so we're gonna take the kids somewhere nice sometime next week."

"That's amazing, send Thomas my regards."

Okay, what the hell is happening?

After a few more polite conversations, Brenda turned to Bea. "You haven't introduced me to your friend yet." Brenda extended her hand to Bea. "I'm Brenda."

Bea wore her biggest smile as she shook Brenda's hand. "Bea. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Poppy cleared her throat. "Actually, we came here for a community service project, and we were hoping that we could throw the kids a small party and maybe at the same time we can do a photography shoot that can be shared to prospective families. Do you think we can do that?"

"Oh, certainly! I'm sure the kids would love that."

"That's great to hear. Where are they anyway?"

"They're actually out there playing with the toys you sent them. Come on, I'll lead you to them." Brenda stood up and walked towards the back door.

Poppy started to follow her but turned around when she noticed Bea was still sitting down.

"If you're just gonna sit there like a half-wit, do us a favor Farmsville, and do it far away from here."

Still in disbelief, Bea stood up and followed Poppy and Brenda to the yard where Poppy was greeted enthusiastically by five kids. She watched as Poppy played with them with such kindness and compassion that she couldn't help but smile as most of her anger towards the blonde was replaced with warmth and some other indescribable feelings. After a few more games where Bea was basically manhandled by Poppy to join, all of them went back inside exhausted. As it was already getting late, Bea and Poppy said their farewells to Brenda and the kids with a promise of returning on Sunday for the party and went back on the road.

Bea had so many questions she wanted to ask Poppy but the look on Poppy's face implied that she probably won't be answering any of those. A few minutes later, there was suddenly a huge downpour of rain that Poppy had to park the car. Bea then received a text from Zoey, and as she read it, a look of dread flashed across her face.

Poppy frowned upon seeing the look on Bea's face. "What is it now?"

"There's a typhoon. We're stuck here."

***

Bea and Poppy managed to find a decent hotel nearby where they decided to stay until the typhoon passed.

"Two rooms, please. And make them as far away as possible," Poppy said to the receptionist while handing him her credit card, giving Bea a glare at the last sentence.

And here I thought we're finally making progress.

"I'm sorry Ms. Min-Sinclair, we only have one more room available for tonight."

#poppy #poppy x mc #poppy min sinclair #queen b #playchoices #play choices #choices #my work #my fanfics #my writing

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stars-and-rose · 5 years

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anything for you

aka emily realized she only writes prinxiety and forgot how much she adores the glasses gays

this one-shot is set in the “Flowers and Flame” universe, which i began with this one-shot! you don’t need to read it, but it’s about the chaos gays getting together.

@planetkookie <3, its your boys!

Fandom: Thomas Sanders/Sanders Sides

Parings: Logicality and Background Prinxiety

Summary: Sir Logan Sagacitas has finally gotten his fellow knight to allow him to go on a rescue mission to save his prince. Then things go off the rails, but end up back on the perfect track.

Word Count: 1,793

Trigger Warnings: Cursing, Fainting, Not actual kidnapping

"Are you sure you want to do this? We still can turn around. I can handle R- the Warlock."

Sir Logan Sagacitas glanced over at the more experienced knight. "I am quite certain. I am aware of your skill with defeating the Warlock, but he still continues to kidnap the prince. I wish to speak to him on that behalf."

Logan knew he was not imaging the look of panic that crossed over Virgil's eyes. Every time Logan had suggested accompanying Virgil on his missions to save Prince Patton, the other knight had quickly denied him, claiming that 'l can do it alone' or 'You should be here when His Highness comes home.' But Logan had gotten Virgil to agree to allow Logan to come with him. Albeit, Virgil had been tired and slightly tipsy when he'd agreed, but Logan still counted the confirmation as valid.

The two had set off a few days ago, and ever since they'd left the castle, Logan had noticed the odd mix of excitement, fear, and love in Virgil's coffee eyes. It was strange, and Logan was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Maybe…. Virgil was in love with Patton? And he was excited to see him, and fearful that the Warlock had hurt him?

