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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

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Prompt: Leverage/MDZS fusion where, somehow, some way, the Leverage Crew recognize NHS as The Mastermind of his age-group. (Bonus if the Leverage crew scheme to get NHS a Thief, a Grifter, etc of his Very Own.)

“Thank you all for coming,” Lan Xichen said, pouring tea for the other three people at the table. “I think you all know why I’ve asked you to gather here today.”

“Sure,” Nie Mingjue said, accepting the cup. “Because our younger siblings have decided to join together to become a criminal gang.”

“That seems like an unduly harsh way to put it,” Jiang Yanli murmured, inclining her head in thanks to Lan Xichen as she took her own. “After all, they’re helping people, aren’t they?”

Wen Qing huffed. “Leverage,” she drawled. “If I ever find out who gave them that idea…!”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset about it,” Nie Mingjue said. “Weren’t you the one who wanted your brother to socialize more?”

“I meant that he should have friends, not that he should start breaking laws – on the orders of your brother!”

“I’m fairly sure he’s really only there for Wei Wuxian –”

“Your brother’s the mastermind,” she said flatly. “The useless mastermind.”

Nie Mingjue’s eyes curved as he smiled involuntarily. “He really is good-for-nothing, isn’t he? He doesn’t have a single talent - except for getting other people to do all the work for him, that is.”

“Delegation is a skill,” Jiang Yanli agreed, also smiling. “It really is interesting how everyone involved seems to have chosen specialties that don’t seem to quite suit them, isn’t it? Lan Wangji, for instance, choosing to take on work as the ‘hitter’ despite being a pacifist…”

“He’s not a pacifist,” Lan Xichen protested weakly. “He just – prefers not to engage in unnecessary acts of violence.”

Nie Mingjue patted him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“I still can’t believe Wei Wuxian decided he could be a grifter,” Wen Qing said, rolling her eyes. “As his roommate, I’m embarrassed. Deeply embarrassed.”

“He’s very successful at it,” Jiang Yanli said, trying to be supportive.

“He knows only one grift,” Wen Qing said flatly. “And it’s ‘annoying people into doing things his way’.”

“…well, yes, but at least Nie-gongzi seems to take that into account when making his plans?” Jiang Yanli tried, then shrugged “At any rate, they seem happy! I really don’t think this is a matter of concern enough to draw us all together.”

Wen Qing crossed her arms. “And you have no concerns regarding your fiancé? Their so-called thief?”

“A thief who doesn’t steal anything because he’s too rich to need to,” Nie Mingjue said dryly.

“I feel sorry for that boy,” Lan Xichen murmured. “Affection seems to have been in short supply in Lanling, replaced by material objects – it’s not that strange that he developed an unusual compulsion.”

He paused for a moment, then smiled a little ruefully. “Personally, I’ve always wondered about Jiang Cheng’s role.”

Jiang Yanli held out her hands, indicating her helplessness. “I have no idea. He was never good at arrays, and yet he seems perfectly capable of bringing them down, no matter how complicated…some hidden talent, perhaps?”

“The opposite,” Wen Qing said with a sigh. “Speaking as the local expert in arrays – his talent for arrays is so low that he just breaks them by accident. Every time.”

They all winced at the thought.

“At least your brother isn’t technically a criminal,” Nie Mingjue told Wen Qing, bringing the conversation back to the original point. “He just helps them out sometimes; the rest of the time, he’s an art appraiser. That’s a perfectly respectable occupation.”

“He’s fantastic at appraising art,” Wen Qing said, rubbing her temples. “But he’s so terrified of confrontation that he can’t bring himself to tell any of his clients that their art is worthless…I’ll never forgive Wen Ruohan for it, never. Have I thanked you recently for getting rid of him, Sect Leader Nie?”

Nie Mingjue waved a hand. “I would have done it anyway, you know that.”

“Still, still. It was a good deed, and all the talent in arrays in the world are useless if what you need is a really strong fist.”

“Saber,” he corrected her.

“Speaking of good deeds, it seems like our younger siblings have taken on a new client,” Lan Xichen said, changing the subject. “Wen Qing, if you could…?”

“Certainly,” she said, and dipped her fingers into the tea before using the liquid to draw an array on the table, the details of the client appearing in floating letters in the air. It also included the details of the plan that Nie Huaisang had sketched out to solve the problem. “It’s a fairly typical heart-wrenching story, so I don’t blame them for taking it, but I really do think this one is out of their league. The plan relies on their getting access to this particular treasure room at the very interior of the sect, and, well, Jiang Cheng is good at breaking arrays, but as you see…”

“That’s not the right number of guards, too,” Jiang Yanli said, studying the information with a frown. “Their information must be outdated; my understanding was that the number has grown considerably now that they’re on alert. Lan Wangji will be greatly outnumbered – poor A-Xian’s heart will be broken if anything happens to him.”

“Mine as well,” Lan Xichen put in, and smiled as she blushed and waved her hands.

“I can take care of thinning the herd,” Nie Mingjue assured both of them. “If one of you can get me to the choke point on the second floor, I can probably do it so that he won’t even notice that I’m there.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Lan Xichen said, shaking his head. “I’ve already spoken with a few people inside; someone will be more than happy to let me in through the gate.”

“By which you mean you’ve somehow convinced them that you’re on their side, again,” Wen Qing said, rolling her eyes. “No offense, Sect Leader Lan, but if you keep doing that, you’re going to get another stalker.”

“A-Yao isn’t a stalker,” Lan Xichen said. “He’s a professional.”

“A professional Interpol agent who wants to arrest all of us,” Nie Mingjue said, shaking his head. “Ridiculous. I know exactly what that man is capable of, the people he’s stepped on in his journey to the top; he has no room to talk about virtuous conduct at all.”

“You shouldn’t be so harsh on him, da-ge…”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a kink,” Wen Qing whispered to Jiang Yanli, who giggled. She shook her head and turned back to them. “It’s not as if we don’t all know that you’re dating him, Sect Leaders – my point was that we don’t want any more of him. Anyway, you’re all interrupting my presentation.”

Everyone muttered apologies.

“I think everyone’s plans sounded very good,” she continued. “But that still all depends on them getting in, and that means the defensive arrays have to be brought down to a level that our brothers can handle. I can do that if I have access to the spiritual treasure that forms the center of their array…Yanli?”

“Of course,” Jiang Yanli said with a smile. “Sect Leader Lan, when you bring Sect Leader Nie inside, can you plan to bring me in as well?”

“Certainly; you can be our secretary – we’ll send you to fetch tea. Will that be enough time for you to obtain the object?”

“I’ll make it work,” she said.

“Young mistress Jiang is being humble,” Nie Mingjue said. “A defensive system like that won’t even take you the length of time it takes to burn a stick of incense.”

“You flatter me, Sect Leader Nie,” she said with a laugh. “I’m really only a very average thief in my category…”

“When your category of ‘thief’ has only one person, you are, by definition, average,” Wen Qing said, rolling her eyes. “I hope you’ve given your fiancé some tips.”

“He’s far too embarrassed by it for us to discuss it openly,” she said, smiling. “But I’ve slipped in a few pointers here and there…I was thinking of bringing it up after the wedding.”

“Once he’s had a chance to see that you’re not breakable?” Wen Qing teased. “A little bit of tossing and turning –”

“Lady Wen, please!” Lan Xichen said, looking flustered himself. “Returning to the main point: are we all agreed on the plan? Our younger siblings must never know we’ve helped, of course.”

“It seems good to me,” Nie Mingjue said, and the others nodded as well. “See, Xichen, this is why we don’t need A-Yao to join us – we’re fine without a mastermind bossing us around.”

“But he’d enjoy it…”

“He is technically Jin Zixuan’s older sibling,” Jiang Yanli put in. “And this is a gathering of older siblings. You should consider it, Sect Leader Nie.”

He snorted, but shrugged. “I’ll think about it. No promises.”

“Enough, enough,” Wen Qing said. “Time’s limited – let’s go steal our younger brothers some self-confidence.”

#mdzs #leverage #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #jin zixuan #lan wangji #wen ning #nie mingjue #lan xichen #jiang yanli #wen qing #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #this is not what you asked for but it's what came out #and I'm delighted by it #too much leverage #hamelin-born

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swishswishspiritsword · 3 years

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Merchant Shang AU 2

The panic didn't really set in until they arrived at his estate–and that was still a weird fact of his life, an estate–and he had Xiao She settle "Empress Su Xiyan" in the guest house. The not-a-maid kinda bodyguard looked at him with obvious disbelief at his address for the young woman, so unnerved by it she slipped enough that her eyes were golden with slitted pupils. Shang Houhua could empathize. He too was freaking out about the sudden occurrence and realizing your boss might be involved with the Big Boss of the world you specifically emigrated away from is distressing.

Although that did mean he could check another point for her being a snake demoness over a crane demoness in his mental chart.

Shang Houhua offered her a sympathetic grimace and awkward shoulder pat.

"Xiao She should go take a break," Shang Houhua said kindly. Or at least in his best attempt. He'd gotten better at socializing since he'd actually managed to curate Actual Human (And Non-Human) Relationships, but he was still a "work in progress" as Luo Ren put it delicately or a "disaster in emotional understanding" according to the ever blunt Steward He.

Shang Houhua was kinda hoping he was somewhere in the middle.

Xiao She had given him a Look and Shang Houhua knew that it meant he would find his very irritable not-a-maid insisting on keeping watch over him personally until this situation was handled.

Or Shang Houhua was dead.

He wasn't actually sure which would come first. And was very carefully not actively thinking about it until his internal screaming could become external in the safety of his heavily warded fluffy bed.

"Yes, Master Shang," Xiao She said with a little more hiss on the words than usual. That may have been a flash of fang.

Shang Houhua winced. So, his staff may be a bit more upset about the revelations than normal. He hesitated a little unsure if he should point it out considering the general Ignore Everything Rule the mixed species estate ran by.

"...Xiao She may want to compose herself in private unless she has decided to, ah, be more, hm, free with her identity."

That probably wasn't terribly delicate, but Shang Houhua was running on fumes, adrenaline, and specific Plot Related panic he hadn't had to deal with in a solid decade. Shang Houhua nodded again in awkward acknowledgment and Did Not See Xiao She dash up to the roof to avoid corridors or the way the charcoal girl had a thin rat-like tail poking out the bottom of her skirt. Shang Houhua had not seen things for years and went to his room to collapse in peace after one last order for the doctor to be sent to Su Xiyan's room.

Shang Houhua hadn't actually meant to turn his estate into some kind of halfway house for more pro-human demons or half-demons. Honestly, owning an estate in the first place had been an accident caused by picking up what could only be described as a side quest. During his early wandering around the great (terrible) world he created, free from his "fate" he'd stumbled into being a rogue cultivator to pay the bills.

He needed money! Starting up businesses took a lot of it. And connections too! If Logistics Hell taught him anything it was this. So he used what he had to get by.

And honestly he wasn't actually terrible it turned out? He would never be a War God but he did pay attention to the basics, was a resourceful (read cheating) man,and had wanted to avoid being brutally murdered by what passed as a houseplant on some peaks. Besides as Author God he did know more than the average Sect Dropout.

Most people didn't really need big things either. He did minor things to get by. He made talismans to help ward off wandering monsters from farmers livestock and fields. He performed purifying rituals on a town's toddlers to help insure they were protected even after death. He helped fetch some plants to heal someone or an item to break a curse. It had felt a little like playing through an RPG and it wasn't the most stable but Shang Houhua was revelling in not having a bluescreen of death stalking his every breath of air.

The estate had happened when, a very tired and recently poor, Shang Houhua had met Old Sun. Old Sun was one of those eccentric independently wealthy men who never married and liked to collect weird shit. Among that weird shit was something cursed which made the entire estate a horror zone. Old Sun had done everything to stop it. He'd tried to get rid of it only for it to find him. He'd tried to get it blessed at a temple only for it to throw the monks around like dolls until they'd called quits. He'd tried to move away abandoning his home in the city for his estate in bumfuck nowhere. He'd hired cultivators, other rogues, only for them to take the money and split.

He could only dismiss his staff to protect them and set out to beg help from one of the righteous sects with the increasingly starving ghost dogging his steps and weakening him.

Shang Houhua had found the old man collapsed on the road and helped out, noticing the nice clothes he'd been wondering idly about a possible reward, when resentful energy started to waft off him making Shang Houhua choke on his lunch.

Thankfully he'd recognized the item, a minor cursed bangle of a famous courtesan that had been part of a mini quest. After working his way through as many cursed jewelry plotlines as he could he'd eventually remembered this specific bangle and set the spirit to rest, dispersing the resentful energy.

Old Sun had woken up happy, healthy,and uncursed. He was so grateful he insisted Shang Houhua come spend the night at his home and be rewarded. Shang Houhua was not about to say no and happily accepted. He could, literally, not afford any chance at money.

He just hadn't expected the man to adopt him, shamelessly dragging him into his house.

After a while Shang Houhua accepted because he actually liked sleeping in a bed and he gained his third family. Fourth if you counted his shortly lived martial family. It took some adjustment but Shang Houhua wound up actually liking Old Sun and, even more bewildering, was liked in return. Shang Houhua helped him identify the weird shit he collected, occasionally adding to the collection, and Old Sun feed and clothed him all while cheerfully listening to rants about story ideas.

Shang Houhua had no trouble picking out his favorite, his first real and positive, family member.

It was on one of his trips to buy ingredients to start up his soap business that had started him down the road of Demonic Social Worker. He'd helped hide one terrified teenager from a mob, sneaking her out of town, and next thing he knows she's turning up at the estate to ask to repay him. Old Sun insisted on offering her a position and kept insisting as others slowly trickled in as the Don't Ask policy of their staff choices spread and they slowly filled the empty house.

Old Sun had been delighted by the noise and people they gathered while he'd been alive. He'd happily bounced the stablemaster's baby with suspicious sharp teeth and pointy ears on his knee and chatted enthusiastically with Steward He about his collection ignoring when the man fell into first person describing the bloody history of some demonic items.

Shang Houhua had simply continued the tradition when he'd suddenly inherited and expanded it with his business, spreading out their household as traders and managers when he could.

He was fairly certain Luo Ren and himself were the only fully human people in the building.

–

Honestly a future Demon Empress was only the next step up. Or at least that's what he tried to tell his panicking mind. And she wasn't permanent. He would lead her to Tianlang-jun and happily fuck off back to obscurity.

Definitely.

A knock interrupted his screaming and Shang Houhua removed the pillow from his face to clear his throat and give permission to enter.

It was Steward He and the man was looking unruffled as always, at least until Shang Houhua noticed the way his hands were carefully hidden in his robes, his skin seemed unnaturally smooth and more youthful, and his eyes were amber tinted.

Also upset then.

"Lady Xiyan is demanding an audience," Steward He said mostly neutrally in a way that meant he was far from neutral. "And we've received a request from a group of Huan Hua Palace cultivators to scour the town and our grounds in search of a missing disciple. The town's leaders have instructed them to obey your decision on the matter."

Shang Houhua shoved the pillow back down and Steward He allowed him a few moments to scream.

Part 1 - Part 3

#shang qinghua #fanfic #merchant sqh au #ocs #svsss

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faelapis · 4 years

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Hi, two things, 1) I love your blog!! And 2) After watching “Fragments”, I’m highkey worried bc as far as I recall, Pink has never shattered anyone/been mentioned to have shattered (correct me if I’m wrong!) any gems thus far. Do you think the show will address the fact that Steven has potentially done something that not even his mother did (even if he did fix it!), and if the show does, how much of a role do you think it could play in his potential corruption?

thank you so much!

as for your question - first of all, this is true. rose never shattered anyone. that was a key tenet of her philosophy. i’ve been thinking for a while that it’s very likely steven’s downward spiral this season will make him more empathetic towards his mom and how difficult her life was.

considering that i don’t think steven really hates her, at least not one-dimensionally (in “diamond days” he’s fairly sympathetic towards her)… i don’t think this would drastically change his opinion of her on a love-hate spectrum. it’s more that i think he would be able to really, genuinely understand her in a way he hasn’t before. how you feel about someone and whether you can Relate are two different things.

i also think this season has done a good job illustrating that steven’s issues really cannot be blamed solely on his mom. that’s a lazy scapegoat that ignores every other character’s decisions. the diamonds are not the only characters with agency, especially not pink.

now, as for his corruption - i think that’s already a mental breakdown in process? it’ll happen regardless of whether he sees the contrast to his mom. but i do think losing control of himself this episode is a key parallel to what she did to pink pearl… it was an accident, but it shaped how they see themselves forever.

ultimately, though, i think that steven’s own values, his own hatred of death & shattering, is what’s really breaking him right now. as he says in the trailer - “i help people! i don’t hurt them!”... but he knows that’s not true anymore. and jasper’s gonna stick around to be a permanent reminder of that.

the true death in this episode wasn’t jasper. it was steven’s ability to see himself as a hero.

#steven universe #su spoilers #su theory #jasper #steven #rose diamond #brawny-thesaurus

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smilepal · 3 years

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👹🍊 🏀 🐟 ❤ :3c

Character ask meme for @billlybutcher ☺️

👹--How does you OC act around different people and how does their personality change to match the environment they’re in? How do they act with: friends, family, strangers, children or their lover(s)?

Hiro's personality/how he comes off is very dependent on who he's around. He takes pride in being adaptable to most situations, and being able to keep up a mask, or have people perceive him a certain way. It's easy to act--put on a show, let people see what you want them to see. This, in combination with a lack of fear, and the ability to be charming, at least with his mouth shut--has allowed him to bullshit his way out of situations he maybe shouldn't have been able to. If it seems like you're supposed to be there, and you know what you're doing, you can usually get away with quite a bit? He's quick to put on a front around strangers, depending on what he wants from them. Clients will usually perceive him as someone who's there to get the job done, quickly and without a whole lot of bullshit. He's to the point, often to the extent of being a bit abrupt/and wants to get the whole ordeal over with so he can get paid. If he wants something/is off-work though, he can be pretty charming--especially in the right context/if someone's caught his eye. He's still pretty direct in that regard, albeit less abrasive. He still has a mouth on him though, and that never changes much.

With friends he tends to let his guard down a bit, if they're very close to him--and with family as well. He still holds back a bit though, and it's something he still struggles with sometimes even if he has gotten better over time. Close friends/family are treated to a rare glimpse of a softer side, one that is strangely sentimental, and remembers the tiny details about people--a favorite flower, or song they like--stuff that makes them happy. He's a little hesitant around children, and honestly they scare him a bit. They're small, and have so much energy, and are just all over the place and he's the one to look back at their guardians for help. Despite this, he tries to be nice to them and makes a genuine effort not to seem too scary, and just hopes that none of them think he makes a good role model--something he hasn't been entirely successful with. With his lovers/people who've managed to get beyond the initial instinct to keep people at a distance (at least emotionally) he's a very dedicated, loyal partner. He might not always know how to convey something verbally, or get tripped up and have it come out less gracefully than he'd like, but he's not afraid to show affection through actions and gestures, and is always trying to find new ways to do so--whether that's spending quality time with them, or finding out how to cook their favorite meal for them.

🍊--Does your OC have any triggers? Why do these things trigger them? What are they like when triggered and how do they calm down after?

Hiro has a couple, not that he'd ever be forthcoming about that to others, or honestly, to himself. He's very reliant on his senses, and being deprived of any of them is something that deeply unsettles him/can push him into a spiral if it goes too far--the sense of being unmoored or untethered is enough to make him panic, especially if it's deliberate. He...doesn't do great with feeling helpless, and being cut off from his senses just amplifies that. Even in day-to-day life, he doesn't like complete silence. Being alone with his thoughts is something he genuinely tries to avoid, and dead silence exacerbates it. He tries to maintain at least some small level of background noise--usually the bustle of Night City/ambient sounds are enough, but if he's at home or driving, he likes to have the radio on in the background or music playing quietly.

In general, Hiro rarely lets his guard down, always keeping an eye out, both for his own safety and for others--and if someone manages to take him by surprise, even if it's on accident, he usually doesn't respond great. At the very best, he's fairly defensive or prickly/and if they're not someone he cares about maintaining a relationship with/if was done maliciously there could be a fight. His fight or flight response is strong, and it's just determined by how much he values a relationship. If there's a way out, he'll take it rather than risk an argument, but if pushed far enough, he'd snap at someone, loved one or not. That would usually take deliberate goading on their part though--usually by prying into his business more closely than he'd like or trying to get answers out of him he isn't comfortable giving.

Hiro takes a while to calm down/wind himself down after. He responds pretty strongly, and tries to remove himself from the situation as fast as possible. Typically if it’s really bad, he’s not going to want to talk about it and might just disappear for a bit—he’ll either get on his bike and go for a ride, or go clubbing/dancing. If it’s bad, and he feels like he can’t be around people, he might go spar with a training bag, and try to get some of his agitation out that way. Most of his coping skills are typically very physical—and all things considered, usually fairly healthy outlets. He tries to wear himself out enough that he doesn’t have to think very hard, or just surround himself with so much noise/stimulation he literally can’t focus on anything else.

🏀--Does your OC have any skills that people wouldn’t expect them to have? Do they have a hobby or pass time that others would consider strange or weird? How did they learn this particular skill or pick up this hobby?

Hiro is a surprisingly talented baker. He obviously never had much time for it before he left the Tyger Claws, or the opportunity to do something he’d consider so frivolous, but he picked it up from Mama Welles after he met Jackie. For the fact that he’s still pretty nervous cooking, he’s actually a decent baker, and enjoys how much he can tune everything else out while he’s doing it. He rarely bakes for himself, seeing it as something that isn’t necessarily worth the cost of supplies/the time commitment, but if there was even an inkling that someone else would appreciate it—they’d be quick to find some sort of homemade treat waiting for them when they least expect it—and as he’d be quick to point out—he looks damn cute in an apron. Most of his hobbies are pretty normal—dancing, boxing, rock climbing, and usually fairly physical. He’s been dancing for a long time, but the boxing he picked up from Jackie/Viktor, and the rock climbing from Victory. He also loves to race bikes and this is a definitely a hold-over from his TC days. It’s not necessarily a weird hobby, but people usually don’t expect him to like clothing/shopping as much as he does—and it’s usually where a lot of his extra income disappears to (well that and expensive stuff for his hair.)

🐟--What was your OC like as a baby? What were they like as a child? A teenager? An adult? How do you think they’ll develop ten years into their future? Twenty years? Will they live to old age?

Hiro was a really quiet child—and desperate for any sort of guidance/attention. His role models growing up weren’t good ones, and they definitely used this as an opportunity to manipulate him. He was very approval-seeking, and would take that wherever he could find it, even if meant trusting people he probably shouldn’t have. Granted, he didn’t know much better, but the lesson stuck with him, and it left him a much warier adult. Hiro was a god-awful shit as a teenager. He was still in the Tyger Claws at the time, and there was a lot of repressed anger/trauma there with almost zero outlets. There are a few relationships he maintains from before he cut ties with TC, but they are few and far between, Judy and Viktor being the biggest ones—and even those went through rocky periods.

Ten years into the future, it really depends if he can stay clear of the gangs or not. The likelihood of him allying himself with a corporation is slim to none, but enough bad choices/impulsive decisions might still lead him down a not-so-good path. Twenty years—he’d either be the healthiest he’s ever been, with strong relationships with others, and a circle of people he’s truly grown to trust, or what he absolutely used to dread/fear becoming. It all depends on whether he puts personal relationships/growth over what’s easier for him/seems to come a little too easily, and lets himself get consumed by the darker side of Night City. Regardless, he’d probably survive to old age—honestly out of sheer spite. He’s always been driven by survival/keeping himself alive, and would honestly do so even if only to outlive his enemies. Even into older age though, he’d still try to keep himself sharp. Whatever the case, the likelihood of a peaceful retirement somewhere seems far-fetched. He’d still manage to find his way into the middle of things, even if only unintentionally.

❤️--What inspired you to make this OC? How long have you had them? How have they changed in the time you’ve been developing them?

Oh boy, I’ll try not to get too long-winded with this. Hiro started as an OC for an unnamed futuristic story—probably about two-ish years ago? I’d just seen Bladerunner (as well as the more recent sequel) for the first time, and I’d never gotten too deeply into the genre before. But I realized I wanted to create a character that would fit into one one these universes—someone scrappy, a survivor at heart, and who wasn’t afraid to risk his own safety for his found family. He didn’t have a lot of depth when I first created him (although the name stuck—he was always Hiro, and it never felt right changing it). He initially was a lot less sympathetic, and honestly—even aggravated me a bit. I tried to create a character that was a little more balanced, and someone who had flaws but wasn’t completely unlikeable, and who’s impulsive actions led to actual, lasting consequences. His initial character (even before I fit him into the CP universe) began as a sort of android, who could almost, but not quite pass as human. He still has fairly extensive cybernetics, and relies on them heavily, but not as much as he had previously.

Even when I was first developing him as a Cyberpunk OC, he was more focused on guns/ranged weapons/stealth. It was only after playing cyberpunk, that my play-style began to influence his character and he became much more strength/melee based. And honestly? I’m really happy he did. He’s not my usual type of character, at least in that regard and it’s been fun leaning into it—and making him this character who’d rather punch first and think later. (Also not at all influenced by the fact that I’m impatient as hell and net hacking/stealth just takes so long.) He developed along-side Vic, and her character really helped me to realize how Hiro would interact with other characters—especially ones who have such different backstories/upbringing, and the process of creating him, and being able to bounce ideas off someone else (“hey wouldn’t it be cool if this happened?”) was a huge part in inspiring me, and was so helpful, having someone to respond to that character and provide their own feedback (and vice-versa). Also honestly, Hiro was created after a long period of me not being super creative/artistically motivated. It was the middle of COVID and I was so fucking bored, and not doing much outside of work and classes. So he was an amazing creative outlet for me—helped to get me to start writing again, and eventually led me to tumblr/discord and a lot of really fantastic people, and the sort of community I’d needed.