Something clenched in Logan's gut. Damn these feelings. He knew Virgil wasn't in love with Patton- that was him. Logan was the one in love with the prince. Virgil knew of Logan's dreaded feelings for the prince, and would never do anything to hurt Logan.

So, if the love wasn't for Patton… who was it for?

He had heard the rumor's circling around the barracks, rumors that were whispered between new recruits: Virgil had acquired a love interest. But no one knew who it was. Maybe that was it, maybe Virgil just wanted to go home to his secret lover.

Suddenly, Virgil pulled on his reins, effectively stopping his horse. Confused by the sudden stop, Logan also pulled his own horse to rest. "Is there something wrong?"

The dark-haired knight took in a shaky breath. "Okay, Logan... there's something Patton and I haven't been telling you."

Oh god, Patton and Virgil were in love and Logan was going to be heartbroken-

"It's about the Warlock."

Oh, good. Logan's heart would remain from being metaphorically crushed today-

Wait, about the Warlock?

"What is it?"

Virgil sighed, slipping down from his horse, the sunlight making his silver armor gleam. "We're almost there. Let's let the horses rest. We can make the rest of the journey on foot."

Raising an eyebrow, Logan complied to the request, dismounting from his steed and tying the caramel horse to a nearby tree. Virgil did the same and gestured for Logan to follow him. The two followed a worn path through the woods. Virgil's violet cloak billowed in the light breeze, and Logan tried not to step on his own cobalt cloak.

"You were saying before, about the Warlock?"

Virgil flinched. "Ah, right. So, the Warlock, he isn't exactly like what you've heard-"

"Virgil, my darling!" A streak of red came out of nowhere, toppling over the other knight. Logan winced, hearing the sound of Virgil's armor clashing against the forest floor. Surprisingly, Logan heard Virgil let out a muffled laugh.

"Goodness, Ro, you couldn't wait for me?"

The figure in red rolled off Logan's comrade, and Logan took his opportunity to study the scene in front of him. The red one was an unfamiliar male, with soft curls and a gossamer crimson gown flowing around his ankles. Virgil's eyes were bright as the man he'd called Ro helped him up, both sporting a light crimson color on their cheeks.

All Logan could do was arch an eyebrow. "I see that the rumors of you having a sweetheart were true."

Virgil looked over at Logan, a slight grin forming on his face. "Ah, yes, um, this is Roman Lux, my lover."

Roman gave Logan a once over. "Wait a moment… square glasses, cobalt eyes that match your cloak- you're Logan, aren't you?"

"Virgil has told you about me?"

"No, I've heard all the details from Patton."

Virgil's Roman knew the prince? Logan's confusion formed a question, "You know His Highness?"

"Oh, yes, I know him well. He made me this dress, isn't it pretty? He told me he was planning on adding some gold stitching tonight too!" Roman spun, grabbing Virgil's attention immediately.

Logan's mind caught on the last two words, specifically tonight. The prince was currently being held captive by the Warlock; how would he be seeing Roman? Suddenly, Logan stared at the knight's lover's eyes. They were flickering warmly, like an open flame.

Instantly, Logan drew his sword and pointed it at Roman. The ma-, no the warlock, looked down at the blade. "I haven't had one of these pointed at me for months. The last time was when you almost made me lose an eye, Vee. Good times." Logan could hear the fear in Roman's voice as he rambled.

"Logan, please put the sword down, it's not what you think-"

"He's the warlock! The one who has been kidnapping His Highness!"

"Why does everyone think I'm kidnapping Patton!"

Virgil stepped in front of his lover, shielding him. "Logan, he hasn't actually been kidnapping Patton, it's a long story but-"

"What's going on?"

A new, familiar voice cut through the wilderness. Logan turned, and his sword arm lowered. Standing a few feet away was Prince Patton himself, barefoot and wearing a white dress with a pink carnation tucked behind his ear; he was as beautiful as ever. The prince took a few steps forward, taking in the scene around him until his soft eyes landed on Logan. "Lo?"