Wow, uh sorry this got so long. But man, thanks for asking--was really, really fun 😍💖

#aaaa I'm sorry this took so long #character asks #ask memes #hiro oda #thanks for your patience #🖤🖤🖤#character headcanons #cyberpunk ocs #uh got a bit carried away with this one 😅#okay tho they're long questions--ya can hardly blame me #victory delvin #tyger claws #very long post #victory delvin belongs to shinycorvidae #this bitch ended up being almost 2000 words holy shit--wish I could write actual papers this easily 😂

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 4 years

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Royal Growing Pains - Chapter Ten

Warnings: Homophobia, transphobia, misgendering, sympathetic Deceit

Royal Growing Pains Tag

“So, have you two decided on what you might want served at the wedding?” Patton asked.

“Uh...” Roman looked over at Damien only to find him turning red as he ate. “Not yet, Patton, sorry.”

“Oh, it’s no worries, I know the both of you were hesitant about this whole thing, and after all, the food doesn’t get made until the day of, save for the cake depending on difficulty, and you already have so much to plan. I don’t hold it against you,” Patton said cheerily.

“You’re awfully forgiving,” Roman laughed. “I gave my mother some half-baked ideas about what I might like because she refused to stop pestering me, and she said that I ‘couldn’t put this off forever’ in that patronizing voice I absolutely hate.”

Damien hummed his disapproval. “I don’t like your mother,” he said. “Especially after last night when she tried to convince me that you were pretending to be transgender for a prank. And that whole ‘treat you like the princess you are’ thing? I thought I might throw up. It was actually and truly disgusting.”

“Glad I’m not the only one who feels that way,” Roman said. “It reminds me that everyone looking at me by first glance will see a princess, not a prince. I am well and truly a prisoner of my own body, and my mind can’t be set free.”

“Well, the least we can do is spruce up those prison walls, hm?” Damien asked. “Make your body match your mind a little more. It may not be perfect, but it is a start.”

Roman sighed and propped his head up with one of his hands, even as he used the other to continue dipping his grilled cheese in ketchup. “It feels like it’s going to be an age before that happens.”

“I know it does,” Damien said, placing a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “But hopefully you can find things to pass the time when I am not around and your mother doesn’t require you. I’m assuming you got your phone back?”

“Yeah,” Roman said, sighing. “But if I get caught talking to any of my friends, I’m dead.”

“Would the same be true if you talked to your brother?” Damien asked. “Because the way you talk about him, you might be able to call.”

“He’ll be in meetings all the time, I won’t be able to call,” Roman sighed. “But I just might be able to text.”

“I would advise you to text him whenever you need and can get away with it,” Damien said. “Someone to help affirm your identity is always a good thing, and I can’t be around all the time, much as I would like to be.”

Roman sighed. “I know,” he said, pulling out his phone and playing with it. “I don’t know how much time we’ll have to text each other, but I can try and talk to him when I can.”

“Why don’t you send him a quick text now, letting him know that you want to text when you can?” Damien proposed. “Open the line of communication when you know you can.”

Roman nodded and unlocked his phone. “Yeah, I’ll shoot him a line.”

Figuring out what to type wasn’t easy. Their parents couldn’t monitor their texts because Roman and Remus never went anywhere without their phones, but how did Roman sum up what was going on here? hey loser, guess who? mom gave me back my phone, and i want to talk to you when i can, you up for that? He sent the text and stared at the screen a few seconds hopefully, before turning off his phone with a sigh. “He probably won’t see that for another hour at least.”

“But at least he’ll see it,” Damien said, rubbing Roman’s shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s a real good thing the two of you get to talk!” Patton said. “Even if you have to be careful with what you say, talking is always good.”

Roman’s phone chirped with a text alert and he opened his phone at lightning speed, laughing when he saw what Remus had responded with. oh thank god you’re alive! i was really starting to worry, ro. i let our friends know that you were going off the grid for a bit so you don’t have to worry about them worrying. pls talk to me about what’s going on. and...pls tell me that you’re not mad. i’m super super sorry

Roman smiled and typed back, i’m currently with future husband and we’re having lunch. everything is such a long story, i don’t know where to start. but don’t worry, i would never ever EVER be mad at you for an accident

“I take it he’s doing well?” Damien asked.

“He hasn’t said he’s dying, so that’s promising,” Roman said drily. “Currently he’s apologizing for accidentally outing me.”

“Oh, is that what happened?” Patton asked. “I thought you might have told your folks yourself and they just took it poorly.”

“Well, Remus called me ‘Roman’ in front of them and I had to explain, so it was a combination of both,” Roman said. “Regardless, my parents didn’t take it well.”

Patton scowled. “I don’t like them,” he declared.

“I don’t know anyone who does,” Damien said with a wry smile. He checked his own phone and sighed. “Father will want me to be at the meeting within the next ten minutes, I’m afraid I have to go.”

Roman felt his stomach sink. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, if I’m not there Father will send Virgil after me, and no one wants that,” Damien said, pulling a face. “But at least we placed everyone in the wedding, so you don’t have to do that on your own. I imagine you’ll be wrapped into looking at flowers, or ribbons, or some other decoration around the chapel that really doesn’t matter to either of us but everyone else insists is important.”

“Well, we’re both men, and men stereotypically don’t care about this sort of thing,” Roman said with a shrug. “I will try and see if we can get good colors for everything based on the chapel’s walls, though.”

“Well, keep in mind that the walls are a pale, cool blue. Almost slate colored,” Damien said. “If you need to see it in person someone can show you.”

“Okay,” Roman said reluctantly. “Find me whenever the meetings are done?”

Damien looked pained. “My dear, these meetings typically go until dinner.”

“On the off chance you finish early, please,” Roman almost begged, grabbing Damien’s hand as he stood up. “I don’t want to feel so alone.”

Damien nodded. “I will do my best, Roman.”

Roman nodded and let him go. Patton sighed from across the table and said, “Everything’s been really rough, hasn’t it?”

A groan was Roman’s only answer.

“Do you want me to hide you away for a bit so you can talk to your brother more?” Patton offered.

“Much as I appreciate it, Patton, that would probably just land me in more trouble,” Roman sighed. “I’ll respond to his texts when I can, and he’ll do the same for me.”

As if on cue, Roman’s phone chirped again. fh treating you right? i’ll kill him if he makes you cry

Roman smiled. fh is nothing but a perfect gentleman, re. relax

Patton put his hand over one of Roman’s. “If you ever need anything, at all, don’t hesitate to ask, all right?” Patton said. “I’ll be more than happy to help.”

“I know. Thank you,” Roman said, standing up and leaving the kitchen with a sigh, heading back to the room where his mother and the Queen were.

“Oh, Veronica, I was just about to go looking for you!” his mother said brightly. “We need to talk about decorations.”

Roman was torn between cringing and laughing. “What specifically about decorations do we need to discuss?”

“Well, there’s the flower arrangement for the bouquet, and then we should look at the chapel itself and see what else is necessary. Rose says that the walls are somewhat plain, and I think it would be nice if we could cover them with something special for the occasion.”

Roman blew some of his hair out of his face and sighed. “Well, I could always paint a thing or two to pin on the walls for the wedding,” he offered, voice somewhat lackluster. “But the chapel is pretty big, if we can invite all these people. I doubt I could cover every instance of wall between or under windows with paintings.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t ask that of you,” the Queen laughed. “I was hoping to use flowers to cover the walls. And warn people ahead of time that if they have allergies, they might want to use antihistamines in advance.”

Roman wracked his brain for what he remembered about flowers from talking to the gardeners. “I like the thought of daffodils,” he offered. If he remembered correctly, daffodils symbolized change, and hope. He thought that definitely applied, and his mother would never be the wiser about the meaning.

“Convenient, considering the crest of our kingdom is dark grey and golden yellow,” the Queen said with a smile. “Why don’t we pick out some red flowers to represent your family’s crest, and then work from there?”

“Peonies are also around this time of year, aren’t they?” Roman’s mother asked. “They’re fairly popular for weddings.”

“All right, daffodils and peonies will be on the walls, and in the bouquet, if you like that, Veronica?” the Queen asked.

“Yeah, that works,” Roman said, sitting down with a sigh.

“I have a proposal for flowers that we can decorate the pews with,” the Queen said.

“Hm?” Roman hummed.

“Hydrangeas,” the Queen said with a smile. “Blue, pink, and white. All soft colors, and I think they would be perfect.”

Roman inwardly perked up at that. The trans pride colors, he thought with a smile. That’s considerate. “I do like that idea,” he said with a small smile.

His mother was about to say something but her phone rang and she sighed. “Excuse me, this would be my husband,” she said, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind her, but not before Roman heard his mom snap, “I was just talking to Veronica, what do you want?!”

Roman winced and the Queen sighed. “I am truly sorry for your mother’s behavior and the toll it’s taking on you, Roman,” she murmured. “You shouldn’t have to be put through this.”

Roman offered her a weak smile. “Well, out of all the guys I could be married to, Damien isn’t half bad.”

The Queen laughed. “He’s a handful, however. You will of course have help around the castle if he gets too out of hand, but he is a lot to take in.”

“I know,” Roman said. “The more he loosens up the more...intense he seems to be. That paint fight we had...the whole experience was made that much more enjoyable, and tiring, because it was Damien who I was fighting against.”

“I suppose intense is a good word for him,” the Queen said. “He can only look and act like the perfect gentleman for so long before he has to be human again. And he likes to make the most of when he’s allowed to just be human.”

Roman nodded and his phone pinged. He jumped. “Sorry, that’s probably Remus,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Do you mind if I answer him?”

“Go ahead,” the Queen said. “Before your mother comes in and can interrogate you on who you’re talking to.”

define perfect gentleman was the only thing in the text.

Roman stifled giggles as he typed, we got in a paint fight and he took all the blame, just because he knew i would get hell from mom. he’s fine, re

His phone pinged again within seconds. i’ll believe that when i see it. dad’s starting the meeting, gotta go. love you lots, brother, don’t ever forget <3

i won’t <3 Roman promised, putting his phone down and locking it.

“Anything interesting?” the Queen asked.

“He was asking about Damien, and if I’m being treated all right, here,” Roman said. “Which of course I responded that Damien’s been wonderful and that I’m as fine as I can be.”

The Queen offered Roman a sad smile just as his mother walked back in the room. “Sorry, my husband wanted a quick update before he started his next meeting,” his mother said. “I told him everything was fine. I hope that’s still the case?”

“We were just talking about Remus, because Her Majesty wanted to hear more about him,” Roman said, nodding to the Queen. “Nothing scandalous went down while you were gone, Mother.”

“I don’t know of anything that could be scandalous and occur in two minutes,” the Queen laughed. She stood. “Some of the women in the family were hoping to meet you, Veronica, if that’s all right with you? They will probably keep you for most of the afternoon one way or another, I’m afraid.”

“Would I be allowed a sketchbook and pencils?” Roman asked. “In case I want to draw during any lulls in conversation?”

“Of course,” the Queen said. “I do believe you have those supplies in your room?”

Roman nodded.

“Then go on and grab them, dear, and we’ll see you in the main day room. You spoke to myself and my husband there yesterday after lunch.”

“Oh, yeah, I know where that is,” Roman said.

“You spoke after lunch?” his mother asked suspiciously.

“Just apologizing for having to run out. I’m afraid my nerves made me rather sick,” Roman lied.

His mother nodded, but continued to scrutinize him. The Queen cleared her throat. “Come on, Diana, they’re all very eager to talk to you as well.”

With a barely audible sigh, his mother followed the Queen out of the room. Roman walked down the halls away from them, back to his room. He knew that he couldn’t get out of the bulk of this socializing, but he was going to try and drag it out as long as possible.

His thoughts went out to Remus. When he texted, he seemed impossibly nervous, and he seemed scared that Roman would be mad at him, if Roman read the text correctly. Which, of course Roman had been mad at first. When he had been confined to his room for several days as this wedding plan came into play, he was downright furious. Only able to sneak quick messages on his computer to his friends before his parents would come in and check on him, or have guards checking in, to make sure he wasn’t talking with those friends. Eventually not even having that, as his parents confiscated his laptop and phone. Having books to read, and sketches to finish, but nothing else to do while he waited for his meals. He cursed Remus repeatedly in his head for that, throughout all those days.

But eventually, the cursing became less from anger at being outed, and more at the general loneliness that Roman was plagued with from virtually no human contact from the outside world, whatsoever. And by the end, when Roman’s mother dragged him out of the house before the break of dawn yesterday, he missed Remus, and wasn’t angry at him whatsoever anymore. Accidents happened. It wasn’t Remus’ fault that their parents had reacted the way they had. That was entirely on his parents. No one else.

He walked past the mudroom that lead to the back of the castle. Roman briefly entertained the idea of throwing his mother off the cliff, but he would most likely be caught, and his father would have him charged with treason, being a child of his or not. So that was a bust. He instead continued to walk up the stairs, and down the hall to his guest room. Once he was inside, he took a brief moment to take a deep breath, and let the soul-crushing depression and anxiety settle over him. Then he lifted his head, took another breath, and forced that aside. This was just a role he had to play for a week. A week of theatre. He wasn’t going to be Veronica, he never was Veronica in the first place. He was Roman Augustus Ayer, and he would not be stopped.

A quick search of his suitcase and he located his sketchbook and pencils and left the room. He wasn’t in a hurry to get to the day room, but he was aware that he couldn’t drag his feet without his mother making a snide remark about timeliness, so he walked with his head up, his shoulders squared, and his face set with determination. He could do this. He was more than capable of doing this.

He could hear the women laughing and talking from here, and his footsteps slowed. He didn’t want them to know he was there, not just yet. He couldn’t make out their conversation, but he wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He took a couple more steadying breaths, in and out, in and out. He could do this, he could do this. It would hurt like hell but he could do this. He was more than capable of playing a role for a week around a scrutinizing audience.

Rolling his head on his shoulders, he took one last steadying breath, and muttered, “Showtime,” under his breath. He plastered a fake polite smile on his face, and took the final steps he needed to get to the day room. “Hi, everyone, sorry for being a little behind!” he chirped.

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#roceit #sanders sides fanfiction #roman sanders #deceit sanders #patton sanders #royal growing pains #our creations

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 4/?

Part 3

Trigger warning for some very lightly mentioned domestic abuse and sexual assault (molesting of a minor). During the first POV.

“Come on now, don’t go picking fights with any more entities.” Gerry gives his shoulder a little push as the bus rolls to a stop. Jon complies, but he turns to face Gerry as soon as he hops on the street with him.

“Excuse me? I don’t pick fights with-” Jon’s massive lie fades off into indignant blustering when Gerry wraps a hand around his right wrist and brings his hand up to eye level, giving it a little shake with a raised eyebrow. “W- well that’s different, have you met Jude Perry?”

Nighttime at Jon’s flat is a strange ritual.

The first variable is whether or not Gerry will be staying, which has been happening more often lately. On those nights, Jon usually grabs the first thing that catches his attention from his bookshelf and sits on the coffee table or the carpeted floor -all of Gerry’s teasing about his ‘old lady sofa’ doesn’t stop him from hogging it for himself- to read aloud.

“I thought you didn’t sleep anymore,” he says whenever he looks up from the pages and finds Gerry stretching out mid-yawn.

“I don’t need it.” Gerry’s voice gets hoarser and more relaxed after these naps. “But the experience is still nice.” Which must also apply to the many times Jon’s seen him picking at a bag of crisps or sipping a cup of coffee.

Jon doesn’t mind. He enjoys his reading, and it’s nice to see Gerry at ease; Jon doubts he had many chances to just sit back and take a nap before, and it’s… it’s nice to feel like he’s a safe space for someone.

“If you’re going to doze off anyways, we could move to-” Jon stops himself a moment before finishing the thought, after catching the arched eyebrow and the amused glint in Gerry’s eyes. “Nevermind.”

“No no, by all means ask me to your bed, Jonathan.”

Jon sighs, “I don’t know why I even bother, Gerard.” Gerry scrunches his nose at the name and Jon rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. It never feels like Gerry’s making fun of him, and it makes him miss Tim -the Tim from before, when Jon hadn’t ruined everything yet- a little less.

On the days Gerry’s not around, though, Jon has to find other ways to keep himself distracted from the hunger.

It took him a while to notice, probably because the statements were all he needed for a while. The warehouse worker had been an anomaly, something Jon tried not to think about. He’d been out purchasing some groceries, compelled another random shopper on accident, and it had been just his rotten luck that the man had a story to tell.

Then, the day after Melanie’s… impromptu surgery. Jon had read statement after statement trying to relieve the ache of the wound on his shoulders, but each had brought only the feeling of a cool breeze on a burn; enough to lighten the pain but not doing anything to heal him.

He’d thought the stroll would clear his head and it had almost done so, until he’d seen her. Long brown hair falling over her shoulders in loose ringlets, a wrinkle of worry on her brow and a birthday card signed by all her co-workers wishing her a great day tomorrow.

The scalpel wound had been covered in new skin by the time he’d gone back to the institute, and Jon knew he’d be seeing Zaida Mossen in his dreams.

Sometimes he watches TV, picks a documentary and tries not to Know the next piece of information before the narrator says it on screen. One time he tried looking at old photos on Facebook, but he ended up Knowing his primary school best friend is now trapped with three kids and a woman that beats him every other night, and that his secondary school teacher got away on a technicality after he was found molesting a student. He closed the app before he could come across a picture with Georgie or Tim in it.

Overall, he avoids sleep.

The nightmares were just that, before the Unknowing. He could focus on the fact that he didn’t want the visions and he’d wake up soon enough, to try and drown out Naomi Hernes’ screams. To ignore the resigned, sad gaze of Karolina Gorka when she lay down next to the old man crushed by the chair. He can’t do that anymore.

Tonight Jon is tired after days of Knowing little details unwillingly, and sustaining himself only on old, stale statements. He sits on the edge of his bed and looks through the window to wait for the sky to lighten outside, because he knows if he lays down he will sleep, and if he sleeps he will See.

Dr. Elliot’s fear tastes of desperation. He’d been respected, an expert on his field, he’d only taken the class as a favor. Now he holds out an apple spilling endless teeth around him, begging for someone to take it. He knows they all think he’s mad.

Helen Richardson -the real one, one of Jon’s biggest screwups- has an aftertaste of madness, which makes sense considering the entity that claimed her. She’d been so scared of losing her grip on her mind, because she’d always been so sharp, so… consistent. Sometimes she looks at him over her shoulder before she opens the yellow door.

Tessa Winters has a flavor Jon recognizes well. She regrets clicking the link and downloading the file, and she’s scared she started something without an end, something that will keep tormenting her forever. She has never watched the video again in real life, but every night she tries to turn off a screen in which Sergey Ushanka’s gums bleed around the chewed up glass.

They know he’s watching them. The new ones scream at him for help, the older ones have given up. Both reactions bring Jon a feeling of bliss before he looks up at his patron and the cycle starts again.

“Hey,” comes Gerry’s voice as Jon’s bedroom door creaks open. “Ready to- oh. Didn’t know you were sleeping, I- are you alright?”

Jon blinks up at the ceiling, confused. The pillow is soft below his head, he feels replenished, and he Knows of at least three other people between here and the Institute that he could hunt down and add to his archive.

The edge of the bed sinks beside him, and a curtain of Gerry’s hair shields Jon’s face from the rising sun as he leans over him.

“Jon?”

“I’m- it’s alright.” Jon’s voice is hoarse from sleep too, but where Gerry’s is pleasant and calming, his sounds like he’s been gargling on gravel. “Just nightmares, is all.”

The corner of Gerry’s lips twitches into a side smile, but his eyes are sympathetic.

“That’s our bread and butter, isn’t it?” he asks. The punishing sunlight hits against Jon’s eyes when he stands up, the bed bouncing back a little at the lack of pressure. “Let’s get you to the Institute, some statements will make you feel better.”

The bedroom door closes behind him, and a long, tired sigh blows past Jon’s lips.

————————————————————————————————————————

Gerry counts seven members of the Church of the Divine Host on their way to the Institute. Funnily enough they stand out like sore thumbs in daylight, even without him using his Sight. The closed eye pendant makes something in his stomach coil with irritation, but he ignores it. He knows perfectly well by now that this is the Beholding rearing up at the perceived slight. For larger than life beings of cosmic horror, the entities are pretty much just angry cats swatting at each other very ineffectively.

Jon gives off a little grunt; he’s much more ensnared in than Gerry, so he supposes it makes sense.

“Yeah, and she gets along fairly well with other avatars. Even Gertrude never went around looking like she stuck her hand in a deep fryer and Perry hated her guts.” The burn scars on Jon’s hands are silky smooth when Gerry runs his thumb along the skin. They feel like his own. “If she did this to you, I’m going to go out on a limb and say-”

“I did not compel her,” Jon interrupts him with the most pompous, offended voice. Gerry gives his wrist a little squeeze, grinning. Jon sniffs, and Gerry can see the corner of his lips twitching. “But I did try a whole lot.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” Gerry cackles, letting go of his hand. “But you’re right about the Dark. They’re growing bolder, I think we’re going to get a visit sooner rather than later.”

Jon gives him a side look with a curved eyebrow.

“We?”

“Well yes, who else is going to lull me to sleep with his dulcet tones and extremely specific facts about the Russian Revolution?” Gerry rolls his eyes. “If the Dark comes for you, they come for me.”

Jon doesn’t say anything to that, but he looks extremely pleased for the rest of the walk to the Institute. It’s very endearing, Gerry thinks with a smile as he watches him descend the stairs into the Archives.

“Oh my God.” Gerry turns at the sound of the voice, and finds Melanie shaking her head at him.

“What?” Gerry figures if anyone here is going to get offended at his lack of manners, it’s definitely not going to be the woman that was a death away from becoming a physical incarnation of violence.

Melanie rolls her eyes. “Nothing. You’re going out?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay. I’m going with you, you’re going to explain some things.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, moving towards the front doors instead. Gerry blinks a couple times, trying to process the turn of events, before he follows after Melanie.

They end up at a little park a good way away from the Institute, and Gerry can’t help but notice that with every step Melanie takes away from the building her posture relaxes, and so does the ever-present frown at her brow.

“So… What is it that you wanted me to explain?” Gerry asks after they’ve sat down against a tree trunk, away from any passersby. They must make a terribly stereotypical sight, a cute little couple out on a date instead of a woman on a mission and her hostage.

Melanie looks up at him, her dark eyes especially striking behind her brightly colored bangs.

“What am I?” She asks. Then, like the thought just occurred to her, “I’m not like him am I? I mean, I didn’t- I can’t heal from statements or make people tell me things or-”

Gerry shakes his head. “That’s an Archivist thing, and there’s only one of those.”

“So I’m what? The Assistant? Because that’s a pretty lame title and I don’t care for it.” Melanie gives him an unimpressed stare, and Gerry chuckles under his breath. Either she’s very likable, or he just has a soft spot for blunt people.

“Nah. If anything, you were going to become an avatar of the Slaughter,” he says, gesturing at the bandaged spot that he knows is under her trousers. “I call them wielders, but the Beholding is really the only one that has titles for its avatars. I think that’s why no one likes them, too presumptuous.”

“Them?” Melanie asks, “aren’t you one too?”

“Not really,” says Gerry, feeling a shudder run down his spine. No thanks. “But I’m marked by the Watcher, just like you.”

Melanie takes a deep breath, clearly trying to keep her patience. “Didn’t you just say I was an avatar of the Slaught-” she gives him a furious glare, when Gerry slaps a hand over her mouth.

He pulls it back before she can decide to bite a few fingers off. “Don’t go proclaiming that stuff. These things take that seriously and Jon didn’t almost get himself killed so you could invite the Slaughter in again.”

Melanie rolls her eyes. “Fine. What does ‘being marked’ mean then?”

“Well, just that really. It’s when an entity had a grip on you at some point, usually because you ran into an avatar or a monster,” Gerry shrugs, twirling one of his rings around his finger just to have something to do with his hands. He doesn’t like talking about these things too much; too many years playing database for the hunters has left him very wary of people who want his knowledge. “Some marked people get abilities, like me. Some grow into full avatars, some don’t. It really depends on the person, and whether or not the entity thinks they’re a good fit.”

“And the Eye doesn’t think you are?”

“I don’t really care about knowledge as much as I care about using what I know to help people. I’m also marked by the End, but again, not a match.” He gives her a disappointed pout, and her mouth twitches. “There’s really no limit to how many entities can mark you, other than your bad luck I guess. Jon has like ten marks on him.”

“Ten?” Melanie arches her eyebrows. “Why so many?”

“A week ago he only had nine,” Gerry gives her a pointed look. Sure, she wasn’t herself back then, but he still remembers the small, exhausted grunts of pain as he helped Jon peel the blood soaked shirt off.

Melanie looks forward and her lips purse in a way that could be either sheepishness, or an attempt at holding a smile back. Knowing Melanie, he doubts it’s the first one.

“Well, I couldn’t eat solids for two days after,” she says in the end, and Gerry rolls his eyes.

“You were going to kill him. For real.” He hadn’t even thought before throwing the punch, because the only thing in his mind had been getting her away from Jon.

“Okay, okay,” Melanie waves a hand as if trying to bat the topic away. “I’m sorry for stabbing your boyfriend.”

Gerry doesn’t bother correcting her, just like he didn’t that night at the break room. As long as they don’t figure out his relationship with Jon is truly parasitic, they can think whatever they want.

There is, however, a lie he will call out. On principle. “No you’re not.”

Now Melanie smiles for real, even letting out a little huff of amusement.

“No, but I know I should be sorry. That has to count for something, right?”

————————————————————————————————————————

Basira hates a lot of things about the Institute.

For example, how she can feel herself changing with every word she reads on the damned books she can’t put down to save her life. How she’s trapped inside the building, and the only time she really braves the outside is when she goes and outruns whatever monster of the week is waiting for her because she feels Elias has something to tell her. How the building seems to have been designed with the sole goal of making its inhabitants as unnerved as possible.

She hates every corner and every brick, every dark room where the light switch is placed just out of reach when you first walk in, and how it always feels like someone is watching-

“You were there,” says a rough accented voice, and Basira freezes on her spot. The light switch is three more steps to the right, she knows this room, she can-

A large hand wraps itself around her neck and pulls her away from the door. The door closes behind her, and Basira no longer knows how far it is to the light switch. She’s never been in this room- is this a room?

“You’re not doing that. We’re friends, you and I. We don’t need to see each other.” The voice evokes a sense of familiarity within Basira, but something inside her is screaming at her, a primal urge to fight or flee. “Don’t you remember me?”

“I do not know you,” Basira says dryly, and the voice laughs in delight. A man, she’s pretty sure it’s a man… unless it isn’t? Maybe it’s a woman. Or neither. She should- she knows this person.

But didn’t she just say the opposite?

There’s some steps behind the door, so there must be a door. If there is a door, and there are steps… Then there has to be other people. People she knows. People who are real. Is she not real? If she knows this person, and they’re not real, then maybe she isn’t either.

But… but no. She has to be real, because she opened the door. Doors are real. They go to real places -most of them at least- and that must mean this is a place, and it’s real. If it’s a place, then she can… Basira frowns, feeling like she’s at the edge of something, if she could just…“This is a plac-”

“Don’t say a word.” The hand tightens around her throat. It doesn’t feel like any human hand Basira has touched before, only Basira suddenly isn’t so convinced she has touched any human before. Or perhaps she has and they all feel like this. Does she not feel like this because she’s not human?

The door opens, and the tenuous light that makes its way into the room is enough to chase away the shadow of uncertainty in Basira’s mind.

This is the Institute, she’s Basira Hussain, and she’s in danger. That’s all she needs to get to work.

“Jon, don’t turn the light on,” she orders, her voice calm and steady. “Go and find Melanie, quick.”

It isn’t until she gives the order that she remembers Melanie no longer has the bullet, and Elias’s stupid voice comes to haunt her. You lost Melanie.

“It’s alright Basira. I know he’s here.” Jon’s voice is like she’s never heard it before. No warmth, no hesitation, no sign of the man that measures his every word to try to not hurt anyone, and ends up doing so anyways. She can barely see his silhouette where he’s profiled by the light behind him, but she can see his eyes emit the eerie green glow they had that night by Melanie’s bed.

“So what are you doing?” she asks.

Three steps. Click.

Jon looks at some point behind and above Basira’s shoulder.

“I imagine he’s here to deliver something.” Jon’s words are punctuated by a low thrumming static. “Let her go.” Basira can feel each word vibrate with power, and the hand around her throat starts trembling as the creature fights the compulsion

It’s enough for her to twist out of its grasp. She doesn’t go stand by Jon, but moves in his general direction until she’s closer to him than she is to the… thing.

It looks like a man. It has all the parts. Skin, face, hands. It is not a man.

“Is- the deliverymen,” she blurts out the realization as soon as it comes.

“Deliveryman,” Jon says by her side. Once again she’s taken aback by the coldness of his voice, and the way his eyes are fixed on the being. “Which one are you?” he asks, and the glow from his eyes pulsates once as the static rises.

“ ’m Breekon,” the thing says immediately, then takes a step backwards. Jon takes a step forward and vaguely in Basira’s direction, and she realizes he plans on stepping between them.

“And where’s Hope?” The static in his voice remains, and the thing squirms a little more, clearly uncomfortable.

“Hope’s gone,” says the monster.

'Tell me about it,’ thinks Basira, before she takes a deep breath.

“And what? Are you here for revenge?” Hope turns to face her as she speaks, and stays silent. Jon gives a tired sigh, and repeats the question. It takes a few more seconds, like the fact that Breekon isn’t holding eye contact -if it even has eyes- delays the compulsion. It’s not enough to stop it.

“Yes. Like when we- when I put the mutt in the pit,” it says, and gives something at his feet a little kick. It’s only then that Basira sees the rough wooden coffin with its rusted chain and the scratched warning on top. “It knew where it was going, I think. It was scared of it. Never seen a hunter scream like that.”

Breekon gives a dark chuckle, and Basira feels molten hot rage spilling from her stomach, prickling at her eyes. Of course Daisy was scared of the fucking thing, she saw it in her dreams every other night, Basira would know. Her hand itches for her gun, but Jon’s voice comes before she can even begin reaching for it.

“Easy, Basira.” It’s not compulsion per se, and his voice does get softer when he spares her the quickest glance, but Basira still bristles at the words. What right does he have to ask her to hold back and be reasonable, when he’s been trying to corral Martin into talking to him whenever he’ll stand still for long enough?

“Daisy’s in there?” She asks instead, just to confirm. She cannot go into the coffin, her mind’s clear enough to push the desperate thought away but… but she needs to know.

The monster turns to her again, and huffs in what she guesses is amusement.

“Answer her,” says Jon calmly, businesslike. Breekon shudders.

“Nikola should’ve killed you faster,” it says, and Basira gets the feeling he’s trying to stall for time. Probably just to get on their nerves, because what is there to hide when he’s already told them? “Sure. Whatever’s left of it at least. Go find it for all I care.”

“Why are you here?” Jon asks again, taking another step between Basira and the deliveryman.

“Hm. Dunno. ’S not much to do without Hope around,” the monster shrugs. Out the corner of her eye Basira sees Jon stiffen. She remembers Daisy doing the same at times, freezing like a hunting dog with prey in its sights. “We’ve always been together.”

“…Jon?” Basira reaches out to touch his shoulder, but he doesn’t react. The glow in his eyes is brighter now, and Basira’s pretty sure he’s stopped breathing. The static in the room gets louder, and she snaps her head towards Breekon, her hand now firmly on her gun. “Get out.”

“Make me.”

“Stop.” Jon’s voice reverberates all the way through Basiras’ bones, and she and Breekon freeze.

“Jon, what are you doing?” Basira doesn’t try to touch him again. His form appears too sharp somehow, like those pictures that are so high quality they seem unreal, and his eyes look glassy and green as Breekon squirms under his gaze.

“Wh- stop. Stop it.” Breekon moves strangely, like he’s trying to take a step back but he’s stuck to the floor. Basira has a flashback to the butterflies and moths pinned to cork boards at her secondary school, their wings spread wide and their bodies exposed for everyone to look. She shudders. “Stop looking at me!”

“No.” Jon’s voice echoes inside Basira’s head, and her vision goes white. She has the briefest sense of satisfaction as she hears Breekon scream and gasp, and she’s aware only part of it is bitterness over Daisy. The other is some sort of instinctive pleasure; she guided Jon here, the Archivist needed this information and she found Breekon for him to See, she- she scowls. That’s not her.

That’s not her at all.

The room reforms around her piece by piece as she shakes her head and her vision clears. She sees Breekon’s heel disappear behind the door, before Jon is stumbling towards the closest desk.

“Get me-” he starts to ask, but Basira’s already offering a pen with movements that aren’t entirely her own either. His eyes are back to normal, but Basira only stays for long enough to see him start scribbling on a notebook page, before it becomes too much.

She makes sure not to turn her back to him as she leaves.

————————————————————————————————————————

The thought is almost too weird for her, but Melanie finds herself enjoying the little excursion. She does wonder why no one -nothing- has targeted them yet, but she doesn’t get attacked when she’s out with Helen either, so maybe the monsters are just opportunistic bastards and don’t like to risk it when the odds aren’t in their favor.

Gerard is very easy to like, for someone so infuriatingly fond of Jon. Melanie finds herself thinking they could’ve been friends, if they’d met under different circumstances.

As things are now, she’s far too aware of the way his eyes keep drifting towards the Institute, even though they’ve walked far enough that the building is well out of sight and behind several twists and turns.

“Are you feeling him?” she asks when they finally climb to their feet after a few hours of fear talk. The question is somewhat awkward in her mouth; she doesn’t like Jon, but Gerard does, and she’s decided she likes him enough to not want to offend him. The desire to not hurt still feels foreign in her mind.

“Mm? Oh. Not really,” Gerard shrugs, looking down at her. “I don’t know? I just know where he is. Like the general direction.”

“Hm. That would’ve been useful last year, he got kidnapped like three times.” Melanie pats the back of her shorts to get rid of any dirt and grass that decided to come up with her.

“Did he now?” And yeah, the urge to maim someone is back with the fond little smile on Gerard’s face. “And he has the gall to say he doesn’t get into trouble.”

“Well, he does. What now?” she asks, opting to only bump his shoulder with hers instead of punching his arm. This guy can be as infatuated with a supernatural disaster as he wants, and she won’t feel any strong way about it. No violence here, no siree, Slaughter who?

“Well… we go back, I think? Unless you have more questions.” Gerard looks at her as he shoves his hands into his pockets. Melanie deflates a bit; it is a nice day, and she gets very few chances to leave the Institute.

They do end up going back, but Melanie makes a point of stopping for ice cream on the way back. Gerard gives in suspiciously quickly, and Melanie finds herself liking the guy more and more.

Her phone buzzing with an incoming text from Georgie as she’s handed her double caramel scoop only makes this an even better day.

“That’s a big smile,” Gerard comments as she taps away at the keys. She looks up at him disbelievingly, but there’s no indication he realizes how much of a hypocrite he’s being as he calmly sucks on his cherry ice lolly.

“The nerve.” Melanie rolls her eyes. “It’s my- a friend.”

Gerard bites off a chunk of the ice lolly, and it does more to convince Melanie that he’s not human than the fact that he walked back from the dead.

“Sounds complicated.”

“I’m trapped at Spook Central because of her ex boyfriend, it is complicated,” Melanie mumbles. Georgie’s one of the few good things left in her life, and she’s determined to keep her away from this horrible, horrible circus. “Besides, not all of us get wingmanned by an eldritch entity.”

“She’s Jon’s ex?” Gerard arches an eyebrow as he leans forward to try and peek at Melanie’s phone.

“Do you have selective hearing or something?! Get back!” She punches and shoves at his shoulder until he retreats with an amused smile. The act doesn’t leave a taste of metal in her tongue, she’s surprised to find. Or a craving for more, harsher action. It only feels… companionable. Almost playful.

Melanie had forgotten what it felt like to be friendly with someone.

She’d never say it aloud, but if she counts Georgie and this guy -and even Martin whenever he’s not being a bitch and a half because he’s on a Secret Mission- Jon doesn’t have terrible taste in people.

There’s a man coming out of the Institute, and Gerard’s arm shoots in front of her chest to stop her just as she realizes it’s not a man at all.

“Is that-”

Gerard nods. His frown melts away after he looks at the building again, head tilted as if hearing a sound Melanie can’t register.

“Fuck,” Melanie mutters under her breath. Of course this would happen now, after the bullet is gone and on the one day she decides to go out. “There’s another entrance at the back, let’s-”

“They’re alright.” Gerard sounds thoughtful as he watches the creature stumble its way into a side street. “Beholding marks don’t suit the Stranger well, it seems.”

She looks up, and the smile on his face looks dangerous, somehow.

“Jon?”

“Did a right number on it.” There’s a hint of dark pride to his voice, a polar opposite to the ridiculously soft demeanor he usually adopts when it comes to Jon, and Melanie finds it that she much prefers the absurd fondness to whatever this is. Basira’s words from a few weeks back play through her mind, and she remembers she still doesn’t know what Gerard is. Or why the Eye brought him to Jon. “Go check on them, I’ll finish it off.”

“I’ll come with you,” she decides in a split second. “I can still do it.”

Gerard turns to look down at her, and whatever it was that made her stomach knot in worry is gone so fast Melanie wonders if she imagined it in the first place. There’s a dubious frown on his brow, and his mouth, still dyed red by the stupid lolly, is pressed in a tight line.

“I don’t doubt you could,” he says after a moment. “But I don’t want you to. Don’t invite it back in, remember?”

She does, but she also doesn’t trust the shadow that passed over him not a minute ago.

“Then I won’t do it. But I- I need to watch,” she tries again. “Or I won’t be convinced it’s gone.”

Another long moment of Gerard measuring her up, before he finally nods.

“If you need it,” he says, leading the way into the side street the monster took. Melanie follows with careful steps.

She likes Gerard, but she’s not naive enough to forget she’s been wrong before.

————————————————————————————————————————

When Basira walks into the windowless room, Elias is reading a celebrity gossip magazine, and she wants to rip his eyes out

“Good evening, Det-”

“Drop it,” Basira interrupts, and Elias’ thin lips curl into a smile. Her hands curl into fists, to keep from wrapping around his neck. “Breekon came to see us yesterday. He brought-”

“The coffin, yes.” Elias nods. “I must admit it was quite pleasing to see you work with Jon so seamlessly, Basira. But I suspect you’re not here for my praise, are you?”

Basira advances on him until she’s looming over his sitting form, and she bristles at the calm look he aims at her.

“I hope you’re not so surprised to know Miss Tonner is alive?” He arches a carefully shaped eyebrow. Of course this bastard uses jail to catch up with his beauty routine. “Surely you know by now that the Eye rewards those who are loyal.”

So that confirms that.

“That’s what Keay is then? A reward for Jon?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Elias tsks in disappointment, shaking his head. “One would’ve thought he’d learned to be honest to his team by now.” His poison green eyes focus on Basira’s face again. “Well, I guess it can’t be fixed… Despite my best efforts, you never did bond.”

“Shut up!” Basira snaps finally. Bond. Like they’re a cute little group of misfits in a TV show instead of an armload of hostages. Her right hand digs into Elias’ hair, grabbing a fistful and tightening as she pulls back until his neck is twisted at a very awkward angle. “How do I bring her back?” Elias smirks again. She tightens her grip until she feels a few hair strands snap. “I am not in the mood for your games.”

“Always so direct,” he says in the end. “But as I said, the Eye rewards its own. Let me give you some leads, Detective.”

#jongerrymartin #j/g/m #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #vit writes #illicio

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loopy777 · 4 years

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whats your thoughts on Venom, the green goblin and doctor octopus, the three characters who are generally held up as spidermans archenemies? which one do you think has the best potential as spidermans definite enemy if they were written perfectly, and which series do you think had the best portrayal of each of them respectively?

If I had to crown THE Spider-Man Archnemesis, I would have to give it to Green Goblin. Doc Ock is the oldest, and the first to both defeat Spider-Man and make him consider quitting, but ultimately Norman has taken more from Spidey, gotten more personal in their conflict, and created more of a legacy for the mythos. Sorry, Otto.

That said, I don’t really like designating a single archnemesis for Spidey because Norman hasn’t completely dominated the field. Ock runs the Sinister Six, Spidey’s big Villain Team and one of the best Villain Teams in all of superhero comics. (And let’s face it, the Legion of Doom is bigger only because DC characters got more media exposure for a long time and Superman’s villains are so good that Lex Luthor, Brainiac, and Bizarro lift up the likes of Solomon Grundy and Cheetah when they’re all on a team together.) Venom has the whole Evil Knockoff thing going and a unique and terrifying ‘stalker’ gimmick that puts him in a special class, not to mention how he directly overpowers or counters all Spidey’s abilities.

And, honestly, the whole ‘Goblin’ gimmick is kind of arbitrary and has nothing to do with spiders. Clowns and bats don’t have a direct relation, but at least they’re opposites in terms of color and purpose, so Batman and Joker kind of seem like twisted rivals. Goblins and spiders are only linked in that they’re both kind of Halloweeny, but Spider-Man has little to do with Halloween or spooky stuff, anyway. But I better cut this line of thought off before I start explaining how Spider-Man shouldn’t be Spider-Man at all and him being Frog-Man would make just as much sense and then we wouldn’t have to deal with pictures of icky spiders in all Spider-Man media.

But yeah, Norman Osborne is still indisputably a cut above the others.

Ock is really just a typical mad scientist with a robot-arm gimmick that allows him to directly fight with Spider-man. He’s well-written and constructed, granted, and I love how his arrogance contrasts with Peter’s humility, how they’re such opposites in terms of empathy, and how different their paths become after science-based accidents that granted them unusual powers. Bendis’s “Ultimate Spider-Man” comics nicely honed in on this theme, and I also appreciate how both Stan Lee’s prose story in the unrelated “Ultimate Spider-Man” short story collection (...it’s a title Marvel loves to reuse for some reason) and John Byrne’s attempted origin revision linked the irradiated spider to the explosion that created Ock. All great villains should be dark reflections of their heroes, but while Ock has gotten some great stories that make him a top-tier villain, he still offers little storytelling potential beyond his mad scientist archetype. Now, I know what comics-readers are thinking at this point: Yes, I did read the original “Superior Spider-Man” run and I think there’s some real potential there, but honestly I feel like it was under-served by Dan Slott’s pacing and foibles. And I haven’t seen an adaptation of it yet that I think really fulfills the possibilities. But the idea is great, so maybe Otto will get his chance to level up his rivalry with Spider-Man.

Venom’s problem is that he’s a little too focused on his revenge on Spider-Man. The stories where he stalks Spidey, wandering into Peter’s life to fold laundry with Aunt May, popping up to have a surprise tussle with Spidey just to throw him off-balance, etc- Those are great and make Venom seem super-scary, especially since Spidey can’t beat Venom in a fight without some kind of edge or gimmick. But all Venom wants is revenge on Spidey, so after he’s failed a few times to get it, what do you do with the character? He’s not scary if he keeps failing. The original idea was to have the symbiote pass on from Eddie Brock and take on other hosts, and that might have opened the door for some new kinds of stories. I know this was eventually implemented 20 years later, with the original Scorpion getting to be Venom for a while, and symbiotes becoming a whole Thing with a bunch in various colors, but I didn’t read any of those stories and they don’t seem to have left much impression on the general Spider-Man fandom. Ultimately, it was chosen to ‘redeem’ Eddie Brock and make Venom into an “anti-hero” (for a definition of the term that means��“protagonist who kills people but doesn’t have to worry about that whole ‘consistently laid low by their fatal flaw’ thing”) which did sell a bunch of comics in the 90′s and set up some tension-filled team-ups with Spidey. Nice idea, if implemented in a really shaggy way, but -- again -- what do you do after that? Venom/Eddie isn’t really a compelling lead who you can keep telling stories about. (Yes, I saw the Venom movie. It has like two minutes of amusing material and two hours of boring dreck, and none of it is memorable.) And making him evil again runs into the same problem as having left him evil in the first place. Venom was a good idea whose time came and went, and perhaps someone will find a way to make him fresh again. But until then, I think he gets by more on his visuals than anything.

The Green Goblin, in contrast, has a lot going for him in terms of storytelling potential. He’s a mad scientist, a wanna-be crime boss, a dark shadow of his civilian identity looking for revenge and/or illicit thrills, and personally has that ongoing personal hatred/rivalry for Spider-Man. That offers a whole bunch of storytelling paths, all of which have been taken and proven fruitful over the years. And that’s without getting into how Norman Osborne is the father of Peter’s best friend Harry, a flawed father figure to Peter in his own right, a ruthless millionaire industrialist before Lex Luthor gave it a try, and another dark reflection of the paths Peter could have taken in both aspects of his life. Even when Norman is dead, his legacy continued to be felt for 20-odd years with how Harry fell from grace. You can even link Norman to his spin-off the Hobgoblin; just Norman’s equipment getting passed on created another enduring villain. And, again, that’s without even looking at Norman’s murder of the one-time romantic lead Gwen Stacy being the event that ended the Silver Age of comics. Norman Osborne is just plain a truly great, versatile villainous character who has managed, despite being almost 60 years old, to still maintain an “Oh, no!” impact among Spidey fans when he shows up. Sure, there have been bad stories about him, and some over-exposure at times, but that hasn’t diminished his impact or ongoing potential.

As for portrayals, I’m overall a fan of the 90′s animated series and their takes. That show really petered out after a few seasons, but it introduced Ock with a bang and got a lot of mileage out of him. Venom got to do the whole scary stalker thing, and then the show put him on a shelf until his ‘redeeming’ death to avoid over-exposure, so that worked out fairly well. And while it’s odd how Kingpin and Hobgoblin took over most of the Green Goblin’s role in Spider-Man’s stories, what we did get of Norman was good, and the performance that went into the Green Goblin really sold the weird psychology of the character. Those three villains definitely got a chance to shine in this series, even if Green Goblin was under-used.

I also think the Sam Raimi movies overall did a good job. Green Goblin was perfect- aside from the costume. Willem Dafoe utterly nailed every aspect of the character, right down to the body language, and the movie did a good job condensing his rivalry with Spider-Man into a single movie. As for Doctor Octopus, I’m of two minds about how he got a sympathetic backstory and characterization. On the one hand, it made him a more compelling character and Alfred Molina danced nicely between the human side and the villainous side. On the other hand, though, Ock has classically never really been sympathetic; he’s an utter monster in behavior, and the insertions of bullying in his backstory have never changed that. Venom is the only one I think didn’t really get a chance in these movies; I like this version of Eddie Brock (really!), but he barely got an opportunity to be Venom and you can tell no aspect of the character really inspired the storytellers.

Spectacular Spider-Man, naturally, did a good job. I think this version of Green Goblin is the best of them all; I even got my DVD set signed by Steve Blum! Ock was also done well, getting to be the Master Planner as well as leader of the Sinister Six, although I don’t think I quite buy the timidity they gave the character before the accident. Similarly, I didn’t buy Eddie’s fall from grace as Peter’s best friend; one episode he’s upset because Peter’s blowing him off for hanging out, and the next episode he’s nearly killing Mary Jane just to mess with Peter. You might as well just start with Eddie being a monster, like the Raimi movie did.

I also think Bendis’s Ultimate comics did well by all three characters. I’m not really a fan of Goblin-Hulk, but Norman’s impact was fully in effect (even if we had yet another toothless homage to Gwen Stacey’s death with Mary Jane getting thrown off a bridge and surviving), and they fit him well into the Super-Soldier Arms Race aspect of the setting. Ock got some really great use, including an arc of character development and ‘redemption’ that still managed to allow him to be an arrogant monster to the end. Venom was under-used, but this might be the best ever interpretation of Eddie Brock and obviously inspired the Raimi version, and I love the origin of the symbiote here and how it tied to Peter’s father. My only complaint is that after that first great story, Bendis didn’t seem to quite know what to do with Venom; the video game and its comic adaptation seemed to be setting him up for more, but that didn’t come to anything.

So, those are my thoughts. As a Spider-Man fan, I think I’m spoiled for choice in picking an achnemesis. Despite the little flaws that keep Ock and Venom from topping the Green Goblin, they’re still heavy-hitters as comic book villains and could run the game in the rogues gallery of most other superheroes. But Spidey has one of the best sets of villains in the business, so that’s not surprising.

#thekingofwinterblog

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turtle-paced · 5 years

Text

Revisiting Chapters: A Ghost In In Winterfell, ADWD

Possibly my favourite of all Theon’s chapters.

The story so far…

Back in Winterfell, Theon’s witnessed a wedding and worse, and now he’s unwillingly wrapped up in a murder investigation. Not like he has anywhere else to go.

Horror Movie

This chapter starts with a suspicious accident - a corpse found in deep snow at the base of Winterfell’s inner wall. People quickly decide that he slipped and fell while pissing off the wall, which, fair enough, provided you don’t think about it too hard. Theon thinks about it too hard.

But Theon Greyjoy found himself wondering why any man would climb the snow-slick steps to the battlements in the black of night just to take a piss.

The second corpse to show up is dismissed in a similar fashion.

Ser Aenys put it about that the man had drunk too much and gotten lost in the storm, though no one could explain why he had taken his clothes off to go outside. Another drunkard, Theon thought. Wine could drown a host of suspicions.

The third corpse turns up within a few hours in-universe and a mere sentence on the page. This one was kicked to death by a horse, definitely, and not clubbed to death by persons unknown. Theon smells a rat, and more importantly, he sees how this is what happened to him when he took Winterfell.

It’s the fourth corpse that kicks things into gear, since this one can’t be explained away as an accident. The previous three victims were killed in private places, one of them naked, but this victim was one of rapist Ramsay’s favourites, and murdered in a way that definitely suggests a retaliatory aspect: the man’s penis was cut off and stuffed into his mouth hard enough to break several teeth.

Towards the end of the chapter, Theon is summoned to a meeting on the issue, under suspicion from some quarters of committing these murders. He denies it. By way of corroborating evidence, Barbrey Dustin makes Theon show his maimed hands to the assembled lords, establishing Theon’s inability to grip anything (and that it was Ramsay’s work). Roose Bolton agrees.

“Strength aside, he does not have it in him to betray my son.”

Roose can see just how traumatised Theon is. It’s also articulated in an undeniable fashion to Theon.