And with that, Sir Logan Sagacitas, one of the best knights that served the royal family, and possibly the most intelligent man in the castle, fainted.

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

"Goodness, Lo, you need to take better care of yourself." A voice whispered as Logan slowly woke up. His eyes still shut tight, he felt warm fingers tracing over his cheek and weaving into his hair. "You weren't sleeping, eating, or drinking enough apparently, and that mixed was you confusion made you faint. At least, that's what Roman said, and he's pretty good at healing. You'd be surprised about the number of time's he's healed me. Honestly, Roman is a good man, outcasted for something he was born with. I'm hoping you can see that. It would be really hard to court you if you hated my best friend."

A momentary silence filled the room, and a soft and sad laugh echoed around Logan. "If only you could hear me, but it seems I can only confess to you when you're asleep."

Suddenly not weary anymore, Logan opened his eyes and found himself staring at twin patches of the sky. Patton scrambled backward, the warmth of his hands immediately gone from the knight's cheeks. That was disappointing.

"Logan! You're awake, that's good, ah, do you need anything, I can go get you some water or bread or-"

Logan sat up and raised his hands to calm the prince. "Your Highness, please breathe."

Patton took a deep breath and offered Logan a small smile. "Haven't I told you to call me by my name?"

Logan nodded, looking at the prince. They had discussed Logan using the prince's name, but Logan still didn't think it was proper. But, due to the organ quickly beating in his chest, he put being proper behind Patton's happiness.

"Of course, Patton." Logan tried to stand, but almost immediately fell over. Patton was by his side in seconds, helping Logan back onto the bed. Logan took these few seconds of contact to study the room. They were in a stone room, a bedroom, with two beds and what seemed to be a kitchen area in the corner. A ladder peaked through a hole in the floor, leading downstairs. The walls were covered in detailed painted scenes, and light poured in from a large window.

"We're in Roman's tower." Patton supplied, noticing Logan's eyes wandering around the room.

Roman- the warlock. Logan tensed up, and Patton grabbed his hand.

"Wait, please listen to me. Roman- he's never kidnapped me. The first time I went missing, I was attacked by the Dragon Witch, and he saved me. Every time after that, I, ah, called for Roman to get me away from the castle. I got overwhelmed sometimes, and with Roman- well, he didn't expect me to be a prince. He just wanted a friend, and I wanted an escape. We gave each other what we needed, and he's become my best friend. Then, Roman fell head-over-heels for Virgil but apparently, he couldn't just tell the knight that. It took months, but they talked it out, and they're crazy in love with each other."

Logan was silent for a while, then he finally met eyes with the prince. "Why was I not informed of this?"

Patton winced. "I was afraid you'd think Roman had cast a spell on me or something. And, well, I was afraid you'd think I was weak for needing an escape…"

Logan tightened his grip on Patton's hand. "I would never think lowly of you for needing a respite, my prince."

A pretty red flared on Patton's cheeks. "I think I like my prince more than your highness."

"Anything to make you happy, my prince. Anything for you."

Patton looked away from Logan for the briefest of seconds like he was gathering courage. Then, the bright blue returned to Logan, and the prince whispered, "What about a kiss?"

Logan almost passed out right there.

Patton seemed to take his reaction the wrong way. "Oh, god, I'm sorry, that was completely uncalled for and I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable-"

Logan decided right there and then he was going to take a chance.

He leaned closer to Patton, their fingers still intertwined and the prince's eyes growing wide, his breathing getting faster. "Are you positive you want this?"

"Yes."

Consent given, Logan closed the gap between them, and their lips met. Kissing Patton felt warm, like coming home after a difficult day and finding fresh cookies on the counter and open arms near the hearth. It was a short kiss, only lasting seconds, but it was those brief seconds that confirmed what Logan had been thinking for a long time.

He was madly in love with Patton.