There’s not just a horror movie aspect to this, in the end, but a detective novel aspect. The last conference between the Boltons and their “allies” gives me a distinctly Murder on the Orient Express-y vibe, not because I think they all conspired to murder people, but because all of these people have damn good reason to start shanking Bolton men in this enclosed environment. As they themselves make clear - including Hosteen Frey’s outburst over his relatives, last seen alive receiving parting gifts from Wyman Manderly, and (unbeknownst to the Freys) last seen dead in some wedding pies. When, in the meeting, the finger is pointed at Manderly or his men, Barbrey Dustin and Roger Ryswell point it out to Aenys Frey:

“And Lord Wyman is not the only man who lost kin at your Red Wedding, Frey. Do you imagine Whoresbane loves you any better? If you did not hold the Greatjon, he would pull out your entrails and make you eat them, as Lady Hornwood ate her fingers. Flints, Cerwyns, Tallharts, Slates…they all had men with the Young Wolf.”

“House Ryswell, too,” said Roger Ryswell.

“Even Dustins out of Barrowton.” Lady Dustin parted her lips in a thin, feral smile. “The north remembers, Frey.”

In other words, if the Freys insist on suspecting Wyman Manderly for these murders, they better start suspecting everyone. Roose tries to put a lid on it, but the conflict’s past this. The Ryswells and the Dustins are the best friends Roose Bolton has, and even they make it clear they loathe the Freys. The Freys have no future here.

Theon solves his mystery in the final part of the chapter, as he prays in the godswood for his name back. Holly, who approached him earlier, and two of the other ‘washerwomen’ (Mance’s assistants) accost him in the godswood. Holly brings out a knife.

“Kill me.” There was more despair than defiance in his voice. “Go on. Do me, the way you did the others. Yellow Dick and the rest.”

Holly laughed. “How could it be us? We’re women. Teats and cunnies. Here to be fucked, not feared.”

They were totally overlooked. Even Theon, lowest of the low, was suspected before these women.

Under Siege

That’s inside Winterfell. What’s outside Winterfell is just as worrisome in its way. Possibly more.

Endless, ceaseless, merciless, the snow had fallen day and night. Drifts climbed the walls and filled the crenels along the battlements, white blankets covered every roof, tents sagged beneath the weight. Ropes were strung from hall to hall to help men keep from getting lost as they crossed the yards.

Several of Winterfell’s gates are frozen shut, portcullis, drawbridge chains and all, contributing to the sense that the men inside are trapped. When a freerider says something that could be construed as sympathetic to Stannis, Ramsay has the man thrown from the battlements into the snowdrifts eighty feet below. The freerider survives with a broken leg. In hindsight this is clearly setting up Theon and Jeyne’s jump. On top of that, Roose Bolton’s controlling entry and exit to the castle tightly.

The horses aren’t having an easy time of it either, with a strong possibility of mass horse death. The stables are too crowded, leaving the rest of the horses outside. They don’t handle fire well, and so people have to change the blankets over them regularly.

Somewhere out there in the snow, Stannis is approaching. Whether he’s worse than the snow is up for debate by the common soldiers, as is whether the men inside or outside are cursed. Nobody’s sure where he is, or what he might be able to do in the inclement weather. But they’re at least sure that he’s on his way, and the knowledge is exacerbating tensions inside Winterfell. These are not the usual petty frustrations of people cooped up together too long, oh no.

Lord Wyman Manderly slapped his massive belly. “White Harbour does not fear to ride with you, Ser Hosteen. Lead us out, and my knights will ride behind you.”

Ser Hosteen turned on the fat man. “Close enough to drive a lance through my back, aye. Where are my king, Manderly? Tell me that. Your guests, who brought your son back to you.”

This conflict between Hosteen Frey and Wyman Manderly (Hosteen quite rightly suspecting that Wyman had his relatives murdered) threatens to spill over into violence. While Barbrey Dustin and Roger Ryswell calm this incident down, Theon notes that Roose Bolton’s saying nothing and looking almost afraid. Later, attempts to get some singing going fall flat - the horses get scared, and even the singing along is riven by factionalism, Northmen usually refusing to sing with Freys. When the murders are discussed, one theory is that Stannis has a man on the inside.

At last, when Theon’s walking the walls following his attendance at the whodunnit meeting, he hears a horn.

A long low moan, it seemed to hang above the battlements, lingering in the black air, soaking deep into the bones of every man who heard it. All along the castle walls, sentries turned toward the sound, their hands tightening around the shafts of their spears. In the ruined halls of Winterfell, lords hushed other lords, horses nickered, and sleepers stirred in their dark corners. No sooner had the sound of the warhorn died away than a drum began to beat: BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom. And a name passed from the lips of each man to the next, written in small white puffs of breath. Stannis, they whispered. Stannis is here, Stannis is come, Stannis, Stannis, Stannis.

You’d think judgment itself had come upon Bolton Winterfell - the fury of a man just past the point of wisdom. It’s one hell of an entrance. Nevertheless, this arrival signals the end of anticipation and the start of a fight, and a fight is something that can be planned for. Regardless of the creepiness when Theon and the sentries look out and see nothing but more snow. Theon’s got some of the practicalities in mind:

Roose Bolton would welcome such an [aggressive] fight, he sensed. He needs an end to this. The castle was too crowded to withstand an extended siege, and too many of the lords here were of uncertain loyalty. […] It was the girl who held them here, Lord Eddard’s blood, but the girl was just a mummer’s ploy, a lamb in direwolf’s skin. So why not send the northmen forth to battle Stannis before the farce unravelled? Slaughter in the snow. And every man who falls is one less foe for the Dreadfort.

Interestingly, Theon adopts Roose Bolton’s perspective of the situation first. Also interesting is the fact that Theon considers it inevitable that the ruse with Jeyne will be discovered.

Spectres

This chapter, Theon is haunted. He’s the titular Ghost in Winterfell, a shadow of his former self, forced to witness what he’s wrought. This weight builds up over the course of the chapter. It starts fairly innocuously, when Theon speaks to Holly (unbeknownst to him, Holly of the Free Folk).

[Holly] was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with shaggy blonde hair in need of a good wash and a pair of pouty lips in need of a good kiss. […] Once he might have laughed and pulled her into his lap, but that day was done.

It’s a bit of a contrast to Theon as we were first introduced to his PoV. We see that he’s still got the core of the impulse, but he doesn’t act on it. (Not unrelated: Theon’s a straight man who’s having trouble expressing his sexuality now that he’s been mutilated.) Instead, he’s looking for the trick, as he most certainly was not when Asha tried something very similar on him in ACoK.

Later, up on the walls, Theon considers escape himself, not through any secret passage but by a far simpler route.

I could jump, he thought. [The freerider] lived, so why shouldn’t I? He could jump, and…and what?

The answers he comes up shows us another one of Theon’s spectres: Ramsay. Ramsay, and what he did to Theon, overshadows his decisions. The two don’t directly interact this chapter, but the terror and the thrall Ramsay holds him in is apparent when some of Ramsay’s men speak to Theon. When he’s informed that Ramsay wants to cut Theon’s lips off, all Theon can do is reply “as you say,” and leave when told to.

It’s as he runs when we get one of the more memorable encounters in this chapter, a very brief conversation between Theon and a man in a hooded cloak, who calls him Theon, but also Turncloak and Kinslayer.

“I’m not. I never…I was ironborn.”

“False is all you were. How is it you still breathe?”

“The gods are not done with me,” Theon answered. […] Oddly, he was not afraid. He pulled the glove from his left hand. “Lord Ramsay is not done with me.”

The man looked, and laughed. “I leave you to him, then.”

Very brief indeed, but this encounter serves as something right out of A Christmas Carol, Theon’s personal Ghost of Christmas Past (though he looks more like the Ghost of Christmas Future) come to remind him of his mistakes. Theon cannot fully explain his denial of the accusation of kinslaying, and so emphasises that he was ironborn. What he cannot deny is that he was false, and he lives still only because of the whims of others.

When Theon climbs to the top of the battlements, he cannot see anything from their height through the snow, and reflects.

The world is gone. King’s Landing, Riverrun, Pyke, and the Iron Islands, every place that he had ever known, every place that he had ever read about or dreamed of, all gone. Only Winterfell remained.

He was trapped here, with the ghosts. The old ghosts from the crypts, and the younger ones that he had made himself, Mikken and Farlen, Gynir Rednose, Aggar, Gelmar the Grim, the miller’s wife from Acorn Water and her two young sons, and all the rest. My work. My ghosts. They are all here, and they are angry.

Without the distractions, and with the time and space to think clearly, Theon sees the line between his actions and their outcomes. He’s aware, here, of the injustices he’s committed and the reasons that the dead might wish to harm him. Beaten down and traumatised as he is, he’s thinking in terms of being ‘trapped’ and escaping from his guilt, rather than facing it head-on, but this too is a far cry from his ACoK self.

That, and he’s realised something else about Winterfell.

It was my home, though. Not a true home, but the best I ever knew.

While Theon is not eager to die - rejecting the idea of jumping from the battlements because the outcomes are death or Ramsay’s anger, outright afraid of Stannis giving him to Jon Snow to behead - he nevertheless considers a “man’s death” to be “the sweetest deliverance he could hope for.” By implication, there are sweeter deliverances, just not any ones realistic for him.

He goes to the godswood to pray, then, the drumming of Stannis’ arrival following him all the way.

Remember Your Name

Theon has seven chapters in ADWD, and only the last is titled “Theon.” “A Ghost in Winterfell” is the sixth. Through the previous five we’ve seen Theon try to hold on to the Reek identity for self-protection, even as Theon reasserts himself. By the opening of this chapter, he refers to himself as Theon Greyjoy.

In this chapter, how other people address him is also a pertinent issue. Though Theon, the titular ghost in Winterfell, is largely ignored by others, a few people do address him directly. Holly refers to Theon as “m’lord,” in an attempt to butter him up. We also see a short conversation he has with two nameless guardsmen.

“I want to walk the walls,” he told [the guards], his own breath frosting in the air.

“Bloody cold up there,” one warned.

“Bloody cold down here,” the other said, “but do as you like, turncloak.”

An epithet, rather than a name. And as seen above, he talks himself down from a daring escape attempt with the reminder to remember his name. Ramsay’s people call Theon Reek in the middle of the chapter. Steelshanks Walton calls him turncloak, as does Roger Ryswell. Roose does not use Theon’s name at all.

When we get to the hooded man, he addresses Theon twice, calling him Theon Turncloak and Theon Kinslayer.

At last, though, when Theon is in the godswood, the leaves of the heart tree call him simply Theon. Accordingly, Theon asks the gods who know him to let him die as himself, as Theon Greyjoy of Pyke. Oddly, he sees Bran’s face in the tree for a second.

Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. “I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me…laughed at me…they…”

And this shows how far Theon has left to go, when it comes to guilt. He did hurt Bran and Rickon, in hurting the people at Winterfell, and in driving them from their home. The minimisation of his actions in murdering the miller’s sons with the word “only” also shows some callousness and selfishness.

Fittingly, that’s when the washerwomen come out of the woods to make fun of this shallow version of remorse.

“Theon Turncloak.” Rowan grabbed his ear, twisting. “You had to have two heads, did you?”

“Elsewise men would have laughed at him,” Holly said.

As they say, they’re a gift from the gods, or at least from the author, while they mock the idea that the pain Ramsay inflicted on Theon is a cosmic punishment for his crimes (it’s just Ramsay getting his jollies).

“Did the Bastard hurt you?” Rowan asked. “Chopped off your fingers, did he? Skinned your widdle toes? Knocked your teeth out? Poor lad.” She patted his cheek. “There will be no more o’that, I promise. You prayed, and the gods sent us. You want to die as Theon? We’ll give you that.”

Barring Theon falling back into Ramsay’s hands, this would seem likely to be true. Eventually.

Chapter Function

Really interesting chapter, bringing together elements from Jon’s, Asha’s, and Davos’ PoVs even as it advances its own. There’s also the bit where Bran is almost certainly speaking through the weirwood to Theon.

This is the other side of the conflict shown in Asha’s PoV chapters, detailing their military aims and potential complications and conflicts, as the actual fighting starts in this chapter (with the psychological warfare of the horns and drums outside the walls). In particular, we see that infighting amongst the Bolton side is growing worse, helped along by the murders. Ramsay’s violence has made him unpopular with Lady Dustin; the Freys are of course the Freys, and there are plenty of people out for their blood. Thanks to Davos’ PoV, we know more about the Manderlys and their plans than the Boltons know.

The murders, meanwhile, were committed by the Free Folk sent by Melisandre on Jon’s behalf to rescue “Arya” from Ramsay. They’re stoking the ill feeling inside Winterfell and still looking for access to Jeyne herself.

Theon’s character development is the background to all of this. He’s back, not just to thinking of himself as Theon, but by the end of the chapter, to asking to be Theon again. When Roose said Theon didn’t have it in him to betray Ramsay, this chapter forces Theon to look back and see the reasons he has for doing so. He’s not quite up to acting against Ramsay yet, but he’s sure looking down at the snowdrifts beneath the walls and thinking I might survive that fall.

Miscellany

It’s been a while since we’ve had so much detail given to us on Winterfell, and Winterfell under the Boltons is a deeply unpleasant place. As the opening paragraphs of the chapter make clear, not even the dead are safe from depredation in the Boltons’ Winterfell, with the dead man’s body dug up and partially devoured by Ramsay’s dogs. Where snow in other chapters lends a sense of purity and cleanliness to a setting - such as in Sansa’s final ASoS chapter - here the snow is a muffling blanket, contributing to the atmosphere of claustrophobia and paranoia. The new Bolton-built stable collapses under this snow and kills horses and people alike. Later in the chapter, we see that Winterfell becomes outright squalid under Bolton occupation.

The reek within the Great Hall was palpable by eventide. With hundreds of horses, dogs, and men squeezed beneath the one roof, the floors slimy with mud and melting snow, horseshit, dog turds, and even human feces, the air redolent with smells of wet dog, wet wool, and sodden horse blankets, there was no comfort to be found amongst the crowded benches…

This is not what Winterfell is supposed to be like.

While we’re talking about who’s referring to who by which name, Barbrey Dustin calls Ramsay “the Bastard” in front of his father. She also makes sure to remind the room of Lady Hornwood’s fate.

Clothing Porn

Kind of? Theon wears heavy wool and greasy fur and goes for a walk:

…his legs were caked with snow to the knee, his head and shoulders shrouded in white. On this stretch of the wall the wind was in his face, and melting snow ran down his cheeks like icy tears.

He’s dressed as the ghost in Winterfell.

Food Porn

Blood sausage, leeks, and warm brown bread. Stale bread in bacon grease for the men, bacon for the lords and knights. Pease porridge and stale bread for the men, and another including ham for the lords and knights. Rare horsemeat with roast onions and neeps, shared regardless of class. This chapter makes very clear that your social status determines your provisions.

Next Three Chapters

The Soiled Knight, AFFC - Reek III, ADWD - Jaime VI, AFFC

#ASoIaF #revisiting chapters #cw: violence #theon greyjoy #roose bolton #a dance with dragons

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paleandmoonstruck · 5 years

Text

Half-Sick of Shadows CH. 1

For reference: this is a Tommy Shelby x OC fic. Just me playing around a little with canon as a kind of fix-it fic. Enjoy!

(AN: The version of ‘Clair de Lune’ Lucy sings here is by Merry Ellen Kirk! All rights go to her and her beautiful brain.)

The gaslight reflected off the rain-slick streets, shimmering beneath Lucy’s boots. Long, glowing lines of gold seemed to lead her straight to Alice’s door; entirely too beautiful for what she had told her of Birmingham. The brass handle of her suitcase had grown warm from her clutching it, a steamer trunk filled with the non-essentials on its way from the train station. The man at the counter had assured her that it would arrive by the next afternoon, and directed her towards a line of cabs willing to take her to wherever she was staying.

She had walked the five kilometres to Alice’s happily, brushing away the voice that murmured that she wasn’t safe. She had learned to be invisible, and the dark blue of her coat and hat let the eyes of others skip over her. The city had taken her by surprise: Ottawa had been busy, but never this cramped and… industrial. Steam seemed to collect around the feet of the buildings, spewing from furnaces dotted around with no apparent rhyme or reason. Despite the hour, streams and masses of people filled the streets, clamouring together and shouting. The air stunk of factories, but as she drew nearer to where Alice lived, she found it had its own charm. She had always enjoyed being where it was lively, and the bright energy of Birmingham lacked the frantic fear of the medical tents that had tainted the bustle.

Before she knew it, the small door that read Alice’s address was before her face. The paint was peeling in the corner, something George would have fixed. She had barely lifted the knocker when the door swung open, the worn metal slipping from beneath her fingers. And behind the frame stood Alice.

She had changed in the months after the War’s end. Her hair was shorter, cut to her jaw in the current fashion. She looked smaller somehow. Carried herself differently. Lucy wondered how she had changed.

“Lucienne!” Alice gasped, throwing her arms around her. She still smelled like lavender and soap, still buried her shorter head in the crook of Lucy’s neck. Her nose burned with tears.

Resisting the urge to babble away in French, Lucy pulled back, “let’s go in off the porch, ma cocotte, before I start crying in the middle of the street.”

In a flurry of movement, Alice had taken her bag and ushered her into her little apartment. “It’s got two bedrooms,” Alice chirped, “we had planned on making the second a guest bedroom, but that can be yours now. Tiny though, I hope you don’t mind, love.”

Her tone was forced, and Lucy offered her a sympathetic smile. “Never. I’m just glad you got my letters.”

Lucy’s side had been itching all the way here. She wasn’t sure if it was the wound itself, or the fact that she knew it was there. She had scratched the skin raw during her nearly week-long trip across the Atlantic. Dropping her hat, she crossed the room to the fire. A long iron poker lay to the left, and she propped it up so the end was properly thrust into the coals. “Do you have any whiskey, Alice?”

“Where are my manners?” she said, dashing off to the small kitchen, “would you like it watered down any?”

“No,” Lucy replied, shrugging off her coat and starting to work on the buttons of her blouse, “straight, if you don’t mind.”

By the time Alice reappeared in the living room, Lucy stood naked from the waist up in front of the fire. Alice stopped dead in the doorway, eyeing her like she had lost her mind. Lucy remained unabashed. Alice was more like family than anyone who shared her blood, a sister in every way but biology. She drew nearer to where Lucy stood, eyes focused on the ugly raised skin on her right side. She handed off the whiskey, voice low, “did — did he…?”

“With a knife,” Lucy said, knocking back her whiskey. The rush of it flooded her from head to toe, glowing warmth settling in her chest. She put down the glass, grasping Alice’s hand in her own, “I need to ask a favour of you.”

“What?”

Pulling the poker from the fire, she eyed the metal. The edges glowed a bright orange, and she handed it off to Alice, “burn it. Please, for the love of God. I can’t walk around with it any longer.”

“Lucy,” Alice said, swiping at tears that hadn’t fallen yet, “you can’t ask that of me.”

“Please, Alice,” Lucy begged, raising her arm to show the full effect of the scar. Two jagged letters, FV, sat in the curve between her breast and ribs. “I feel like a cow.”

Alice nodded, grabbing the poker with two hands. “Arms up on the mantel. I don’t want to catch you somewhere else by accident.”

Bracing herself against the fireplace, Lucy sucked in a sharp breath as Alice dragged a chair over, propping her legs against it in case her knees gave out. The poker met her skin, blinding pain blooming across her ribs. Her death-grip on the oak mantel kept her from drawing away from the poker, but she wouldn’t have in the first place. The pain was cleansing. Rebirth lived on the razor’s edge of it, each wave of agony burning away the letters, the words, where his knife had dug into the flesh. She wished she could do this to her whole body. That the Lucienne who had loved him could go up in smoke as easily.

“It’s done,” Alice said, dashing away as if she had been the one burned, “I’ll get water to draw the heat out, and I think I have cooling gel here somewhere.”

Finally letting herself fall away from the fireplace, Lucy flopped onto the chair. As her head lolled back, she smiled at Alice. “Thank you."

Alice paused in the threshold of the kitchen. The apartment, Lucy realized, was arranged strangely. Alice’s things littered the rooms, with strange gaps. Like she had left space for George to put his things, and the holes still had yet to be filled. Her belongings, she supposed, could slot in to the empty spaces. “No,” Alice said, “thank you. For coming when I needed you."

For a moment when she woke, Lucy forgot where she was.

She came to thrashing, just as she had for the past week and a half. But Alice’s familiar smell clung to the sheets of the guest bed, and all at once she came back to herself.

Her new burn made dressing difficult, but it didn’t hurt nearly as terribly as she thought it would. The skin was a jagged block of new and old flesh, the once raised scar now lowered compared to the surrounding skin. Alice had informed her of a nearby bar in need of staffing, and she refused to languish unhelpfully for longer than she had. The past few days had been spent with Alice dashing off to work at the hospital, while Lucy cleaned anything she could get her hands on. She had assembled her and Alice’s things into a tidy order, the gaps where George’s belongings had been easily forgotten.

The dress she wore today reminded her of her uniform during the war, the sky-blue of it matching her eyes rather wonderfully. Little bluebird, a familiar voice hissed in her mind, mon alouette. She brushed harder against her palm. Despite herself, she couldn’t bear to cut her hair. It remained far past her shoulders — horribly old-fashioned. The curls helped a little, even if she spent a solid half hour a week brushing them out. The golden red of it didn’t suit the new style of bob anyhow, unlike Alice’s shiny black hair.

Staring into the mirror, she stopped seeing the woman she had been for the past seven months. The Lucy that had slogged her way to the medical tents and worked twelve-hour shifts on her feet reappeared. She almost expected to turn her head and find her face splattered in fresh blood.

She wondered if she would ever be the girl who had never seen war again, or if she was lost to 1913.

Twisting her hair back into the same bun she had worn for the four years of the War, she felt more and more like her old self again. By the time she had stepped out the door, her spine was straighter than it had been in months, and she met the eyes of each person she passed dauntlessly. And they stared. Both her dress and cloak-like coat were the same bright blue, admittedly standing out amongst the darker colours the people of Birmingham seemed to prefer. Otherwise, her old-fashioned sense of style and red hair made her stick out like a sore thumb.

When she swung open the door, the bar — pub, she reminded herself — appeared empty. She called out into the silence, cringing as her voice echoed back to her, “hello? Anyone here?”

“We’re closed right now love,” a voice answered. The man it belonged to came around the corner. He was fairly tall, wearing a suit of a fine make with the jacket and tie cast off. He had an impressive moustache, laid against a somewhat old, weathered face. His ears were quite large, and she tried desperately not to stare at them.

“I was told there was a job opening? For someone to come sing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Lucienne Frasier,” she said, cursing her blend of an accent. “But most English folk call me Lucy. I’m from Ottawa, in Canada. My mother was French, and my father was Scottish, so I sound a tad strange. But I’ve moved to Birmingham.”

She was babbling, and she knew this, but it was proving rather difficult to stop. Out came the hand gestures, and the rushed voice, but words kept spilling out of her. “I’ve worked in bars before. Before the War, I mean. As a singer, and as a barmaid. During the War, I was nurse. Served on the Western Front. But that’s not relevant, is it?…”

Her question hung in the air as a second, utterly familiar man rounded the corner. Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby stood staring back at her, a look on his face like he had just seen a ghost. She supposed he had. She hadn’t even considered the fact that she might bump into him in Birmingham, despite the relatively small size of the city. God, how could she be so stupid?

Northern France, November 4th, 1916.

“Seven more wounded!” Someone called. Men dragged in the dead and dying on stretchers. A beat. Lucy was too slow, five other nurses had already flocked to the dead bodies. They were the easiest, only needing someone to properly pronounce them dead before moving on. She settled for a man with blood staining his torso, who lay still as a corpse. Dragging him over to her workspace, she began to cut away his torn and dirty uniform. Beneath, she saw that he was littered with stab wounds.

“Leave him,” Nurse Bernadette said, “he’s almost dead anyway. It’s not worth the effort.”

Maybe it was the fact that Bernadette was a raging bitch, and every nurse, medic, and doctor this side of the Marne knew it. Maybe it was the faint fluttering of the soldier’s eyelashes as she spoke. Maybe it was the fact that he was beautiful. Either way, a surge of anger and protectiveness rose in Lucy’s chest, and she snapped back, “mind your own damn patient. He’s mine to take care of, and I’ll do as I please.”

Bernadette, ever the arsepiece, turned to Doctor Thompson. “Tell her to leave him be, she’s wasting time and resources.”

Doctor Thompson scanned the man, and saw Lucy’s face. “Her patient, her decision. We don’t have time for this, Bernadette. Mind your own.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Lucy said, eyeing Bernadette murderously. She got to work, splashing her hands in Dakin solution and tossing on a pair of gloves. Anesthetic was administered quickly, and with expert technique. Thank God, his organs weren’t damaged. The stab wounds were numerous, but shallow. From the size and shape, it looked as though they had been made by an idiot who didn’t know how to use a bayonet. The work was painstaking, each stitch made with the utmost precision. Other nurses whirled around her in constant movement, stretchers flying across the medical tent as men were either healed enough to be taken to Recovery, or died on the table.

“Lucy,” a voice called. It was Nurse Russell, she realized. “Your shift is up, someone else can take over for you.”

“No,” Lucy murmured, shifting the man’s skin so the layers lined up with one another. She was hoping to reduce scarring, if possible.

She lost herself in the work, slaving over the dozens of minuscule stitches needed to piece him back together. By the time she was done, the clock informed her that it was an hour and half past the end of her twelve-hour shift.