It was illogical, improbable, and there were so many colossal issues between them courting, but for the first time in his life, Logan pushed all those thoughts aside.

Patton took a deep breath, his eyes filled with the same warmth his kiss had brought. "Kiss me again."

"Gladly, my prince."

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404botnotfound · 5 years

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Contempt

another rewrite of an older fic

SERIES: Dishonored WORD COUNT: 3,263 CHARACTERS: Derrick Hobson, Lux, Daud, Thomas

Every so often over the last eight years something managed to drive Hobson deep into his own thoughts.

Sometimes it’s the sight of the sunset, sometimes the sound of someone reciting the seven strictures, and sometimes it’s a ragged body left bloodied and on the street for the rats to feed on. Sometimes even just the act of performing a transversal sent him back in time--let alone when the black-eyed bastard decided to draw him into the void for a chat.

Those visits had been thankfully rare. Neutral on the Outsider these days or not, his (its?) presence was unnerving and his words were always far too cryptic for Hobson’s tastes.

One time, during an outing with his Whalers in Tyvia, Hobson had walked past a beggar on the street. His hands had been holding out a bowl with loose coin rattling in it from how violently the man was shivering. Fingers and lips blue, ragged clothes clearly unable to ward off the biting chill of the Tyvian climate.

The man would have been dead if it were the Month of High Cold.

Memories weren’t often a thing Hobson liked to revisit, but the sight of the man had catapulted him right back to the months--or had it been years?--he’d spent coinless and homeless, cold and hungry, on Dunwall’s streets.

He’d given the man his entire coin pouch and advice to book a voyage for Dunwall, where the City was eager for industrial workers after driving the plague out, and had moved on.

Grimacing and pushing up from his hunched position over the table with two dozen missives and letters and a few maps with notes and markers scrawled on them, Hobson rolls his shoulders and twists his neck to work out the kink that had begun to form.

He stares down at the missives before him with unfocused eyes, arms crossing and one hand lifting to idly trace along the edges of the scars of the heretic’s brand on his face.

Every so often, something drives Hobson deep into his own thoughts. Rarely was it that that something came to him rather than him happening across it by chance, and he wishes this particular something hadn’t decided to come to him at all.

Exhaling heavily Hobson leans forward again, weight shifting as he lifts one particular letter off the table to read it carefully. He’s determined to ignore the man trying to pretend he’s hidden until his patience comes to an end.

No doubt Daud thought Hobson was still the impatient, angry little shit he had once been fifteen years ago and would be the first to cave in.

He might’ve been, had he never met Elizabeth or figured out what it was like trying to raise two kids that sometimes seemed to want to kill each other.

He’s isn’t any more surprised about the fact Daud is here than he is that Daud is still alive at all--the old man wouldn’t have survived so long as the most wanted man in the Isles if he didn’t know how to disappear and stay that way, and he wouldn’t have become the most wanted man in the Isles if he didn’t have the skills to keep himself alive.

Regardless, however skilled Daud remained after fifteen years and far into his years of life, Hobson wasn’t just another Whaler with a fringe of taste for the Outsider’s black magic.

He had his own tricks up his sleeve, now, which meant that Hobson had known Daud was in the room--hidden in the cracked-open closet on the far wall--the second he’d returned from gathering intel with Bertholt.

A near-silent pthwip breaks the quiet of the room and Hobson looks up from the missive in his hand.

“We’ve swept the entirety of Cyria Gardens,” Lux says, rapping his gloved knuckles twice on the table Hobson had claimed in the Whalers’ temporary headquarters in Karnaca. “Seems like the last of Delilah’s coven has fled.”

“Probably back to Dunwall.” Hobson agrees, eyes flicking over to another letter detailing goings-on back in Dunwall to confirm his suspicion. “The witch knows she’s losing ground and is bolstering the tower before Lady Emily returns.”

Lux shifts in his periphery. “You think she’ll make a move soon?”

“Within the next few weeks. Nearly every one of Delilah’s connections here have been eliminated by one means or another. The Lord Protector taught her well.”