“I’ll take him to Recovery,” she said, her tiredness crashing down on her now that she was aware of the time. She tugged him onto a rolling stretcher, and carted him off to the Recovery tent. She put him in one of the nicer ones, with ‘rooms’ sectioned off with hanging canvas. It was thick enough to block out some of the noise, and provided about as much privacy as one could expect.

Before she left to go sleep, she cast a backwards glance at him. His chest rose and fell slowly, but steadily. He was out of the woods. A strange feeling of relief passed over her. An odd affection for a man she had never so much as spoken to blooming in her chest.

She needed to sleep.

Northern France, November 6th, 1916.

“How’s Caesar?” Alice asked, poking her head into the room.

Lucy still wasn’t quite sure how she had swung it with Nurse Russell to let her momentarily switch from Incoming tents to Recovery. Well, she was somewhat sure. Not one full sleep after she had carefully stitched him back together, nearly every nurse in Recovery and otherwise had started fighting over who would get to watch over him. It wasn’t because he was good looking, though that certainly helped. He was a mystery. He still hadn’t woken, and there was absolutely no form of identification on him. It tickled the fancy of the girls who had signed on to be nurses out of a botched romanticism, and at least stirred the curiosity of the others. Lucy insisted that she should be the one to care for him, given that she had treated him, and therefore knew his wounds best. Nurse Russell had no doubt seen an easy out there, and deemed it the perfect solution.

“Still sleeping,” Lucy answered, absentmindedly feeling the cloth on his forehead. He had started running a bit hot within the first day of her taking him into her care. It seemed to stem from whatever he was dreaming of, however, as she had checked thoroughly for any signs of infection and found nothing. He was healing remarkably well. “You’ll be the first to know if he rises from his slumber.”

Grinning, Alice tossed her a canteen of fresh water. “I had better be. Don’t forget to grab some food, lunch’s in an hour.”

Lucy took a grateful sip, nodding as she made to soak Caesar’s cloth in bowl of cold water at his bedside. Settling down with her book of Tennyson, she made a mental note to change his bandages in a half hour.

She could pass hours like this, entertaining herself with small menial tasks and the minutiae of tending to him. She supposed she could have gone and checked on the others, but it wasn’t as though Recovery was short-staffed. She took up darning a pair of socks Alice had handed off to her, insisting that if Lucy was going to sit around Caesar’s beside all day, she might as well make herself useful. Without doing much in the way of thinking, she began to hum, which grew into full-out soft singing. It was a Scottish song her grandmother had sung to her as a child, some ballad that doubled as a lullaby. She kept going as she went to change Caesar’s bandages, turning to the side to grab her medical bag.

A rough voice echoed through the room, nearly scaring her out of her skin, “are you an angel?”

Any song died in her throat, and she turned back to see Caesar staring at her, bleary-eyed. “Not an angel,” she managed, ignoring the little thrill in her chest as she took in the bright blue of his eyes. “Just a nurse.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding a little. “Figured an angel wouldn’t be singing a Jacobite song, but thought I’d check.”

He had a thick accent, that while being unmistakably English, was unlike any of the other accents she had come across just yet. She gently tapped his bandages, “I need to change these, do you mind?” When he waved his consent, she began to peel back the thick cotton, examining his wounds as she spoke, “everyone will be so pleased to hear you’ve woken. What’s your name, by the way? You lost your identification, so we’ve been calling you Caesar I’m afraid.”

His eyes drifted open a little wider, surprise and amusement swirling in them in equal measure. “Caesar?”

“That’s my fault,” she admitted, cheeks heating. “I started it. We’re supposed to call unidentified men John Doe, but I thought Caesar was a little more apt, what with all the stab wounds.” She gestured to his torso, which was littered with stitches.

He peered over his chest, craning his neck to see his stomach. “Ah. I nearly forgot.”

“Forgot being almost stabbed to death?”

“You’d be surprised what a man can forget when he doesn’t want to dwell on something.”

“Well,” she drawled, “you’re healing wonderfully. You’re welcome, by the way. I had to fight to be allowed to stitch you up.”

“Bit of a lost cause, was I?”

“In the opinion of some,” she sniffed, slathering a poultice over the stitches to keep them from getting stiff.

A smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But not in yours?”

She turned to made eye contact with him, growing serious. “No one is beyond saving until their heart stops beating. Anyone who says otherwise is just lazy.”

“In that case, you have my eternal thanks,” he joked. “My name’s Thomas. Thomas Shelby.”

Tugging his chart out from beneath her pile of recreational activities, she wrote his name in clear print. “Age, rank, and affiliation?”

“Twenty-six, Sergeant Major, Small Heath Rifles, British Royal Forces. And you? Do you have a name?”

“Lucienne Frasier,” she murmured, offering him a drink of water, “but you can call me Lucy, if you’d like. Twenty-three, Nursing Sister, Canadian Army Medical Corps.”

“Ah, you’re one of the bluebirds,” he said, accepting a swig from her canteen. Shifting in his bed, he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Tell me, do all Canadians have an accent like yours?”

“No, I’m special I’m afraid,” she quipped. “I’m from Ottawa, so I suppose I have a bit of the Valley accent. But my father’s Scottish, and my mother’s Quebec French from across the river in Gatineau. Blend all that together, and you get my voice.” “Well, it’s lovely,” he said, tone ringing with a sincerity that made her toes curl in her boots.

“And where are you from? I’ve never heard an English accent like yours.”

“Small Heath, in Birmingham.” His tone was fond, and her breath caught in her chest as the smallest of smiles bloomed across his mouth. “The Brummie accent’s quite a bit different from anything else, you’ll find.”

“I see,” she teased, “so you’re special too.”

“Quite,” he said, schooling his face into the model of seriousness. “Unbelievably special. You’ve no idea.”

Silence hung in the air for a few moments before he cracked a grin, and she exploded into quiet laughter, shoulders shaking with the force of it. He joined her, though he winced in pain. “Careful,” she giggled, “you’ll rip your stitches. And they were an absolute bitch to put in, so they’d better stay put.”

“Aye aye, Nurse Frasier,” he said, eyes drifting around the room. They landed on her book, and his face lit up, “is that Tennyson?”

“Yes, do you care for him?”

“My mother used to read poetry to us before bed,” he murmured. “One of her favourites was The Lady of Shallot.”

“That’s right after the one I’m on, at current. Would you like me to read aloud?”

“God, please,” he groaned. “It’s been so long since I’ve done anything but play cards and drink. Bless my compatriots, but war’s not a particularly intellectual pursuit.”

Settling back into her chair, she opened to the page she had last read. “I’ll start back at the beginning, it’s not particularly long. It’s Oriana.”

He nodded, settling back into his pillows with a small noise of contentment. A warmth filled her chest and entered her voice as she read, but she ignored it. “My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana…”

Northern France, November 20th, 1916.

As she tugged her book of Tennyson out of Tommy’s hands, she couldn’t help but think that his pout was adorable. “Let’s go, physical therapy.”

“I was halfway through Lady Clare,” he complained, shifting his blankets off his legs anyway. “I’m thoroughly enjoying your notes in the margins.”

She tucked the book into his pack, snug between a thermos and a rather large matchbook. “You can keep it until you finish, now let’s go.” She tugged Tommy up and out of bed, his legs giving way beneath him as they hit the floor. In the span of a few seconds she had nearly the full one-hundred-and-thirty pounds of him draped over her. She wasn’t shorter by much, but her own knees halfway buckled, a small noise of surprise escaping her throat. For the briefest of moments her brain refused to work. All she could register was the heat from his chest against her palms, and the smell of him in her nose.

Snapping out of it, she timed her breaths to still the racing of her heart, pulling away. “Careful, it’s my night off. If you break a bone, you’ll be fucked ’til the morning.”

“If it’s your night off, where are we going?”

“Out of this tent,” she said, steadying him on his feet. “You can walk now, and I’m willing to be you’re bored out of your right mind. So come with me.”

Laughing under his breath, he let her help him into a coat and shoes and lead him out of the maze of army canvas. “I’m not complaining, but aren’t there rules about this sort of thing?”

“The only person who could get me in trouble is Nurse Russell, and she adores me.” Turning to face him, she flashed a bright grin. “Besides, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

They tumbled out into the night air hand-in-hand, giggling to themselves. A group of nurses and medics were clumped together, bottles of liquor from home clutched in their hands. “Lucy!” Alice called, waving her over.

“Alice,” she greeted amiably, “meet Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby, formerly known to all as ‘Caesar’.”

Laughing, Alice offered her a fresh bottle of champagne. She grinned at Tommy, “right clever, isn’t our Lucy?”

“The cleverest,” he said solemnly, his hand migrating from hers to the small of her back. She tried to pretend that the sudden warmth in her stomach was from the champagne as she tilted her head back, cheeks heating. She handed him the bottle, admiring the line of his jaw as he took a swig.

“Lucy!” a voice called, Doctor Harding waving at her, “guess what we’ve got!”

“What?” she called back, offering him a wave in return. “Brigadier General Alexander gave us his record player for tonight, bless him!”

“No!,” she said, drawing nearer to see the player and a stack of records propped on a table someone had carted outside. “How on earth?”

“I have my ways,” Alice said, batting her eyelashes playfully.

Snorting, Lucy took another drink of champagne, “does he know you’re engaged?"

Alice shrugged, “he knows what he needs to.”

“Sing for us, will you?” Doctor Harding asked. “You’ve such a lovely voice.”

“Doesn’t she?” Tommy said, tugging her a little closer. “First thing I heard when I woke up. Thought she was a bloody angel.”

“Reminds me of my wife,” Doctor Harding said carefully, as though he was defusing a bomb. “I hope our daughter inherits that, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

Something about Tommy softened, and Doctor Harding seemed to settle as well. God, she would never understand men. Loosening herself from Tommy’s grip, she approached the pile of records, deciding on Clair de Lune. Her grandmother used to sing a version with words to her as a lullaby, and she was in the mood for something sad and comforting. The soft crackle of the player was achingly familiar, and she was forced to remember how long it had been since she used one.

The song was soft, and she revelled in the feeling of everyone’s eyes on her as she sang. Most of all, she shivered beneath Tommy’s gaze. He looked at her as though she actually was an angel. Some primeval creature descended from the heavens. She wound up staring at him as the final chords of the song played. It was him who began to clap first, a rare, bright grin spreading over his face. Something a little like relief flooded her chest, and she grinned back.

For the rest of the night, they were glued together at the hip. Settling beneath a tree with their champagne, she found herself growing bolder. “You have a girl back home?”

A cloud passed over his face, and he took another pull from the bottle, lighting up a cigarette. “Used to, before the War. Her name was Greta. She died of consumption before I enlisted.”

Clutching at her chest, a dozen feelings filtered through Lucy before she spoke. Regret. Empathy. Relief. Self-loathing. “My mother died of consumption when I was ten. I’m so sorry, Tommy.”

“She did?”

Lucy nodded, fisting her hands in her skirt. “We sent her to a sanitarium early on, so none of the rest of us caught it. Broke my father’s heart. He’s never stopped regretting not being able to be with her at her deathbed. Suppose I haven’t either.”

“What about you then,” he said, taking another drag as he changed the subject, “you have a boy waiting for you somewhere?”

“Good question.”

“What do you mean?”

Biting her lip, she dropped his gaze. “I was seeing someone before the War. We’ve known each other since the cradle, and I suppose we’ve loved each other just as long. He enlisted before I finished my nursing course. We’ve never… put a name to anything. He told me before he left that he thought it was for the best if we put whatever we had on hold until after the War. After all, God knows if one of us is going to die before everything’s over.” Her voice turned to ash in her mouth, and she tried not to mumble. “ Alice thinks he just wanted to be able to fuck someone overseas and not feel bad about it. But then again, her and George heard about the War and were engaged in a week. She’s an odd duck.”

Silence hung between them for a moment, and she felt the rough pad of his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. His face was earnest as he spoke, “he’s a fucking idiot.”

Her breath was shaky, and she found herself speaking before she thought, “honestly, I don’t know if I even really love him.”

“Why?” Tommy asked, voice rough.

He doesn’t make me feel like you do. “I’ve never tried to love anyone else. We just grew up and decided we were in love and that was that. I was his, and he was mine. What if we made a mistake?”

“I think you should expand your horizons while you have the chance,” he murmured, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb. She melted into his touch, jolting upwards as a round of applause split the night air.

Whoever was performing had just finished. Now someone was strumming a guitar, the beginning to a sailor’s song everyone knew the words to. “C’mon,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’ll teach you to dance the reel.”

The next few minutes consisted of her attempting to teach a very drunk Tommy a dance she knew from childhood, all while being equally ossified.

“No,” she giggled, showing him how to move his foot, “like that!”

“Okay,” he said very seriously, “like this?”

They made it about halfway through, until the section where they were supposed to circle one another, palms about an inch apart with the other hand tucked behind your back. Instead, he laced their fingers together, curling his free arm around her waist. Everything stopped, the earth grinding to a halt on its axis. Everything but his face lost colour and was shrouded in darkness, all sounds but their loose pants falling into quiet. Every inch of her was on alert, all too aware of every single place where their bodies met.

“Could I kiss you?” he murmured, eyes sweeping over her face.

“God, please,” she begged.

He did, mouth ghosting over hers in a soft kiss that sent shivers down her spine and curled her toes in her boots. It was unbelievably short and chaste. Hardly enough. She pressed herself closer to him, stretching onto her tiptoes to kiss him again. His hand left hers, burying itself in her hair.

Tipping slightly off-balance, she flung her arms around his neck as she tumbled into his chest. He groaned into her mouth, arm tightening around her waist as the kiss deepened. She felt like she was on fire and drowning all at once, skin far too sensitive and breath coming in a rush between kisses. God, how long had she wanted to do this?

As he pulled back, she pressed a kiss to his jaw, “I knew there was a reason I saved your sorry ass.”

“Am I ever glad you did,” he said, his hand rubbing soothing circles into her hip.

“I should bring you back, curfew’s soon.”

“Would you stay?”

She almost said yes. Between his hand in her hair and the taste of his cigarette still lingering in her mouth, she couldn’t imagine prying herself away from him. She swallowed a lump in her throat. ”You know I can’t.”

“I know,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. Her heart melted in her chest. “But God, I want you to.”

Tugging herself from his grip, she intertwined their fingers. “Let’s go, I’ll see you to bed.”

When she finally did help into his cot, he stole another kiss from her as she leaned over to fix his blanket. “Thank you for tonight. I did need it.”

She smiled, running her fingers through his hair, “don’t I know everything?”

“If I say you do, will you kiss me again?”

“Bribes are unnecessary, I assure you, mon coeur,” she said, pressing a quick peck to his mouth. “Now go to bed, you can hassle me in the morning.”

“Could you stay until I fall asleep?”

Sighing, she stuffed his blankets to the side to lie on top of them. He eagerly made way for her, wrapping an arm around her side. “Just until then, and then I have to go.”

He hummed his consent, burying his nose in her hair. She had to admit that they fit together well, his ribs slotting into the negative space left by the curve of her spine, arm slung perfectly across her waist. For the briefest of moments she though of Félix, and her heart withered in her chest. How could she lie with someone else, knowing he was out there somewhere?

No. She was being an idiot. He was the one who had called off whatever they had. And like Alice said, she had no assurances that he wasn’t off seeing other women as soon as he got a bit of leave. And god, she had never felt anything like this before. The soft rush of Tommy’s breaths ghosting over her ear filled her with a strange kind of inner peace. All she wanted was to lie like this until the end of time; to fossilize and stay frozen with his weight against hers.

He had fallen asleep, she realized. With great chagrin, she gently extricated herself from his grip. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she left him sleeping happily for the night.

As soon as she entered her own room, she felt any energy she had leave her. She barely had the strength to peel off her boots before she fell into bed, the smell of him still stuck in her nose.

God, she was fucked.

Northern France, November 21st, 1916.

She burst into Tommy’s room, a ball of panic. She had woken up late, and incredibly hungover. But she had still come to with a smile on her face.

To her surprise, the room was empty. Absolutely barren. Someone had stripped the bed and remade it, all of Tommy’s personal effects having disappeared. Poking her head out of the room, she called to a gaggle of nurses a few feet away, “where’s Sergeant Major Shelby?”

“Oh,” Nurse Jameson said, “we thought you knew, and that’s why you didn’t show up this morning. He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” she snapped, a ball of lead settling in her stomach.

“He was called back to the front,” Nurse Jameson said quietly. “They came for him early, barely gave him enough time to gather his things. Apparently they have a big project planned for the Clay-Kickers.”

She was hyperventilating, she noticed dimly. Her hands came to her chest, clutching at her heart. He couldn’t be gone. Just… gone. She felt like the wind had stolen her five-dollar note, and she was staring after it helplessly, grasping at the empty air where it had been.

Retreating back into his — the room, she collapsed onto the bed. She hadn’t realized just how much it had smelled of him in here, now that his familiar scent was replaced with antiseptic and bleach. What had she really expected? That he would stay here forever? That she would get to wake up every morning and get to discuss books and poetry with him, teach him silly songs, exchange stories from before the War? She didn’t know. All she knew was that it felt as though someone had carved up her heart and taken a piece with them, and now she was supposed to live on without it.

“Well,” the moustached man said, “if you’re gonna’ apply to be a singer, might as well sing us something.” He gestured to a record player in the corner.

In the stack of records lay a copy of Debussy’s greatest works, and a strange boldness filled her. Her hands trembled as she lowered the needle onto the record, the grainy sound of Clair de Lune echoing through the pub.

Turning to face the brothers, she took her hat off, fully revealing her face. She began to sing, her shaky voice joining the swell of the piano:

You there, pearly white.

Can you see those stars, in my eyes?

A nice reflection it may be, so it seems, to me.

A kiss from Heaven lightly breathed,

Nightly unsheathed.

As she settled into the familiar rhythm of it, her voice grew louder. She began to move about the floor of the Garrison, tracing the shining wood of the tables as though it was full of patrons to be entertained.

You there, pearly white.

Can you hear those, stars tonight?

How I wonder what they might say to you.

O, how they wander but hardly they ever move.

What do they whisper while hardly they ever move?

The piano picked up in pace, and Lucy turned to face the brothers again, catching their gazes as she pushed forward. Tommy was staring at her like she had grown wings and flew, and she couldn’t help maintaining eye contact. Something about the look on his face made her feel powerful. Unearthly.

What do they tell you?

Tell me what they tell you.

What do they show you?

Show me what they show you.

And if I know you,

Like they likely know you,

Could I die?

Oh my dear.

And then she was no longer in 1919, in Birmingham. She was back on the Western Front, with blood still under her fingernails and Thomas Shelby’s eyes on her as she sang to a scratchy record on Brigadier General Alexander’s record player.

Love.

A lasting love,

Like a dove that flies

Right over the years.

Truth.

Precious truth.

She drew closer, making direct eye contact with Tommy as she sang the next few lines. A shiver ran down her spine and crept into her voice, curling into a gentle vibrato.

As in youth, I’d like to fly

Up above.

Lasting love.

Lasting love, enough to rise up

Through the evening sky tonight.

How you wander right over the evening sky

Like a dove.

Lasting love.

Everlasting love, like I never knew.

Quite, like you do.

Precious truth.

For the briefest of moments she directed her attention back to Arthur, who looked positively enraptured. But it was the heat and the memory in Tommy’s eyes that drew her back to him, moving a little further away as she sat on one of the tables, crossing her legs and leaning backwards as though she were draping herself over a piano. The rolling chords of the song slowed to a gentle plucking, framing the breathiness of her voice perfectly.

As in,

You there.

Pearly white.

Can you feel those stars tonight?

How I wonder if they are kind,

Are they kind to you?

How I wonder if maybe they sing this song for you?

There was the shortest of musical interludes, and in that time Lucy drew her finger across the shining wood of the table, lowering her eyes from Tommy’s. When she looked back up he had taken a step toward her. His chest moved up and down too quickly, breathless. And thank God, because she was too.

You there, pearly white.

Can you sing a song tonight?

Just for me,

Just for me dear.

Of a lasting…

Ever…

More music. Lucy slipped off the table, coming into Tommy’s space. He was quite tall. How hadn’t she remembered that? She was of a fairly average height, nowhere near Alice’s pixie-esque stature. But he dwarfed her. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

Everlasting,

True love.

The piano drew to a beautiful close, and with a scratch and a jostle the record switched to a different Debussy. Chest heaving, she was still staring at Tommy, who stood in front of her like a marble statue. Arthur’s loud, bellowing voice echoed through the Garrison, “bloody beautiful! I’d say you have a job, Miss Frasier.”

All at once, the spell was broken. Shaking herself from her trance, she flashed the elder Shelby brother a bright grin, “thank you very much, Mr. Shelby. When should I start?”

“Tomorrow, if you can,” he said, taking her wrist and pulling her towards the bar. Removing a glass, he gestured to the wall of liquor with a questioning glance.

“Scotch, if you please. Straight.”

Chuckling, he pulled the whiskey from the first shelf, pouring her a glass. She took it gratefully, shooting half of it in one go. Her heart was still thumping a mile a minute in her chest, and she needed to still her shaking hands before someone noticed. “Now,” Arthur began, “our establishment is rather casual, so you’ll double as a barmaid. A couple of the boys can be a little handsy, but they’re a good bunch.”

“I’ve worked in bars before, Mr. Shelby. If one of them tries to get me against the wall I’ll give them a swift kick in the couilles, no need to worry. Now what would my duties be?”

As Arthur went over exactly what her job would entail, Tommy didn’t move from where she had left him. Twenty minutes later, she was back out on the street with a job and some future prospects. She couldn’t contain her giddiness, permitting a small grin. But she found herself waiting at the corner of the building. She wondered if Tommy would follow her out. Explain. Discuss. Praying no one would mistake her for a whore, she leaned against the brick wall, drawing her hat low.

A few beats. The sound of a door.

Tommy Shelby appeared at the corner, a cigarette already drawn between his fingers. “It is you.”

Raising the brim of her cap, she nodded, “it’s me.”

“Why’ve you come to Birmingham?” he asked, lighting the cigarette with an efficient strike of his match and a puff.

“You remember Alice,” she murmured, “she lives here now. This is where her fiancé was from. He died at Verdun, and she didn’t know where else to go. She’s been lonely, so she sent for me.”

“And your boy, did he ever come home?”

“He did.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, offering her his cigarette, “he came to England with you?”

She waved it off, resisting the urge to cross her arms. “No.”

He leveraged a curious look at her, “why not?’

“We’re not together,” she explained, praying he’d leave it at that.

“Decided not to rekindle the romance when you both returned home?”

“No.”

Thank God, he did leave it at that. Nodding to her, he took another drag of his cigarette, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then.”

This surprised her. “You will?”

“My family’s company owns the pub,” he said. “You’d be surprised how often I’m here.”

“Well,” she said, flashing him a grin, “it’ll be lovely to see you. We should catch up.”

His eyes were as intense as ever, burrowing into her soul. God, he was beautiful.

Something about his voice was rough, “I didn’t mean to leave so suddenly. I had to go.

“God,” she said, trying to instill a false cheeriness in her words, “I hope you haven’t been worrying about it. I was a little shocked, but I lived.”

“Good,” he said, pulling his cap further over his face. “Have a good day, Miss Frasier.”

“Same to you,” she murmured, cursing herself for creating a distance between them. All she wanted was to see his face properly.

Instead, she peeled herself off the brick wall and kept walking, headed back in the direction of Alice’s apartment. She had done the right thing, she reassured herself. How could she be close with Tommy so soon after everything that had happened with Félix? And it had been years since she last saw him. For all she knew, he was happily married. It was incredily bold of her to assume that he’d even feel the same way after all this time, or even to ascribe the same depth to his feelings as hers in the first place.

Feeling reassured, she slipped her copy of her employment contract from her coat.

Tomorrow she would begin her job with Shelby Company Limited.

Chapters: I II ...

Ao3

#whew what a doozie #anywho i hope someone somewhere likes this #i've spent the past two hours formatting this in different places #the things i do for validation #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x oc #thomas shelby x oc #peaky blinders oc

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sith-shenanigans · 6 years

Text

Meetings and Libations

The back room of the cantina was quiet and the lighting low, the music in the main room muffled by the thick door. Three Sith Lords had already gathered around the central table; four of their number were yet to arrive.

The first—a human woman, pale-skinned and golden-eyed—set down her glass with a clink, prompting the others to look up. “I had missed this place,” she said.

The second—male, and in that indistinct place between pureblood and human, his skin ruddy and lined with occasional small ridges—murmured indistinct agreement. “Odessen did leave much to be desired,” he said, “in… certain areas.”

“I definitely didn’t miss the looks I keep getting,” the third muttered. He was a wiry zabrak man, jagged black tattoos crisscrossing his dark red skin.

The second sighed and tapped his fingers on the table. “Such concerns do seem a bit pointless now. I have seen a Hutt who can credibly claim to be a scientific luminary; a zabrak Sith does not stretch my imagination.”

“And I have never called Dulsu a man of great imagination,” the first chimed in, smirking as she lifted her glass to her lips.

Dulsu narrowed his eyes. “If I recall, Karadae, you were the one who spent a week on the tunnel expansion squad for your ‘philosophical debates.’”

“And Cerak here spent a day in the lockup for nearly starting a lightsaber duel.” Karadae’s smirk intensified. “And the less said about your first encounter with the good Doctor Oggurobb, the better. So I’d be careful throwing those stones, if I were you.”

“I said that Cerak didn’t stretch my imagination anymore, not that that Hutt ever became tolerable.”