Both of them are silent as Hobson finishes scanning the letter in his hand.

He sets it down to one side of the table and then turns, stooping to grab a knapsack off the floor. It’s tossed over to Lux unceremoniously. “Track down Misha and the twins. See if you can’t help Karnaca’s finest with the bloodfly problem in that section.”

Lux props the bag open and looks inside, staring at the bundles of incendiary bolts and various things that make other things go boom--then looks up at Hobson. He’s wearing a mask and yet somehow still manages to convey a humorless, flat look. “This station sucks, Hobson.”

He snorts and leans on the table again, eyes drifting back down to the papers and maps in front of him. “We do all we can to help out while we’re here. We’ll head back for the stuffy aristocrats and rain as soon as the Lady Empress does.”

“Sounds like a dream, boss.” Lux responds grumpily, shifting to haul the sack over his shoulder. He doesn’t leave, however, and Hobson lifts an eyebrow at him expectantly. “D’you think she’s gonna take your offer?”

He drops his eyes to the table and drums the fingers of his left hand once. “Hard to tell.”

“But you want us there anyway.”

“Just in case.” Hobson says.

Whether Emily asks for their help officially or not, Hobson wasn’t about to just sit back and let Delilah kill her or get away with whatever it is she has planned--especially since he’d had no success in getting intel on that front.

The witches were difficult enough to trick and sneak around as it was, but Delilah had gone to special lengths with the tower compared to the old Brigmore Manor. None of the others had faulted him for it, but the loss of Rinaldo on that infiltration mission had been weighing heavily on Hobson in the months since.

He’s acutely aware that Daud was listening in to this entire conversation. He can’t say he cares overmuch. It wasn’t like Daud could pop out of the closet he’s been holed up in and deliver a different set of orders.

Even if he did, Hobson knows that none of the Whalers held enough respect for Daud to shift their loyalty back to him.

He wouldn’t delude himself into thinking it had much to do with whatever talent for leadership he may have or anything at all with regards to his still frequently surly attitude, but several of them had admitted they’d only remained with Daud out of fear or a sense of obligation. He had, after all, given many of them new lives and lifted them out of the gutters.

He says nothing further. Lux dips his head and then vanishes in another transversal.

Ten minutes pass after that with the only sounds being the sad ticking of a grandfather clock on its last legs and Hobson’s fingers drumming out an idle beat on the wood table in front of him, interspersed with the shifting of papers as he took in the information that he’d been collecting.

He’s not sure why or when he started wanting to keep tabs on everything, but he tells himself it’s better to be informed and ahead of the curve than not.

The light in the corner flickers, briefly washing the abandoned apartment in shades of darkness that he hardly seems to notice.

“You may as well come out, Daud.” Hobson says.

Another thirty seconds and he hears the creak of a closet door sliding open. Footsteps cross the dusty floor, and he doesn’t bother to look up. As Daud steps around to the table and into the corner of his vision, Hobson grabs one missive in particular and folds it up, setting it aside in a pile he’d mentally labeled ‘look into later’.

“I’d heard the Whalers were still operating.” Daud’s voice still sounds like he’d decided to gargle a bunch of rusty nails in the morning, and Hobson finds it far more grating on his nerves than it ever used to be. Considering he already wanted to strangle Daud on a daily basis just for speaking fifteen years ago, that was saying something. “Had wondered who was leading them. Last person I expected was you.”

“Surprised the void out of me too, old man.”

Daud doesn’t say anything to that. Hobson doesn’t offer anything else.

The silence that falls between them after is tense and just shy of hostile. Daud is radiating authority that Hobson knows is meant to cow and intimidate him into falling into step, and there’s the slightest twinge in his hand--centered right on the blackened sigil burned into it--but Hobson ignores it.

If there was one good thing to have come out of the brand that had marked him as an enemy of the good virtues of the Isles when he was barely a whelp of a man, it was a high tolerance for pain.