“You and I can at least agree on the slug,” Cerak said, grimacing.

“I hope Jhera gets here soon.” Karadae glanced at the door. “She’s never late, ever, and I heard there was a bit of trouble with her old master.”

“She was never late on Odessen,” Cerak pointed out. “Perhaps she’s just enjoying our return to the days when military discipline was for other people.”

Karadae raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you aren’t.”

“I can’t say I miss it applying to me,” Cerak grumbled, “but I can definitely think of a few people that could use some.”

Dulsu frowned, looking almost sympathetic. “Darth Anavis?”

“Yes.” Cerak glowered at his drink, tapping the fingers of his cybernetic hand loudly against the glass. “I liked that lieutenant.”

“Anavis does have a bit of a cavalier attitude towards his resources,” Dulsu muttered. “I keep feeling like the Commander is going to appear from thin air to castigate him.”

“I, for one,” Karadae said, “am glad to know she’s on another planet entirely. In case you’re forgetting the times she did that to us.”

“Misery loves company,” Cerak suggested, grinning toothily.

“I’ll take Anavis for a longer leash.” Karadae went to take another sip of her drink, then scowled when she found it empty. “Hmph. That droid had better get back in here soon.”

“Feh. Leashes wherever you go, whatever you do.” Cerak drained his own, then set it down on the side of the table next to the others. “And whatever happened to the Force setting us free? They were so insistent on that back at the Academy.”

“We’re certainly freer here than on Odessen,” Dulsu said. “Especially now.”

Cerak laughed bitterly. “Are we freer,” he asked, “or are the rules just stupider?”

Karadae snorted. “You, my friend, are certainly drunker.”

“I can’t help it if the drinks in the Alliance cantina were terrible.”

The door slid open, and a bronze-skinned, buxom human woman entered with a serving droid at her heels. “I suppose I’m late?”

“Jhera!” Karadae shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Yes. Yes, you are. I was almost getting worried.”

“I was busy.” Jhera pulled out a chair and sat down. “Leave for two years and everything goes up in flames, I’m telling you.”

One of the drinks floated off the droid’s tray and found its way to Karadae’s hand. “I do know what you mean, trust me.”

“We all know what you mean,” Cerak said. “Not that it wasn’t burning before.”

Jhera snagged a glass of her own. “Yes, well, that was when Zakuul was still busy setting fires.”

Cerak reached for the tray, and Dulsu’s brow-ridges climbed a bit higher. “Don’t you think you’re drunk enough already?”

“Considering that this place hasn’t started making sense again yet,” Cerak growled, snatching one of the glasses, “I’m going to say no.”

“I’m glad we’re skipping all the posturing where we try to pretend we’re not having to re-adjust,” Jhera said. “Or did I just miss it?”

Dulsu took another tiny sip from his own half-full glass and waved the droid away. “I see no reason to posture to you.”

Cerak leaned back, arms folded. “You missed it.”

“There wasn’t that much posturing,” Karadae said, waving a hand dismissively. “Mostly we complained about Oggurobb.”

“If a Hutt can be a mad scientist,” Cerak said, “then everyone can damned well stop losing their minds over me being Sith. Brands or no brands.”

“Yes, and that,” Karadae said. “You didn’t miss that much, really.”

“Good.” Jhera slumped down in her chair, half-covering her face with a hand. “Sounds like you’ve been having a better day than I am, at least. I’m probably going to have to kill Gaedun.” She grimaced. “Cerak, you have no idea what a missile you dodged when your master died in the invasion.”

“And I’d rather not know,” Cerak grumbled. “I have more than enough problems already, thank you.”

“Well,” Jhera continued, ignoring him, “the fool’s gotten it into his head that everyone who came back during the Alliance’s ‘moment of weakness’ is suspect, needs to prove their loyalty, et cetera… starting with the apprentice he ordered back the moment Zakuul was defeated.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back out of her face. “Because I’m the one he actually has a case for, you see, so that he doesn’t start and end his crusade with the Empress putting him back in his place.”

Dulsu put his chin in his hand, looking entirely unimpressed. “And perhaps if you’d bothered to tell us your master had ordered you home, I would be feeling a bit more sympathetic right now.”

“You didn’t need to know,” Jhera said. “Anyway, that’s water under the bridge now. If he manages to convince the Empress that I should be placed back under his power…”

“Then it will look like we’re all up for grabs,” Cerak finished morosely.

Karadae set her glass down with a theatrical sigh. “And here I had been hoping that returning home might involve a vacation.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to show Gaedun that we’re not a group to cross lightly,” Dulsu said, smiling toothily. “It’s been too long since I’ve had the chance for this sort of thing.”

Cerak rolled his eyes. “You’re out of practice.”

Dulsu shot him a brief glare. “At least I’m not intoxicated too.”

“If the two of you can keep your hands off each other long enough,” Karadae said, “I do believe we have a pressing concern. Yes? Yes.”

“And three people still late,” Jhera muttered. “If we’re going to be planning, we need to wait for them.” She pulled a holocomm out of her pocket and stood, tapping in a number as she made her way over to a corner. “I have Vua’s commcode, I’ll find out where the hells she’s been.”

“Osfe changed hers, I think,” Karadae said. She made a disgusted noise. “I swear, if we’re making this a regular thing, we need to coordinate a little bit better than this.”

“Not to mention the assassination we seem to be plotting,” Cerak added dryly. He raised his glass in an ironic salute. “Look at this. The moment the Commander isn’t looking over our shoulders, we fall apart.”

“Was that you volunteering to coordinate?” Dulsu asked.

“I suppose so,” Cerak said, barely managing not to snarl the words. “After all, the rest of you don’t seem to be doing very well at it.”

“Vua says she was off-planet and she just landed,” Jhera said, returning to her seat. “I would appreciate it if we didn’t make the drunkest person here our coordinator, by the way.”

Cerak drained his glass. “Too late.”

The door opened again, revealing a short and skinny chiss. “I apologize for my absence,” she said, stepping into the room. “Someone decided that the present would be an excellent time for a full debriefing.”

“Hello, Ofse,” Karadae said. “Would it have killed you to give me your new commcode?”

“Possibly.” Ofse glanced over at the other end of the table as she sat down. “Is Cerak drunk already?”

“Yes, and still the most competent person here,” he said. “You’re just in time to hear why we can’t assassinate somebody.”

“I’m fairly sure I can,” Ofse said, arching a brow. “I take it you’re about to explain why I shouldn’t.” She tilted her head. “Who are we not assassinating, by the way?”

“I don’t know,” Jhera replied, giving Cerak a sharp look. “I definitely recall saying that Gaedun had to die.”

“He turns up dead, it’s a conspiracy and we have the whole Revanite flap all over again.” Cerak reached out a hand, found no more drinks forthcoming, and frowned. “Except with us as the targets. So either he has a nasty accident instead, and one that doesn’t look like us, or we get him to shut up some other way.” He gestured encouragingly. “Well? Ideas? Or am I going to have to plot this all myself?”

“If you’re done stating the obvious,” Jhera said, “I vote nasty accident.”

Ofse stole one of Cerak’s empty glasses, removed a flask from a fold in her robes, and poured. “I am fond of blackmail, but that has its own risks.”

“Let’s not go rushing off on our own doing anything before we know who his other enemies are,” Karadae suggested. “I know, I know, we may have a time limit, but if his case were particularly good he’d have had Jhera as soon as we got back. I suspect we have enough time to find out who might be happy to solve this problem for us.”

“I’ll duel him on the steps of the Citadel if I have to,” Jhera hissed. “But… I won’t take unnecessary risks, however much I want to spill his blood.”

“I suppose I’ll poke around and find out how much traction he really has,” Dulsu said. “Though I suspect everyone will be waiting to see where the cards fall.”

“Information-gathering sounds like a great idea,” Cerak said. “Truly. An idea that should have been stunningly obvious from the start, but better late than never.” He glowered at his three remaining glasses. “Now, can we get that droid back in here?”

Ofse took a sip from her stolen glass. “I suggest that the answer be ‘not.’”

“I second that,” Dulsu said. “Unless we order dinner, that is.”

Cerak slouched aggressively, scowling. “Who goes to a cantina for the food?”

“It’s good here, I promise,” Karadae said. “Why else do you think I picked one of the fancy cantinas?”

“So I could drink too many fancy drinks, obviously,” Cerak said.

There was a knock. Everyone at the table looked over at the door. There was another knock, a few seconds of silence, and then the door finally swished open. The latest arrival was a heavyset pureblood woman with a tremendously complicated hairstyle. “I know how late I am,” she said, holding up one hand as she used the other to stuff a keycard back into her pocket, “but I’ve been on Ziost for the last week. They wanted someone with at least secondhand information on Nathema’s revival to speak to the team investigating its rebirth.”

“Vua,” Ofse said, nodding in acknowledgment. “I will staple your keycard to your hand next time.”

Vua eyed her hand dubiously, then hurried over to the table. “I don’t think any stapling will be necessary.” She smiled and took her seat, leaving only one empty. “I’m just a bit scattered right now, you understand. All these meetings I’m being dragged into!”

Cerak gave her a vague wave. “If the ex-spy would catch the archaeologist up…”

“Ex?” Ofse drew herself up, looking supremely offended. “I would already be back with Sith Intelligence were my loyalties not in question now.” She turned to look at Vua anyway. “Vua, you are aware Jhera’s old master wishes to re-assert his authority, yes? We have been plotting to prevent this.”

“Ah, politics, I can’t say I missed you.” Vua shook her head. “Well, I do see the common threat here, so I’ll help if I can. Of course, I doubt that I or my new team can do much to ruin his reputation—much less kill him outright—though I suppose if you wanted him framed for artifact theft…”

“I’m going to signal to the droid that we’re ready for dinner,” Karadae said. “Did everyone leave their order with the kitchen?”

Vua lifted a hand. “I forgot, I’m afraid. Just have them give me something spicy, and I won’t complain.”

Ofse stared at her. “Vua? How is it that you are still alive?”

Vua beamed. “Luck, a harmless facade, and a willingness to zap idiots.”

“If your scatterwittedness is a facade,” Ofse said, “then I commend your dedication to the deception.”

“Thank you!”

Cerak leaned over to look at Karadae’s datapad. “I hope you’re ordering another bottle as well.”

Karadae put a hand on his chest and shoved him away. “Not for you, I’m not.”

“Fine.” He put a hand on the table to steady himself. “But next time I’m taking charge of my own drinks.”

“So noted. I’ll let Dulsu carry you home.”

Cerak waved a hand dismissively. “Have a little faith in me.”

“My faith in you stops at about four drinks,” Karadae said dryly.

Dulsu crossed his arms. “Mine stopped at three, so I would say you’re being unusually tolerant.”

“Fine, fine, I get it,” Cerak grumbled. “Back to the task at hand, perhaps?”

Any response was cut short by the door skidding open and slamming back into the wall. Into the room walked a short, stocky human woman in red armor, a long cape trailing behind her. She swept a blazing gaze over the six people already at the table. “I see I’m late.”

The other six exchanged various glances. By some unspoken agreement, Dulsu was the one to speak: “Never, Lord Wrath.”

“You may use my name. All of you have earned that privilege.” The woman strode over to the last remaining seat and put a hand on the back. “Besides, I haven’t reclaimed my title. Yet.”

“Orinara, then,” Dulsu said, inclining his head smoothly. “Welcome.”

#cerak absolutely stole this scene and became one of my favorite characters #and i have no idea HOW #he was supposed to be a throwaway background character because i wanted to write cantina fluff #and now i have a whole bunch of fic about him and this whole thing grew a plot #some of which produced the phrase 'sith shenanigans'#i think i need to commission a cerak for my icon now #swtor #more sith more shenanigans #orinara izarae #cerak #dulsu #karadae #jhera #osfe #vua #(i need to look up these people's last names i promise they have them i just forgot)

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littlerose13writes · 6 years

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Sweeter Than Fiction Chapter 7: Unshakable

Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Potter have decided fifth year is going to be their year; the year everything works out for them, and if that means Scorpius keeping his huge crush on his best friend a secret, then that’s just what he’s going to have to do.

It’s just a crush. He can get over it well before fifth year is over, can’t he?

Chapter 7/27

Updates every Monday and Friday

Read on AO3 or FF

The days after the Quidditch party went by without any indication as to whether Albus had or had not kissed Thea. Albus didn’t bring it up and Scorpius didn’t bring it up either, mainly because he thought he knew what the answer would be and hearing Albus say that would be painful. He tried to study the two’s interactions to see if that gave him any clue.

Thea and Albus seemed to spend rather a lot of time together: talking about the Slytherin Quidditch team, talking about Arithmancy together, talking about the Harpies (although that was mainly Thea talking with Albus listening and occasionally contributing). Thea nearly always sat with them at mealtimes, her two best friends joining her. Although Scorpius reminded himself that she’d been doing that well before the Quidditch party.

It was very hard to know if the things he thought he was seeing were just his imagination.

There was the time he was convinced Thea and Albus were having a secret foot wrestle under the lunch table. She’d been watching him so intensely while he was speaking and Albus had definitely laughed at something he wouldn’t have usually. He’d deliberately dropped his fork to duck under and see, but as he made such a ridiculous show of dropping the fork in the first place, they had more than enough time to untangle their feet if there had been something going on.

Then there was the fact that Albus seemed unable to talk about his upcoming first Quidditch practice without including a speech about how great Thea was. It was always Quidditch-based and never strayed to how he actually felt about her as a person, but of course Scorpius noticed every time he brought her up.

“Did you know Professor Slughorn is retiring at the end of this year?”

Scorpius looked up from his Charms homework with raised eyebrows. “That makes sense, he’s splitting classes with the new Potions professor.”

“Thea told me she’s meant to be a really good teacher.”

Scorpius couldn’t help but stiffen at the mention of Thea’s name and a conversation he definitely hadn’t been there for. “Did she?” he squeaked.

Albus nodded. “I hope she’s right. Potions NEWT is meant to be quite hard.”

“Maybe for us ordinary folk who aren’t potions prodigies,” Scorpius teased, nudging Albus lightly in the arm and letting the Thea thing drop.

“Evening, Al, Blondie” a voice interrupted and Cole Flint dropped into the seat opposite Albus.

That was another unexpected outcome of the Quidditch party. Where before they’d left each other well alone save for the occasional civil remark, their dorm mates now seemed much more eager to be friends. Well, Flint certainly did. Higgs and Pucey were just as distant as ever, although Scorpius did share a laugh with Higgs when Pucey upturned his cauldron by accident; a first for both of them.

“Hey, Cole.” Albus smiled in greeting and Scorpius wondered when they’d started calling him by his first name.

“Mind if I join you?” They hadn’t had any practices together yet, but Scorpius thought Flint was trying to get to know his new teammate a bit better. He played on the Slytherin team as a Beater and had done in fourth year too.

“Go ahead.” Albus waved a hand at their parchment-strewn space and Scorpius smiled too. He grinned and flipped open his own essay.

It was companionable, working on their homework together, and Scorpius felt inexplicably warm at the idea that he and Albus were making new friends. His worries about Albus and Thea were pushed to the back of his mind and he focused on the fact that this was a good thing, wasn’t it? Just like they’d said, they were branching out and meeting new people.

Breakfast on a weekday at the Slytherin table always consisted of three things: Albus complaining about how tired he was, Albus drinking at least two cups of strong coffee, Albus ignoring Scorpius’ worries that he was drinking too much coffee.

“It’s not that I’m not looking forward to my first practice with the team tonight, because I am, but I don’t really know what to expect,” he mused when he was nearly finished with his first coffee. “Sorry we have to rearrange Exploding Snap night.”

Scorpius shook his head. “That’s okay, I’ve always thought it would be good for us to be more flexible with our schedule anyway.”

Albus just gave him a skeptical look. “You’ve never once thought that.”

“That’s true. Now I’m thinking it; maybe it’ll be good for me.”

The post owls began soaring in through the high windows of the Great Hall and Scorpius recognised his family owl, Hebe, in the throng. She circled the table and landed neatly beside his toast, sticking her leg out proudly.

Scorpius absentmindedly ruffled her feathers as he undid the envelope with one hand and Albus poured himself another coffee. (He took it completely black, no milk or sugar or anything, because he said he needed it to hit his bloodstream as soon as possible)

The letter inside was fairly short and was in his father’s unmistakable handwriting.

Dear Scorpius, Thankyou for writing so promptly after your arrival at school. It’s excellent to hear you are enjoying fifth year so far and all that being a prefect entails. I have no doubt you are doing a wonderful job.

Things are fairly normal here. Ada is already talking about her plans for this year’s Christmas tree, I think she might be starting to lose some sense, thinking it’s December. We have had her since you were little and she’s rather old for a house elf now. She, like me, was very pleased to hear you haven’t suffered with any panic attacks since arriving back at school.

Looking forward to seeing you at Christmas. Please wish Albus good luck from me for Quidditch tryouts (and my congratulations if this letter arrives after they take place, I’m sure he will have been successful).

Miss and love you, son Dad x

Receiving a letter from home always felt like a warm and welcoming hug that was over too soon. It was difficult not to read the letter and picture his dad at home, with nobody but their elderly house elf to talk to. Scorpius knew his dad was lonely but he didn’t know what to do about it.

“You okay, Scor? Who’s that from?” Albus munched curiously on a slice of toast, noticing Scorpius’ expression.

Scorpius lowered the letter and smiled. “It’s from Dad.”

Albus swallowed and looked anguished for a second. “I forgot to write back to Mum and Dad,” he said in explanation. “Is everything alright? You look worried.”

Scorpius hesitated. “I don’t like the thought of Dad stuck in the Manor by himself.”

Albus nodded in understanding. “It must be hard for him. My mum said-” He stopped and considered his next words. “We weren’t, you know, talking about you. But over the summer, we were sort of… talking about you.”

Scorpius smiled at Albus’ apologetic look. “It’s okay, I understand. What did your mum say?”

He paused. “Well, she said the same thing you did, really. She doesn’t like the thought of your dad at home on his own. I think she was going to write to him, invite him over for dinner, that sort of thing.”

“That would be good for him.”

There was a longer pause before Albus spoke quietly. “Are you, you know, alright? You can talk to me if you want to. I know I’m not that great at knowing what to say, not like you, but I’m trying to be a better listener and you’re my best friend, Scor.”

“Thanks, Albus. It’s good to talk. Dad and I, we… we never talk about… Mum. We talk about other things, lots of other things, but never that. And I think I’d like to talk about her… with him. She deserves to be talked about.”

Albus patted the top of his hand sympathetically as he spoke and he gave it a quick squeeze. “I never met your mum, not properly, but I think you’re right.”

“I told her all about you,” Scorpius said quietly, fiddling with his sleeve under the table.

“Have you ever mentioned to your dad that you’d like to talk about her more?” Albus asked gently.

“It’s not that easy. I think he’s worried I’ll get sad if he talks about her. To be honest, I’m worried it would make him sad to talk about her. We did once, that night, after Godric’s Hollow in fourth year. We talked about everything that night. I cried, he cried.” Scorpius became very interested in the jam on his toast. He wasn’t sure where this had all come from and he felt bad that he was bringing Albus’ mood down so much; he was probably making him really uncomfortable. “Sorry, I’ll shut up now.”

“No. No, Scorpius, you don’t have to.” When he finally looked up, it was to see Albus gazing at him with a look so gentle and tender, Scorpius felt himself melt inside. “You said it yourself, it’s good to talk. You can always talk to me. I’m really trying to - what was it you said?- see past the end of my own nose.”

“I like talking about my mum,” Scorpius said in a small voice and Albus beamed.

“Brilliant. Talk about her, tell me about,” he cast around for an idea, “her cooking. Her favourite thing to cook, tell me all about it.”

Scorpius smiled and felt a little bubble swell up in his chest, as he thought back to memories of Mum, her long, dark hair tied up and a flour-smudged apron wrapped around her waist, a matching miniature version on his own small self. Every Christmas, they’d spend hours in the kitchen together baking and assembling a gingerbread house and only using magic when it really looked like it was about to fall down, and the designs getting more and more complicated each year as Scorpius got older, and always swearing to Dad they hadn’t used magic at all.

“She hated cooking,” he smiled weakly. “But she loved baking, and she was really good at it.”

Albus’ tender expression didn’t shift as Scorpius told him all about the gingerbread houses and the year they’d tried to build Hogwarts but had settled on a generic castle when it hadn’t gone to plan. He smiled brightly and asked questions, and they’d both collapsed into laughter at the idea of a detailed, gingerbread version of their dorm, complete with Pucey’s old socks strewn across the floor.

They were interrupted by the appearance of a paper aeroplane gently floating over to the table, followed by a few curious gazes of nearby first years. The paper aeroplane landed in front of Albus and he unfolded the paper, read the short note and rolled his eyes, turning it to show Scorpius.

Couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way over. Write Mum back, Al. She’s getting worried.

James was watching them from the Gryffindor table and he held up a letter, presumably from their mother. Albus stared at James in question. James just shrugged and took a sip of pumpkin juice.

“Merlin, you jump off the Hogwarts Express one time and they won’t stop checking up on you.”

Now Albus was on the Quidditch team, and at practice two nights a week, Scorpius found himself with more alone time than he was really sure what to do with. He was used to being by himself when he was at home, but at school he always had Albus there in some way or another. It was almost a bit disconcerting to be without him, but Scorpius realised how clingy that made him seem to his best friend, so he kept it to himself. Most of his new free time was spent reading, or catching up on the occasional piece of Muggle Studies homework, the only lesson he didn’t take with Albus.

“I suppose I’m more like my dad than my mum, but I’d like to be like Mum. She’s always so refined and put together, completely unshakable.” Thea chatted as they made their prefect rounds together.

“I reckon you’re pretty unshakable too,” Scorpius grinned. “Not like me, it doesn’t take much to shake me.”

“Really? You always seem so chilled.”

Scorpius shook his head, laughing. “Oh no, Albus is the chilled one, not me.”

“Albus is the chilled one?” Thea asked incredulously. “You should see him on the Quidditch pitch, Scorp. He’s anything but chilled.”

“I’ll see at the Gryffindor match,” Scorpius smiled at the prospect of supporting his friends.

“I want to beat Rose so badly,” Thea muttered, he fist clenched.

“Not the Gryffindor team? Just Rose?”

Thea just nodded knowingly.

“Ah, the rival thing. I’m not going to pretend I understand it.”

“Probably best.” Thea smiled and peered into the empty classroom they were passing. She withdrew instantly and smirked at Scorpius.

“Is someone snogging in there again?” He laughed, thinking back to the first time they’d come across a couple on a romantic stroll of the castle.

“The awkward moment when the Head Boy is snogging in there.”

“He’s not?” Scorpius peered in too and sure enough, the unmistakable dark red hair of James Potter was being messed up by yet another snogging partner. Or maybe it was the same snogging partner as before, it was hard to tell. “What do we do?”

“Not much we can do. We’re meant to report stuff like this back to the Head Boy and Girl. Can’t really do that when they’re busy.”

“Was that Juliette too?” Scorpius wanted to look in again to confirm but he was too scared of getting caught.

“That’s who it looked like to me.” Thea grinned and hurried off. “James Potter, wow. Al isn’t a bit like him, is he?”

Scorpius shook his head but her question intrigued him. “They’re very different as brothers go. You wouldn’t find Albus doing that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Thea smirked and Scorpius froze. Was she talking about the Quidditch party? “I’m joking, Scorp. I know Al’s nothing like James. D’you know, he tried to snog me.”

“Albus did?” Scorpius squeaked, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over him.

Thea laughed. “I was talking about James. I was only in third year, and I’m pretty sure it was when I was dating Cole.”

“You dated Cole?” Scorpius wasn’t sure how he was meant to react. He was still processing what she’d just said. I was talking about James. So, did that mean she hadn’t kissed Albus? It was all very unclear.

“Not properly - like I said, we were in third year - but yes, I dated Cole. I thought everyone knew that.” She eyed him a bit strangely.

“I’ve never been very in the loop,” Scorpius admitted. “And I’ve never dated anyone.”

Thea looked a bit confused. “But I thought… Didn’t you ask Rose out once?”

Scorpius felt himself blush with embarrassment at the memory. “Yep. Rejected.”

She considered his words for a while and they lapsed into a comfortable silence that followed them back to the Slytherin common room. Scorpius was picturing a scene where he asked Albus out and the resulting hug they would share, and the nice date he would take him on, to one of the museums or galleries in muggle London he’d visited as a child. Albus and him could hold hands while they looked at the exhibits and they could drink hot chocolate together until-

“Would you ever ask her again?” Thea blurted out as they came to a stop.

“Huh?” Scorpius wrenched himself from the fantasy playing in his mind and tried to focus on Thea’s question.

“Rose. Would you ask her out again? Do you still fancy her?” She spoke bluntly and with no trace of embarrassment.

Scorpius didn’t know how to answer. Should he lie and say he did fancy Rose? Should he tell a part truth and say he didn’t fancy Rose?

“Sorry, it’s none of my business. I’ll stop interrogating you.” She grinned as they got to the common room, one glance telling Scorpius that Albus wasn’t at his usual table doing Arithmancy homework like he had been before they left for rounds.

It wasn’t until nearly an hour later that he saw Albus again, when he came striding into the dorm, wrenching his earphones from his head and watching them fly back to the music box on his bedside table. He was wearing a green Slytherin Quidditch team t-shirt which was dark at the neck with sweat and his hair was damp.

“Where have you been? You don’t have practice on a Monday.” Scorpius made sure to not sound accusatory that Albus had made plans he didn’t know about. After all, that was normal behaviour.

“Running.” Albus said nothing else, grabbing the front of his sweaty top with both hands and pulling it up and over his head. Scorpius was faced with Albus’ bare, muscular torso and he felt himself grow warm.

“Since when do you go running?” This was a new development.

“Since I joined the team and realised how out of shape I am for a Quidditch player,” he explained, grabbing a towel and slinging it over his bare shoulder. “I like it, it clears my head. You can join me some time if you want?”

Scorpius tried to imagine himself voluntarily running around the castle grounds until he was as sweaty as Albus was now. Even the prospect of joining his best friend wasn’t enough to tempt Scorpius into going running.

“That’s okay, I save any running I do exclusively for escape reasons.”

“Fair enough, it’s not like you need to get in shape either.”

“Nope, no Quidditch for me.”

“No I meant… well, you have a good body already.” He blushed and looked away and Scorpius dropped his book in surprise. He ducked down to pick it up, wondering how he was supposed to respond to that platonically? “I’m off to shower, bye.”

He rushed into the bathroom and seconds later, Scorpius heard the running water of the shower.

“Scor, you know that thing I said last night, about you having a good body? I really meant it.”

Scorpius felt giddy with excitement and he blushed furiously. Albus was sitting on the end of his bed, smiling at him and his green eyes were more beautiful than ever before, his dark hair tousled perfectly.

“I’ve liked you for a long time, Scorpius, as more than a friend.”

Scorpius opened his mouth to tell Albus how happy that made him, and that he felt the same way but every time he tried to speak, a loud, rushing sound drowned him out.

“I’m glad you know I’m in love with you.” Albus held his hands tightly and they were soft and warm. “Nothing can hurt us here.”

“Who wants to hurt us?” The rushing noise wasn’t blocking his voice anymore.

“She can’t hurt us, I’m brave. Do your worst.”

Albus stuck his chin out in defiance and Scorpius knew who it was going to be before it happened. In a rush of dark robes, Delphi appeared right there in the Slytherin dormitory.

“I escaped from Azkaban to resurrect my father once and for all. Happy Voldemort Day, boys!” She showed them her Auguerey tattoo and Scorpius just knew by looking at it that it had worked, she’d brought back hell, he was the Scorpion King again. But that meant…

Scorpius looked at the end of his bed again and saw the still, lifeless form of Albus, clearly dead right there on his bed. He’d killed Albus, he’d brought back Voldemort and he’d killed Albus. Albus was dead.

He threw himself over Albus’ cold, dead body and cried hard into his chest as if that would bring him back to life.

“You know Albus doesn’t exist in this world, I had to kill him, Scorpius. Just like I killed Craig, he didn’t even feel a thing. Such a spare. Now I think I’ll kill you too. But first, crucio!”

Searing, intense pain flooded his veins and he was pulled from Albus’ body by the force of the curse. Every muscle and nerve cried out in pain and panic as he desperately tried to reach back for Albus. If he could just get a hold of him, the time turner would spin and they’d be taken to Godric’s Hollow and his dad and Albus’ dad would help them.

He felt around desperately in the darkness for Albus’ hand, if he could just get hold of it…

All he grabbed onto was handful after handful of duvet. He was the only one in his bed, Albus wasn’t there, Delphi wasn’t there. He looked up and blinked in the darkness, noticing that there was very little light in the dorm, as if it were the middle of the night. He was gripping onto his own duvet, and he was drenched in sweat.

It had been a nightmare.

Scorpius flopped back down onto his bed and listened to his heartbeat racing in his eardrums. Another stupid nightmare had woken him up. Delphi torturing him was nothing new, he’d even dreamt he was back in the alternate reality where he was the Scorpion King before, but he’d never been forced to see Albus’ lifeless body. That was a new kind of pain.

His breathing began to return to normal as Scorpius realised there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. He wiped at them haphazardly and reached for his wand, the darkness consuming him. A quick lumos helped him feel a bit calmer, the light making the dormitory seem very normal and mundane. He pulled his hangings shut and pulled out a book, reading it feverishly by wandlight until, finally, hours later, he drifted off to sleep again.

read from the beginning

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chapter index

#scorbus #Scorpius malfoy #albus potter #scorpius x albus #albus severus potter #albus x scorpius #sweeter than fiction #hpcc #ccsquad #Harry Potter and the Cursed Child #Harry Potter fanfiction #swflr7

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amandasarmada · 6 years

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Deleted Scene - “Summer’s Cauldron”

This is a deleted scene from the latest chapter of Summer’s Cauldron, for those curious about what Tina was getting up to when Newt arrives. It also features a slightly extended version of the prologue, to help set the scene.

NOTE - it is very important that you read the official chapter first, otherwise you’re going to get huge spoilers and the chapter will be ruined for you. :/ No bueno.

From Chapter 8, “The Presidential Palace”

Tina had always been good at not being noticed. She'd first realized it as a child, picking up on the tendency of friends and relatives to always gravitate toward Queenie, while passing over her - it had hurt her, at first, but rather than wallowing over the fact, she'd chosen instead to embrace it, even managing to channel this trait into a fairly lucrative career. It wasn't ideal, of course, but - Tina was a pragmatist. She had her talents, turning heads just wasn't one of them.

So it was with some surprise that Tina studied her reflection, carefully considering the woman staring back at her. The face in the mirror wore far more makeup than she was accustomed to, but as Tina contemplated the results, she had to admit the effort had been worth it. Her large, carefully done-up eyes seemed to radiate heat, and the remnants of her summer tan gave her a lovely glow, complementing nicely with the burgundy of her lipstick.

But it was the dress that set her apart. It was new, and vital to her plans for tonight. Deep red and almost impossibly soft, it hung low on her body, revealing planes and curves she normally kept well-covered. Queenie had altered it specially for her, and it fit as well as any piece of clothing could.

She wasn't usually much for getting so dolled up, generally content with a single dab of lipstick and perhaps some mascara for special occasions – short skirts and gobs of makeup were usually uncomfortable and impractical, and she didn't like feeling like she was on display.

Things were different tonight. She wanted to be on display. She was determined to make something happen tonight, for better or for worse.

Newt was leaving again in just under a month, and Tina knew she had a very limited window of opportunity in which to make her wishes a reality – and she planned to seize it. The time had come to be bold, she'd decided – and her dress was certainly that, she thought dryly.

“Oh, Teenie!”

Queenie was standing in the doorway, watching her admiringly. “You're a knockout!”

Tina grinned, turning so her sister could get the full effect.

Queenie giggled, shaking her head. “Newt's gonna sink through the floor when he gets a loada you,” she whispered, looking absolutely thrilled at the thought. Tina flashed her another smile, her confidence mounting as she gave herself another hard look in the mirror. If ever she had a shot with Newt, it had to be tonight. She couldn't remember a time she'd looked better. If she could just keep up this bravado, she might, might, actually be able to initiate something – the key was to stay focused, to stay positive. There could be no allowing herself to crawl into her shell tonight. She had to think of it like a job – like being undercover. She was playing a character, that was all.

Tina took a deep breath, steeling herself as she slipped on her shoes. Show time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The wine was sour on her lips, as it always was. Tina sighed, throwing another dejected glance around the hall.

It was half past eight, over forty-five minutes after Newt was supposed to meet her at the gate, and instead of dancing or laughing or taking a walk along the grounds as she'd imagined they'd be doing about now, she was sitting alone in a corner, sipping clumsily at a glass of wine. Typical.

Tina immediately felt guilty. Newt probably had a very, very good reason for not showing up. Perhaps one of his creatures had fallen ill again, or maybe he'd encountered some sort of trouble with the baby unicorn. In fact, it might actually be a good idea for her to go and see if he needed help - maybe she was being the inconsiderate one, not thinking to check on him already.

Or maybe Newt had simply forgotten, Tina thought morosely. She was hardly the type to get men's blood pumping; she knew this about herself. She'd made an incredible effort tonight, but she supposed she'd been kidding herself, thinking it would make much difference.

Tina took another long sip of wine, finishing off the glass.

And yet – a quiet little voice interrupted, with an air of someone who refused to accept the obvious – Newt had kissed her. Sort of. Tina closed her eyes, retreating back to the memory of Newt's lips on hers. It had been over so fast. Had it been an accident? Did he regret it? It was hard to tell; he'd been as courteous as ever, but he also hadn't done anything to suggest what had happened. She knew it probably hadn't been intentional – he'd been kissing her cheek, and then brushed her lips - just barely, and just for a moment. But it had been haunting her for over a week now.

Tina sighed, accepting a passing house-elf's offer of a refill. It was her fourth, she was pretty sure, and she probably ought to slow down, but it was the only thing keeping her misery at bay. The alcohol buzzed pleasantly in her system, making the world seem just a little bit brighter.

“Excuse me. Miss Goldstein?”

Tina glanced up, her eyes glassy. A rather handsome member of the MLE was standing before her, looking charmingly nervous as he surveyed her. Dennis D'angelo, she remembered. She didn't know him well – he'd been three or four years above her in school – but she'd consulted with him on a few cases, and he always smiled at her in the hall.

“Denny. Nice to see you again,” she said, offering him a polite smile. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“Oh, you know. Beats pushin' paperwork,” he said lightly, hovering beside the table. “What about you? Havin' a good time?”

Tina shrugged, doing her best to not look too miserable. It must have worked, because Denny grinned at her. “Say Tina, you know this one?”

Tina hesitated for a moment, slightly confused. “One what?”

Denny blushed, tipping his head toward the dance floor. “This song. I thought you might wanna...”

“...Oh.” Tina paused, biting her lip. Denny was a nice guy, and it must be pushing nine by now. If Newt really wasn't coming – and it seemed like he wasn't – she might as well try to take her mind off things. She was certainly in no hurry to go home and face Queenie, and sitting alone in the corner drinking her way through a barrel of wine wasn't doing her any good. She mustered a smile, allowing him to help her to her feet. “Sure, Denny, that's sweet of you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Atta girl, Tina. You're doing great!”

Tina chuckled, shaking her head. Denny was being polite – she knew the steps well enough, thanks to Queenie, but her timing was off, and she was having trouble keeping her balance. Her own fault, of course.

“You're quite the Oliver Twist yourself,” she said breathlessly, stumbling a bit as the song picked up speed.

Denny smiled, spinning her. He was an excellent dancer, but she doubted Fred Astaire himself could have lifted her mood tonight. She threw a glance toward the door, unable to help herself.

“Everything alright?”

“Hmm?”

Tina started, looking at him curiously.

Denny smiled, looking a little sad. “What's his name?”

“...Who?” she said quickly, a little too innocently.

Denny's eyes were understanding. “Tina, you musta looked at that door ten times since we got out here.”

Tina paused, her heart sinking. Denny shook his head, still smiling. “Don't feel bad. I'm glad you've got somebody.”

She looked away, biting back a wry smile. “The problem is, it seems I don't.”

“He late?”

“Only by about an hour.”

Denny winced, looking sympathetic. “Something probably came up. And if not, give 'im the axe, and don't give it another thought. You can do better.”

Tina managed a feeble laugh. “Thanks.”

Denny squeezed her hand. “I'm sure he'll have a good excuse. A fella'd have to be a real sap, to toss aside a dame like you.” Denny paused. “This guy nice to you? When he's not skipping out on dates, I mean?”

“He's a doll,” Tina assured him. Her voice was quiet; she thought she could feel a headache coming on. “He brought me to Atlantisity for my birthday.”

“See? That's pretty snazzy,” Denny agreed, looking impressed.

Tina smirked, lost in memories of the past weekend. “...and he gave me a unicorn,” she added, as casually as she could manage.

Denny's eyes widened, and they both chuckled. “Well, ah. I can't say I'd be able to compete with that.” He shook his head, his voice growing gentler. “Seriously, Goldstein. I'm sure you twos'll work it out.”

The song was beginning to wind down; about time, too. She was starting to feel a little sick from all the bouncing around.

“I hope your fella shows up soon,” Denny added, leading her back to the banquet area. “And if not, and you get lonely, you come and find me, you hear? Just 'cuz your guy got held up, ain't no reason you gotta be sittin' all alone, unless you really wanna.”

Tina smiled, her first real smile in almost an hour. “Thanks,” she said gratefully, squeezing his hand. Denny winked at her, heading back in the direction he'd approached from, and Tina continued on, already looking forward to finishing her drink.

She paused, coming to a halt. She'd just spotted a very familiar face, gazing at her from among the crowd.

#summer's cauldron #a summer's cauldron #summers cauldron #my fanfic #tumblr exclusive #ff: newtina #deleted scene

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daveyjacobss · 7 years

Text

unbelievable : part four

reader x racetrack higgins

previously: “ And strangers definitely should not be kissing in dark alleys all alone at night. Not as long as one of those strangers was me.”

a/n: this is longer overdue and i know everybody is excited so !!!! there’s a part of this where it talks about boys not supposed to be flirting with other boys and i just want to clarify that this is because of the time period, not my personal views. other than that, enjoy this mess :)

___________

It seemed that staying up all night was becoming a bad habit of mine. Truthfully, I had actually gotten a little bit of sleep, but with that came a nightmare that kept me up for the rest of the night. Due to this, there were very evident bags under my eyes. I knew this because Crutchie had noticed and pointed them out.

"You okay, Y/N?" He had asked. "You sleeping alright." I was far too tired to come with a lie, so I let the truth slip from my mouth.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just had a nightmare is all. I woke up and I couldn't go back to sleep." As if on cue, a yawn escaped my lips. Crutchie nodded with a sympathetic look, placing a hand on my shoulder and squeezing comfortingly. I gave him a small smile in return.

"The next time that happens just come over to my bunk, I'm sure I could tire you out." I spun around to face a smirking Race, receiving a wink the minute I met his eyes. Crutchie rolled his eyes beside me, muttering an 'oh brother' under his breath before walking away. I raised an eyebrow at Race and his smirk grew. I couldn't help the relief that flooded through me that he was acting normally - or at least, as normal as things got with Race. Deciding to test the waters, I took a step closer to him.

"And how do you suppose you'll do that if you can't even get me to kiss you?" I was blatantly teasing him, and, from the look on his face, he was enjoying it. He followed my lead, taking a step forward and almost entirely closing the distance between us.

"Well, maybe I'll just have to try again." The lack of distance made it all too obvious that his eyes were suddenly on my lips. But he didn't lean in. He was waiting, I realized - waiting for some sort of sign that he was allowed to be doing this, allowed to be kissing me. The thought of him standing there, silently asking for permission, sent a spark of warmth spiraling through my chest. For a split second, I considered it. But there was no way I was letting him win this. I placed a finger on his lips as if I was shushing him, pushing him backwards.

"Nice try, but I'm not in the habit of kissing strangers," I smiled sickly sweet at him. He raised his eyebrows, placing the cigar that had been in his hand between his lips.

"And what makes you think we're strangers?" He asked, cocky as ever. "Ain't we been spendin' every day together for a while now?" I rolled my eyes at that, reaching up to fix my hat.

"We don't know anything about each other, and you know if. You didn't even know I was a girl until a few days ago." He simply shrugged, moving toward the line of newsies waiting to get their papes. I sighed before following him, preparing myself for another day in the heat of New York.

__________

At this point, I was fairly sure we were doing it to see who would break first rather than to actually flirt with each other. Race and I had been teasing each other back and forth all day. He had a slight advantage that he didn't have to whisper his comments when no one was looking, but there was also the struggle of the majority of the public believing that we were both boys, and therefore shouldn't be flirting at all.

There was a single moment when I almost let him win, purely on accident. We had stopped in a shaded area to escape the heat and it was empty of people besides us. He had come up behind me, his mouth close to my ear, his hands coming to rest on my hips. He hesitated, but I could tell it was only because he wanted to make sure I wouldn't swat his hands away. I didn't.

"It'll start gettin' colder soon," he whispered, his voice sending chills down my spine. "When it does, my offer still stands. You can come over to my bunk if youse gets a little too cold, and I can warm you right up." I didn't respond. His breath was tickling my neck, and even though I wasn't facing him I could tell he was smirking. His hands sent electricity through me, as light as feather, careful not to tighten his grip and push any boundaries. Without meaning to, I leaned into his touch - I leaned into him. My back was against his chest and his hands moved ever so slightly, pulling me a bit closer. It felt like we were both holding our breath, waiting for the other to make the first move.

"Warm me up, huh?" I whispered, somewhat breathless. "I didn't think you'd be much of a cuddler, Race." He laughed quietly into my hair.

"I was thinking of a more aggressive approach." He was talking in my ear again, sending me into a trance. My eyes fluttered closed, my head falling back against his chest. He looked down at me as my eyes opened again, having composed myself.

"We're still strangers, you know," I grinned at him. A smile spread across his face in return.

"I ain't never known no strangers who hold each this close," He said. My grin quickly morphed into a smirk.

"Oh, you're right, guess we should stop." I gave a very obviously dramatic shrug as I stepped away from him. His hand feel from my waist, but he stayed rooted in his place. I turned so I was facing him, taking joy in his flustered appearance. "C'mon, we got papes to sell." I turned around again and started to walk away. A heat that definitely wasn't coming from the sun rushed to my face as I thought of the position we'd been in, and what would've happened in anybody had found us like that. I glanced behind me to check if Race was following me and I was met with a wink. I made a show of rolling my eyes before continuing on.

__________

Once we sold our last paper, we made our way to our alley. We finished earlier than usual today, which was definitely because of Race. He had been a bit more aggressive in his selling today, seemingly eager to be done. I could understand if it was because of the sun beating down on us, but as far as I could tell that wasn't the reason. Silently, I wondered (and, okay, kind of hoped) if it was because of the situation we'd found ourselves in earlier in the day.

Considering there hadn't been a single moment since it had happened that I hadn't thought about it, it would have been only fair if it was messing him up too. The entire thing was confusing - mindless flirting wasn't supposed to have an affect like this. And yet I could still feel the ghost of his hands resting gently on my body, his mouth pressed against my ear.

As we took the shortcut through the alley and then walked back toward the lodge, I could feel it in the air between us. I wasn't entirely sure what it was, but there was something there. With the lodge in view, I started to pick up my pace, desperate to escape the silence we had been walking in. Before I could get very far his hand was wrapped around my wrist, pulling me back to him. He turned me so I was facing him, our bodies close, but not as close as they had been earlier.

"Ya rethinking kissing a stranger yet?" He asked, a teasing grin on his face.

"Come back to me when we're a little more acquainted, Higgins," I laughed. He gave a small pout, but I could hear him following behind me when I started to walk again, this time with a bounce in his step.

__________

I was awake again. I listened to the even breathing and occasional snoring coming from the boys, accompanied by the noises of the city outside. I tried to keep my breathing quiet, but I was having trouble catching my breath at all. It felt like there was smoke lingering in my lungs, causing me to heave and pant. I didn't want to wake anyone, but at the same time I silently prayed that someone would hear me and come to help.

There were tears staining my face. I must've cried while I was asleep, while I had been trapped in yet another nightmare. I shivered as a sudden rush of chills raced through my body. Without thinking, I looked over in the direction of Race's bunk. I could tell that he was fast asleep, and I almost considered waking him, but I didn't want him to get the wrong idea. I wasn't looking for a to "warm up."

As quietly as I could, I climbed out of my bunk and out the window. The cold metal of the fire escape against my bare feet sent a shock through me, but I climbed upwards anyway. I just needed some fresh air, I decided. I needed to get above it all, things had always seemed better when I put myself high above the city streets. I realized with a start that I could hear voices coming from above me, and climbed until I reached them. They stopped talking when I reached them, but I was greeted with warm smiles.

"Ya had another nightmare?" Crutchie asked, patting a space next to him for me to sit down. I nodded in response, sitting beside him so that I was facing Jack.

"You boys spend all your nights up here?" I asked, yawning.

"We can't when it gets cold, but I like the fresh air," Jack replied. "Crutchie sleeps in 'is bunk a lot, but he joins me sometimes." There was a pause, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was nice, to sit with them and just forget everything for a little while. "Ya get nightmares often?" Jack finally asked, looking concerned.

"More than usual recently, but yeah, pretty often." I was too tired to lie, and I didn't see the point in it. I was sure half the boys in the lodge got nightmares on a daily basis.

"Youse can come up here anytime ya get 'em," Crutchie spoke up. "We don't mind the company." He smiled softly at me and I couldn't help but smile back. Just minutes ago I hadn't been able to breathe, but it seemed that the fresh air had cleared the smoke from my lungs. The fire escape wasn't very comfortable, but eventually I fell asleep comforted by Jack's and Crutchie's presence.

#racetrack higgins #newsies #race x reader #newsies x reader #newsies imagine #race imagine #amber can kinda write #this is longer so yay

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not-close-to-straight · 7 years

Text

Letters to Bucky (Part Two)

MASTERLIST HERE

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

To: Tony

--Valentine’s Day is just another day here. Some of the men on base try to keep up with the local girls, but I don't. Cultural differences and all that. Plus with my assignments the best I could manage is a one night stand, and that doesn't really go over well this side of the world with guys or girls.

--Why did I come back overseas? Because I'm a soldier, Tony, that's what we do. Also because I didn't really want to be home anymore.

--Alright, things about me. I am thirty. Dark hair, blue eyes. About six two, I guess. I kind of have a beard kind of since we've been out on patrol for so long. Being in this unit means the rules are a lot more relaxed. They don't care what we look like as long as we get the job done, you know?

–...And if it matters at all, I've been in the military since I was 18 and it shows, if you catch my meaning. Nobody ever complains when I get undressed at least. What about you? Tell me what you look like.

--So pain pills make you flirty and sexual? Is that all it takes? I'll start mailing you some with each letter to keep things interesting.

--A phone doesn't really work where I am, unless it's a sat phone and I don't have one, any calls that come through for me are routed through our squadron's CO and down to me.

--Letters will work. It's kind of nice to physically write something instead of tapping on a keyboard. Feels more personal I guess. Intimate, right? I dunno, having to search for a pen and a quiet spot to write and all that makes it seem like a bigger deal then just sending off an email.

--You don't really have to say anything when you write, Tony. just whatever. Tell me about your room, or about your annoying nurse or your favorite color. I don't care. Stop crossing shit out though. Or at least only cross it out once instead of scribbling at it. I want to know what goes through your head. All of it. Even the stuff you consider in bad taste. I mean, I'm a soldier. It's not like you're going to shock me.

--I am safe today. We all are

--Write me back

******************

To: James Buchanan Barnes

--Why didn't you want to go home? Where is home for you? How are three consecutive tours overseas better than being home?

--I feel like you are just shockingly understanding about how hard this whole thing is for me and I don't get why. I'm not complaining, I just don't get it. Most people act like the power of positive thinking will get me through and I seriously thought that was bullshit until we started talking.

--At the risk of sounding sappy I really do think this is helping. At least now I have something to look forward to every day? I know its must take weeks to get to you and weeks for you to write back but now when the mail comes I'm at least hoping for something other than some outrageous hospital bill. And there is something therapeutic about hand writing letters. I am starting to enjoy it, or at least I'm enjoying hearing from you, so--- yeah. Take that however way you want.

--If you send me more pain pills they WILL have to put me in a drug rehab. I'm already only taking half doses. And for the record it doesn't take pain pills to make me flirty. Comes along with the good looks and money, honey.

--By the way, tall dark and handsome absolutely does it for me, so I can say you'd at least hold my attention for a night and most of the next morning.

--that seemed rude after I wrote it but I'm trying not to cross stuff out so there you go.

--Stay safe ok

Tony

*****************

To: Tony

--I didn't want to go home because all that's back there is bad memories. A crowded house. A neighborhood that I wanted to escape. Memories of being poor. My Captain and I actually grew up on the same street, and when we saw the chance to get out, we ran and haven't looked back. Brooklyn is only romantic in the musicals, in real life it sort of sucks.

--Of course I'm trying to be understanding of what you're going through, Tony. I haven't ever had an accident like yours, but being a soldier comes with it's own set of experiences, you know? Besides isn't the whole point of the penpal program to help you work through some of this stuff? What kind of pen pal would I be if I wasn't at least sympathetic? I'm glad you think it's helping, thought. I know getting letters from you is something I look forward to.

--Fine I won't send you more pills, but keep taking yours, I kind of like what they do to you. In fact pop one right now and tell me about these good looks of yours. Inspire me and I'll send you some poetry wall paper.

--I'm safe, we all are

--write me back

********************

To: James Buchanan Barnes

--I think we have lived opposite lives. My house has been too empty my entire life, and yours was full. I have good memories of growing up, even if my parents were gone a lot. But let's be real, all of New York is romantic in the musicals, and all of it sucks in real life. Right now I'm in Manhattan, but I have a place California too. Are you and your Captain still good friends? How did you ever end up in the same special unit? Sounds like a conspiracy to me, soldier.

--trust me when I say I appreciate your letters. Gives me something to smile about, something to look forward too.

--I was kind of joking about my good looks. You’re taller than me by at least four or five inches, so no standing directly next to me ok? My ego can't handle being that much shorter than you. Dark hair and I wear it spiky because when i was twelve someone told me it made me look like a punk and...well I was a total punk. Probably still am. They just stop saying things like that after you turn 35.

--Oh yeah, I'm a little older than you. Don't get any thoughts about a sugar daddy though-- good Christ I can't believe I just wrote that, do not judge me by my letters, I'm much more put together in person.

--Is it weird that we are kind of flirting? Or is it too late to ask that? Is it weirder that we never had the “are you gay” talk before we started dropping sexual innuendos? For the record… it's fine. It's nice. I like it. I like you, as much as I can over a letter. This is like a note in third grade: do you like me? Check yes or no.