Daud had no control over him or any of the others anymore. His power came directly from the emissary of the void himself, and the Whalers now shared it with him, not Daud.

Hobson continues to ignore Daud, shifting papers and maps around and muttering to himself. His hands pause over a letter he’d missed before and he frowns. Picking it up and recognizing the handwriting he quickly folds and pockets it to read later.

The authority projected by the older man flickers with aggravation that Hobson all too readily returns. “So we’re doing philanthropy, now?”

His expression twists with a momentary lapse of fury and he stands fully upright then, his arms folding over his chest and his eyes fixing Daud with a steely glare filled with so much contempt and loathing that it would have put a younger Hobson to shame.

“There is no we.” He says, voice full of venom. “Whatever hole you crawled out of, you can crawl right back in it. You vanished without a word and left us drifting with nowhere to go. None of us, save for you, had a secret backup plan to fall into when the shit hit the fan. You abandoned us, and we rebuilt without you.”

Fifteen years ago, Hobson would have balked at the idea of staring Daud down like this and wouldn’t have dared to threaten or stand up to him.

He had hated Daud back then just as he hated Daud now, but the man had held a sway over all of them that had left no room for questioning. Daud was the leader, Daud was the source of their power, Daud was the one that had lifted many of them from sordid lives--being assassins and kidnappers wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was better than being adrift without a purpose, and for that reason they’d all held somewhat of a grudging respect, if not for the man himself then for what he’d done for them.

It had taken Hobson fifteen years to realize what he knew now; Daud hadn’t given them a second chance because of goodwill, no matter what excuses the man had told himself to sleep better at night.

Daud looks taken aback for a moment, his lips turning down at the corners and his brow furrowing as he carefully takes in Hobson’s appearance. Likely comparing who he’d been back then with who he was now.

No longer the unkempt, misanthropic ex-overseer afraid to show his face or trust his peers, but the leader of the Whalers, standing tall and unafraid to show his scars in an open dare to the rest of the world.

Hobson had changed over the years, and he knew it was for the better.

Daud, on the other hand, looked and sounded as though he had stagnated the moment he’d shoved a blade through Jessamine Kaldwin’s heart. His eyes settle on the chain around Hobson’s neck and the ring it’s looped through. “Seems like you’ve figured out how to do things differently. You got married?”

“And have two kids.”

Daud blinks at the easy response. “You’re not worried I’ll use that knowledge against you?”

“You could try.” Hobson replies icily, the subtle threat of blackmail to force him back into line brushed off as easily as kingsparrow feathers. “You’d be dead before you even got close to them.”

The older assassin’s expression darkens by shades, full of warning and intimidation that no longer works on him and likely wouldn’t have any effect on any of the others, either. Daud had lost his teeth, his Whalers having left him behind, and Hobson has every intention of making him aware of that fact.

Ego homini Lupus. Your favorite saying, Daud. How does it feel to be on the other end for once?

“We don’t need or want you back, Daud. Whatever it is you want us for, find your toy soldiers somewhere else. Now leave--I’ve got more important things to worry about than an old man that still thinks he’s king of the hill.”

With that, Hobson returns his attention to his missives and letters; as far as he’s concerned, he’s done here.

Daud can burn for all he cares.

“I’m going to kill the Outsider.” Daud says after a length.

He had hoped the old man would’ve taken the silence as a hint to leave, but the abrupt statement gives him substantial pause. His hand hovers over a newspaper clipping Edon had sent from Morley.

If the Outsider died, would they lose their powers again?

On the one hand it would be a blessing, provided Daud had a plan to accomplish it soon. If they lost their powers then it meant Delilah would as well--leaving Lady Emily and her father free to retake the throne and reclaim the Isles from the madwoman with little opposition.

On the other…

If someone had told Hobson fifteen years ago he’d reach a point in his life where he was afraid to lose the black-eyed bastard’s gift, he would have laughed himself to death. “And?”

“Of all people I would have expected you to be interested in the idea.”

“You should have asked me fifteen years ago.” Hobson replies flatly.

The Abbey had once brainwashed him into believing that the Outsider was the source of all the evil in the world around him, the reason men did reprehensible things. Rape, abuse, murder--assassinating empresses. Abducting children. All of it.

Recite the seven strictures and remain true to them, that you may remain free of the Outsider’s vile influence.

It was the easy excuse for mortals.

The Outsider was nothing more than an ephemeral force, neither good nor bad, and it wasn’t him that drove men to evil. It never had been. He just liked to supply the dominos and see which way men made them fall.

Daud was free to blame his own shortcomings on the Outsider’s influence.

Once upon a time, Hobson had dared to question the High Overseer’s morals and dedication to the Abbey’s beliefs, and he had been branded a heretic and banished from society as a result. Which had been the Outsider’s influence--the young man pointing out the moral failings of a gluttonous buffoon, or the man in a place of power abusing that power?

Hobson had long since come to the conclusion that if the Outsider’s influence was in anything, it was a passive influence at most.

“It seemed to me like you were trying to do something good in the world. The Empire wouldn’t have fallen to this state if it weren’t for him.” Daud says.

Daud had screwed up, and now Daud was trying to pass the blame off onto something else.

He knows trying to convince the man of this fact would be like blowing on a brick wall and hoping it crumbles. “We aren’t going to do your dirty work because you refuse to accept that the only reason your life fell apart was because of you, not the powers you willingly accepted from a god that doesn’t care what happens to any of us or what any of us do.”

Silence is the response he receives.

Hobson lifts his gaze and once more fixes a cold, stony glare on Daud. “Leave.”

He can feel the anger radiating off of the older man as he turns to leave, and he can’t say he cares. It’s fully reciprocated. He hadn’t ever thought that he could hate Daud more than he had when he was younger, but this encounter had proved him wrong.

Still, he draws into his magic and watches the man’s retreating back.

Hobson waits until he can no longer see or sense Daud’s steps through nearby shadows before he grabs the closest clean sheet of paper he can find and a pen, and starts writing a pair of messages to allies he’d left behind in Dunwall and to someone he’s put off writing to for far too long.

Someone who’d already written him, and whose letter sits in his pocket still waiting to be read.

He’d just threatened and insulted one of the most dangerous men in the Empire; justified or not, deserved or not, he’d put her, Cecily, and Gabriel in danger. Lev and Rulfio needed to know to double their vigilance.

As he writes he lifts his left hand and clenches it shut, dark wisps like smoke winding around it.

A moment later a quiet pthwip breaks the silence and Thomas appears. “What do you need, Hobson?”

“Daud is heading southeast through the Artisan District. Rooftops for now, though I suspect he’ll make his way to the streets once he imagines he’s not being followed.” Hobson says without preamble, not taking his eyes off the words he scrawls across the paper.

“Daud?” Thomas stiffens at the name; none of them had so much as mentioned him for years, and now he was on their doorstep. “You want me to follow?”

At this he does look up and he nods, barely concealing the distaste in his expression. “He’s either found a way or is trying to find a way to kill the Outsider. I want you and Bertholt to follow him and I want you to stay two steps ahead. Whatever he’s looking for, use your best judgement call on how to deal with him or it. I want him stopped.”

Hobson expects Thomas to question why he--of all people, who had spent many, many years loathing the Outsider and everything connected to him to the detriment of himself--was trying to protect the Outsider.

Instead, Thomas dips slightly in acknowledgement and then vanishes.

He’s always been a vindictive bastard. Hobson knows this and has resented himself for it far more often than he was willing to admit--but he wasn’t going to lie to himself and say that the thought of putting a blade through the Knife of Dunwall’s heart, should he ever get the chance, wouldn’t be the most satisfying thing he’d ever do.

Every so often, something drove him deep into his own thoughts.

Right then, Hobson could only hope his thoughts wouldn’t disappoint Elizabeth too much.

#v: dishonored #c: hobson #c: lux #c: thomas #o.c: elizabeth #ch: daud

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