--How long does it take to get a letter there? Sometimes it seems like i get a response within a couple weeks, other times closer to a month. Not that I'm counting the days or whatever. Because I'm not, I swear.

--stay safe soldier boy

****************

“How does your arm feel Tony?” the doctor asked, eyeing the limb critically. “We had to do some fairly impressive reconstruction there.”

“Still hurts.” Tony rotated his left wrist slowly, wincing when it sent sharp pains up to his elbow. “But not terribly. I can live with it.”

“It's impressive you can move it at all.” the doctor admitted. “I was really concerned about you regaining function. Ribs seem to be healing nicely as well. Now lay back, let me take a look at your chest.”

Tony lay back flat and tried not to breathe as a nurse began helping peel the bandages off.

The extensive bruising had finally faded, and now all that was left was rows of stitches keeping his skin together over his nearly shattered sternum. Fresh scars from where they had had to pull pieces of glass and fiberglass littered his chest, trailing over towards his heart, and the long, jagged red line where a piece of windshield had nearly punctured a lung looked just…

Tony swallowed hard and dropped his head back onto his pillow.

He was a mess.

“I look like a disaster.” he said, putting an arm over his eyes so no one would see the tears. “Frankenstein was pieced together better than this.”

“Now, Tony.” the doctor said comfortingly. “You didn't lose any limbs, and we don't see any long lasting heart damage from having to bring you back twice. All of your scars, besides the few where we put pins in your forearm will be covered by a tank top, and a long sleeve will take care of the rest. How is your physical therapy going?”

“As well as can be expected.” Tony flinched when they started re-bandaging his chest, the pressure of all the gauze and padding making it difficult to draw a full breath. “I can walk comfortably now, other than the shortness of breath it's fine.”

“You should be able to work on strength training here soon to get your arm back to where it needs to be” The doctor made a few notes on his chart. “And after the stitches come out of your chest you can be released home. We just have to make sure your sternum stays strong. A healthy diet and moderate exercise will bring your heart back to full power very soon, and a few years from now, this will all be some vague memory, alright?”

“Right. A vague memory. Thank you.” Tony sat back up, rebuttoning the few buttons on his shirt he could. “Really doc, thank you. I know you worked a miracle on me.”

“It's my pleasure Tony. I'll check in again at the end of the week”

Tony waited until both the doctor and nurse had left the room before reaching for the letter lying unopened on his nightstand.

*******************

To: Tony

--So is your house empty now? No one lives with you? stepmother? Faithful butler? Evil twin? Don't you get lonely?

--I think it takes around two weeks for me to get a letter. But if I am gone on a rotation I am off base for weeks at a time, usually three weeks, sometimes closer to six, it just depends. I write you back the day I receive your letter though, if that matters at all.

--I could handle California. Do you surf? Or just lay around like a bum? I'd be down for either. Sunshine and ice cream and you know... pretty people showing a lot of skin? Down for it.

--You remember I said Steve and I grew up together and joined the army together? Well when he was selected to head a special ops group, he got to hand pick a few of his men, and he chose me to go with him. We keep each other right, keep each other safe. He's always got my back, and I've always got his.

--When we were younger he was scrawny so I was the muscle and now that we are both big guys he thinks its funny to try and beat me up. It doesn't usually work, but I've got a few scars from him I guess. He's still just a punk ass kid with a smart mouth, though.

--It don't matter if you’re shorter than me, Tony. I'd still stand right up against ya anyhow. Marking my territory and all that. You sound cute as hell. I could just pick you up and carry you around with me. What color eyes do you have? I bet they’re puppy dog brown.

--Is it weird to flirt with me? I can dial it back. I'm pretty bad about it apparently. Steve always tells me I'll flirt with anything with two legs, and then I met a girl with one leg and proved him absolutely wrong. He's a good guy you would like him.

--I like you too Tony. You didn't leave any boxes to check but if you had I'd be checking yes.

-- I'm heading out on rotation, but I'm safe, we all are

--write me back Tony

PS. my friends call me Bucky, so call me Bucky. James is too formal. Reminds me of being in trouble at school or church.

******************

To: James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky

--I have literally never surfed in my life, but we could give it a shot. Come to California and we can do... you know, whatever surfer guys say when they hang out. Surf, party, smoke. Still got some years before I turn forty and boring so it should be fun.

--You and Steve just friends? Can I ask that? Do you like him like you like me? Did I just sound like a teenage girl? Yikes.

--My eyes are just brown. Just dark brown. Not a big deal. But thanks for the cute comment, I think it's been twenty years since someone called me that.

--I feel like it's unfair to tell me you’d mark me as your territory, and then say that you can dial things back. Pick a side soldier. You either want to mark your territory or watch from a distance. You either like me or you don't. Have I mentioned I'm kind of an asshole when I'm not drugged up? At least that's what my assistant Pepper says. She is equal parts lovely and terrifying and I wouldn't make it more than two hours without her, I swear.

--really? A girl with one leg? Please tell me about ;that. Actually please tell me you didn't sleep with her because I feel like I'd be jealous which might be whoops, look at me crossing shit out again. Ignore that. Blame it on the pain pills.

--Stay safe

***************

To: Bucky

--I know it hasn't been two weeks yet so you haven't even got the first one, but I have news.

--My too happy nurse Patricia is pregnant and I feel like it's the physical therapists kid. In fact I'm almost positive it is, because I have seen them doing “physical therapy” a few times when I take walks late at night, and let's just say, those particular exercises weren't included in MY pamphlet of what this rehab facility offered.

--Juicy right? Or maybe it's not, but I've been in this damn hospice long enough all that entertains me is TMZ level gossip.

--Save me from this boredom. Write me back.

--Stay safe

******************

To: Bucky

--So no more casts officially. My left arm is back working pretty much like new. Technology is amazing. Ribs are unbandaged and I can breathe all by myself. It's exciting. Not really exciting but then again that's how boring my life has become.

--Waiting for stitches to come out of the sternum then I can go home. Sounds like just another week and I'm good to go.

--should I be worried that you haven't told me if you and Steve are just friends or not? Is it weird that I'm kind of possessive about my pen pal? Yeah that's weird. I kind of wish i hadn't written that.

--write me back soldier

--stay safe.

********************

To: Bucky

--I haven't heard back from you yet. You must be on one of those long rotations? Or I made things awkward right? Sorry about that. Social niceties aren't really my thing. In fact when I'm off all the drugs I'm kind of an asshole. I said that already but I'm reiterating so you know what you're getting into. Fair warning.

--Nurse Patricia has the worst morning sickness. But she still smiles afterwards. It's unnatural. I don't see how women do that crap. No wonder my mom only had me.

--Be safe soldier

Tony

****************

To: Bucky

--are you safe, Bucky? I'm worried and I hate that. Write back please

******************

To: James Buchanan Barnes

--yeah I used your full name

-I'm gonna do something drastic if I don't hear back from you soon. It's been over two months and I'm going crazy

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#winteriron #tony stark #james bucky barnes #love letters #soldier fic #winteriron au

253 notes · View notes

tyrantisterror · 7 years

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THE ATOM Create A Kaiju Contest Masterpost

It’s done! After nearly two months, the ATOM Create a Kaiju Contest has finally come to a close! Now it’s time for the part of the contest that actually requires significant effort on my part: picking winners and giving out prizes. This will be an incredibly difficult task because they’re all so fucking good. You guys submitted dozens of original monsters to me, creating a bizarre and wonderful menagerie. I wish they could ALL be winners, but I don’t have time to make 79(!!!) different kaiju files in a timely manner, so we’re gonna have to narrow it down a bit.

Of course, if you remember the rules of the contest, you know that every entry gets a prize by default: a sketch of each kaiju by me, with a few sentences or so of commentary as well. So here, below the cut, are the 79 (!!!) different monsters made for the world of ATOM by viewers like you!

Two special notes before we begin:

First, for the written entries: I tried to interpret everything as faithfully as I could. All the descriptions were wonderfully detailed, but as we all know, two people can read the same description and get two entirely different images in their head. There are more than a few written entries where I wasn’t 100% certain my interpretation was correct - like, where I realized it could mean something very different than what I thought it meant. So apologies if I got your vision a teensy bit wrong - I am a fallible man.

Second, for the illustrated entries: while I mostly tried to preserve your designs as they were presented, every now and then I threw out modifications - whether it was about translating between one artistic style or another, or because the concept you pitched for your monster reminded me of some things I have planned in my little fictional and haven’t thought of yet. In short, any changes made were to make your monsters fit in the ATOM universe just a little better. Again, apologies - I am a fallible man.

@raffleupagus‘s entries:

Engineered by a mad scientist to kill other kaiju with its single, enormous leg, Pogo Tomiyama is one of the weirdest concepts this contest threw out, and as you’ll soon see, that is saying something! Mixing a giant bug with one of the most iconic toys of the 1950′s is such a strange idea, but also totally in line with the aesthetic of ATOM - it’s all about that atom age nostalgia.

Pogo’s nemesis, the heroic Kaerugon, isn’t quite as bizarre, but the fact that a big toad with an even more preposterously long tongue is the “hero” of this tale is still pretty excellent (and fitting, given Pogo’s status as a great big gnat). Kareugon also reminds me, intentionally or not, of the heroic toad from The Magic Serpent, an obscure and weird little fantasy movie from Japan that ends in a pretty decent low budget kaiju battle, so props there.

@bugcthulhu‘s Entries:

Bloated and slimy, Bocagran is a prehistoric amphibian that floats because of his gassy innards. He’s got a nice Rat Fink vibe to him, mixing creepy, pathetic, and cute vibes in a way I absolutely love. His creator mentioned The Giant Claw as an inspiration, and despite one being a giant salamander and the other being a vulture, I can see it - both manage to blend “goofy” and “creepy” together into one lovable package.

A perfect companion to the Writhing Flesh and Pathogen, Dreg plays with the idea of nuclear strikes making kaiju more monstrous in an entirely new way. Having been hit by a nuclear bomb while still in his mother’s womb (well, technically still in the egg that was still in his mother but whateves), Dreg’s kaiju physiology is dangerously and uniquely unstable. He shifts between a pathetic fetal form and a mangy but dangerous fighting form depending on how well fed he is - which means he constantly has to devour flesh to maintain any semblance of power and security as a monster. Monstrous in appearance and deed, but not necessarily by nature, Dreg is as pitable as he is terrifying.

@takingturnsatrandom‘s Entries:

An enormous echinoderm even by kaiju standards (it towers over Tyrantis by 50 feet!), Blasteroid gets around in an ingenious way that would make Godzilla and Gamera proud: it flies via a pressurized jet of water! It’s one of the cooler kaiju powers I’ve ever heard of, and it’s made even cooler by the fact that Blasteroid is unambiguously heroic - continuing the ATOM tradition of non-humanoid monster being sympathetic despite their inhuman appearance.

Looking much like a modern day chupacabra sighting, Sibuan is the second (and far from the last) mangy monster in our list. As you may know, I’m slightly afraid of/repulsed by dogs, so I kinda love that the first canine monster entered into the contest is so scuzzy. Sibuan is definitely a tragic monster, though still a fearsome one with her toothy jaws and bristle-y fur.

Hammerbeak gives me a specific sort of Ultraman monster vibe - like, you can see the base animal (cassowary) in the design, but it goes down a lot of strange paths before it finishes its journey from beast to monster. The long tail tipped with a thagomizer is a particularly fun touch - it’s not often you see a bird monster take after an ankylosaur.

I tried my best not to make Vermamand’s moth look inappropriate, but Planarians work the way they work, you know? Since Planarians literally look like cheap, googly eyed monster toys, using one as a basis for an ATOM-verse monster is pretty ingenious - this fella would fit in well alongside Karamtor and Googora. The ribbon-like body also gives this worm a very distinct visual presence.

There are a lot of ways you could make an arboreal creature like a chameleon into a kaiju, but making their tree-climbing adaptations suited for an aquatic lifestyle has to be one of the nuttier ones. Turning those clasping oven mitts into flippers is such a weird idea, but it works so well!

@cerothenull‘s Entries:

A flying retrosaur that traded speed in flight for the ability to swim as well (and thus becoming triphibian), Aiguan ended up looking like the lovechild of Gamera and Gyaos. I’m not sure if that was intentional or just a lucky accident of how I read the description, but its a point in her favor regardless. I love how this takes retrosaurs - a fairly well explored monster type in ATOM - in an entirely different direction than we’ve seen in the canon monsters.

Osteogre is a strange blend of retrosaur, placoderm, and just a little bit of Creature of the Black Lagoon - ok, maybe more than a little in my rendering, but it couldn’t be helped. As soon as you say “humanoid fish” my brain goes pretty hard on the Gill Man imagery. I like that Osteogre’s chimeric build is left as a mystery - how did such different creatures get crossed together? The world may never know.

Centipedes are generally considered pretty ominous animals, so of course an ATOM-verse centipede monster would be a giant sweet heart. Scutlgor’s description had just enough specific details to set her apart from normal centipedes, allowing her to fit in with the other arthropod monsters in ATOM just fine. I also like that personality-wise she’s basically the experienced nanny to Bobo’s teenaged babysitter - those two would get along really welly.

One of the missed opportunities of ATOM was the inclusion of one Japanese mythology inspired monster in the Japan arc - a King Shisa/Manda equivalent, basically. I tried a couple of designs (both Kappa and Baku inspired kaiju were considered), but nothing gelled. So it’s kind of awesome to see a monster filling that niche pop up here in the contest, and the idea of blending an Oni’s features with a sasquatch’s is pretty inspired. Onigoro’s face was particularly fun to figure out - and yes, I worked just a little bit of Aku in there.

Cerothenull’s final entry also hits upon another monster I briefly considered but dropped from ATOM’s final lineup: the Jersey Devil. The Frankenstein-style origin for Ublen is pretty inspired, and the manic personality caused by his hybrid brain would make for some pretty awesome and scary scenes of kaiju havoc. He also maintains the idea that the scariest monsters in ATOM are also generally pitiable, which is important to me.

@skarmorysilver‘s Entries:

ATOM has been on the internet for over a decade now, albeit under different titles (from “Tyrantis’s Saga” to “The Second Age of Monsters” and on and on), and many kaiju have been added and cut from the story in that long stretch of time. Skarmorysilver chose to take a couple concepts that had been dropped and rework them a bit, and one of the monsters he rescued was this lovely blue sabre tooth cat. I’m surprised there aren’t more sabre tooth cat monsters, honestly - it’s such an iconic prehistoric predator, which you think would make it excellent kaiju fodder. Julkath here is a solid take on the concept, mixing in bits of snow leopard and a hulking, almost bear-like physique as well as a lovably grumpy disposition.

ATOM shares a universe with a few other stories that belong to somewhat different genres, and has made a few winking references to them throughout its 50 canon kaiju files. So it was to be expected that at least a few monsters entered in this contest would continue that idea. Bamutan here, while considered just a weird long fish in ATOM’s modern (well, 1950′s) world, is actually a leviathan, i.e. a big sea serpent that survived the purge of magic in the world (it’s a whole thing, don’t worry about it). Bamutan is specifically descended from the Jasconius breed of leviathans, and thus has a friendly disposition - which makes her sort of the “good” counterpart of Old Meg as far as ATOM’s sea monsters go.

Another monster saved from the scrapheap, Oz is reinvented here as a prehistoric flying marsupial - one with a whole litter of babies (not pictured here) at that! We got a lot of weird Australian kaiju from this contest, and Oz makes for a Aussie good counterpart/foil for Ahuul. Plus she adds another weird monster to the “prehistoric mammal” roster, which is always welcome.

While kaiju are defined as organic beings in ATOM, a lot of entrants tried to push the limits of that definition as much as possible, and Gnashphalt here is a pretty successful example of how far it could stretch. A rotting heap of tar and garbage animated by kaiju-fied bacteria, Gnashphalt is a grisly looking monstrosity driven by an insatiable hunger for both oil and the Yamaneon that powers its fellow kaiju. It is suitably revolting for a Hedorah/Blob expy, an archetype that ATOM doesn’t quite fill on its own.

@dinosaurana‘s Entries:

Karamtor used to have a lot of fellow Venusian monsters to keep her company, but their designs were a little redundant. Barusstrakk avoids that pitfall by being really fuckin’ weird looking, with a body described as looking like a meteor and tons of “craters” that hide little secret tentacles. Its most obvious physical trait, though are its hammer and sickle arms, which give it a sort of USSR vibe. This is particularly appropriate given Barusstrakk’s chief opponent is:

Yeah that’s a rock-robot made out of Mt. Rushmore. While not quite a kaiju per ATOM’s definition, it is powered by yamaneon, and also look at this crazy fucking thing. President Rushmore reminds me of that one episode of Dexter’s Lab where Dexter and Mandark turn the Washington and Lincoln heads into robots to battle it out, only for the Rushmore bots to realize they’re both super honest dudes and bond as friends over it. What a crazy show. What a crazy monster.

@theload‘s Entries:

ATOM’s world is an alternate universe for a lot of reasons, one of which is that its mesozoic era was a lot different than ours - instead of being ruled by prehistoric birds, it was dominated by weird crocodile descendants called retrosaurs. Birds still evolved during this period, but they didn’t dominate the world the way they did in our Mesozoic era. Pengku fleshes out that alternate evolutionary path for birds by presenting a very different sort of ancestral bird than the ones we know existed - specifically one based on very old and outdated ideas on what the ancestral bird may have looked like. Essentially a feathered, flying lizard, Pengku is as adorable as she is intriguing, and helps flesh out the alternate prehistory of ATOM.

Parakon isa Hoogah, i.e. a member of a group of dragon-like reptiles from the more fantasy-inspired part of ATOM’s universe. I hadn’t quite nailed the design philosphy of Hoogahs yet when Parakon was entered in the contest, so I took the liberty of tweaking his design just a tad to better fit with his peers. Like the magical monsters he’s related to, Parakon is sweet natured and friendly. His dimetrodon sail styled wings make him just plausible enough to fit within the sci-fi aesthetic of ATOM, too!

@connorricks‘s Entries:

Dangalar’s entry is absolutely hilarious, as his pitch is basically “what if a giant monster actually looked like a giant marionetter puppet that was poorly composited into reality?” He moves in a strange, jerky fashion, he’s held aloft by string connected to some invisible puppeteer, and no one knows what the hell he’s supposed to be. It’s absolutely eerie and yet also incredibly hilarious - and somehow manages to be even more meta than is usual for ATOM.

If nothing else, this contest made a lot of great friends fro The Writhing Flesh. Normus’s design was inspired by a picture of a half-dressed Godzilla suit actor - human above the waster, dinosaur below. In story, he’s basically what would happen if someone tried to fuse a human with three different retrosaur monsters and kaijufied the result - the kind of mad science that’s horrifyingly common in ATOM’s world. Normus is a pitable monster, but I like to think he’d eventually get used to his situation and find a way to enjoy being a giant freakish retrosaur-man.

@titleknown‘s Entries:

Our first monster designed to be ATOM’s equivalent of Ultraman, Malorel is also the strangest – and again, that’s pretty strange considering how this contest goes. Part of Malorel’s weirdness comes from the fact that she also homages The Monolith Monsters as well as characters from a couple of shows I haven’t watched yet. Like President Rushmore, Malorel isn’t a traditional kaiju, as she is mostly composed of inorganic matter. The bulk of Malorel’s body is made of Yamaneon crystals and a second substance that’s sort of the anti-Yamaneon (implied by titleknown to be Magic), while only the chewy center of the being is made of a flesh and blood human. Said human also directs Malorel’s actions, which is why she ends up fighting kaiju to defend mankind. I took a few liberties with Malorel’s design – Yamaneon crystals have a very distinct shape, and if ATOM-verse Magic were to manifest physically it would be as a gas instead of a solid – but I tried to keep the spirit in tact.

Jimmy Neutron was a pretty fun show. Panku is basically a kaiju-scaled version of the mech-suit wearing egg monsters from it, and since both Jimmy Neutron and ATOM are built on atom age sci-fi tropes, it meshes pretty well.

Based on a famous non-giant monster from the 1950’s, Jan in the Pan from The Brain that Wouldn’t Die, The Head is possibly the most explicitly villainous monster entered in the contest. A megalomaniacal supervillain whose machinations affect the storyline of every monster Titleknown entered in the contest, The Head is a force to be reckoned with even before she kaiju-fies herself. The visual of a big giant floating head battling giant monsters is pretty surreal, and the creepy neck tendrils make for a grisly visual that’s quite appropriate for such a sinister villain.

Javellaro forms an important bridge between the “humanity learns to live with monsters” story of ATOM and the “human hero kills monsters of the week” story of Titleknown’s entries. A pig whose artificial kaijufication was botched by The Head, Javellaro’s healing factor is degraded enough to not work fully, yet powerful enough to keep her going despite how painful her should-be-lethal wounds are. Her pitiable condition draws audience sympathy while still making us comfortable with Malorel putting her down – it’s honestly a mercy in this pig’s case. Tragic and haunting, Javellaro poignantly illustrates how a kaiju can invoke pathos.

A second pseudo-mecha, Playboy Rumble is similar to President Rushmore in that she’s neither a traditional mech nor a true kaiju. Instead, she’s a super powered human piloted a hard light construct (which would probably be called a hologram in ATOM’s time period) via mad science. Her human form was created to be a minion and eventual replacement body for the Head, but, in true mad science fashion, turned against her master and joined with Malorel. Playboy Rumble is also sort of our third Ultraman homage, being a human with a thing in her chest that lets her turn into a giant to fight monsters for a period of time. Also she’s a giant bunny bot, and you gotta love that.

@canadian-tuxedo-mask‘s Entries:

A hybrid of a giant ground sloth and literally the entire audience of a drive in movie theater (or their ghosts?), X-Nertha is another monster that I’m gonna label one of the weirdest ideas submitted to this contest - though, like Pogo, that weirdness is totally in line with ATOM’s aesthetic principles of mixing kaiju with 1950′s nostalgia. X-Nertha’s personality is as unique as its design, as it is a perennial spectator of other kaiju fights, rather than a combatant itself. I did my best to work in 1950′s car elements to the design, though I’m not particularly good at drawing cars in general.

Ok, nothing in Butch’s description said he was a Greaser, but nothing said he wasn’t a Greaser, and his name is Butch, so here we are. Captain Sensation’s supernatural elements aren’t apparent in an isolated black and white sketch - you need color to see the green parts of him and another monster to realize he’s kaiju-sized. I also didn’t realize until re-reading his entry that he’s got a superhero costume I could have drawn instead - look, some part of me just wanted to draw a giant Greaser, ok? Is that ok? I’m pretty fond of Butch. He’s a giant dude who shoots hot sauce (well if you want to get technical it’s just the acid from peppers but shush) out his eyes like a horned lizard and punches monsters to save the world. He’s our second or third (depending on how you count) Ultraman homage, and a damn good one at that.

An homage to the Wasp Woman (one of my favorite 1950′s monster concepts that sadly had a lackluster execution), Malzzang is an insidious Korean crime boss who uses kaiju-fied giant hornets to further her schemes, only to become one of them herself via a strange turn of events! She’s wicked and sinister even before she becomes a monster, and is an excellent “heel” kaiju. Also she gave me an excuse to draw a giant hornet with a woman’s head, and that’s always great.

Lance is another monster that takes its base animal in some weird directions, from his name-worthy pointy snoot to his slug-like eyestalks. He’s also got a dog’s brain, which somehow just makes everything weirder. He’s still got a lot of what makes an oppossum adorable though, and his personality is utterly charming.

This is one of the monsters where I felt I had a good feel of what they were going for until, like, the last sentence of the description that made me doubt the whole thing, but I liked how it turned out anyway. There should probably be a moray eel head in there somewhere - let's say it's hiding behind the seaweed. I love the idea of this giant heap of a sea monster made out of all these disparate parts - he's like the better aspects of Pirates of the Caribbean 2 rolled into one giant monster.

@highly-radioactive-nerd‘s Entries:

It’s a well-known fact that the original Baragon costume – one of the best monster suits ever made in the Showa movies – was used and reused to make so many different monsters that it was barely functional by the time Toho wanted to make Destroy All Monsters. There are so many pseudo-Baragons out there, so it’s only fitting that ATOM got one of its own. It already has a Baragon homage of course, but Blastra here is specifically designed to be a reused Baragon suit, complete with a new head and some extra doodads.

I love this guy because he does something fairly difficult: he makes me interested in duckbilled dinosaurs. Sibelisaurus takes the idea that hadrosaurs had musical horns and runs with it, making a dinosaur whose body is designed to resemble a variety of musical instruments and even has some markings that look like musical notes and rests. It’s a very clever idea that works way better than you’d think, and takes what could have been a plain retrosaur and instead makes it very interesting.

While there are lots of King Kong homages out there, surprisingly few use baboons as a base, which is shame because they’re utterly vicious and weird looking animals. King Solomon takes that savage inspiration and adds an interesting layer of greed to it – he’s not just called King because he’s big and strong, but because he hoards shiny objects. It’s like if King Kong was significantly more literal about his title.

Salagara captures the feel of a 1970’s Hanna Barbara monster perfectly, looking as if he just stepped out of the Godzilla Power Hour or The Herculoids. He’d have good company in that regard, as many of the Beyonders’ monsters were also designed to fit that vibe. His design is simple but effective, and I never tire of aliens with eyestalks.

A mummy, a landshark, AND a retrosaur, Tutandra blends three very different things into one well rounded whole. He pulls in the “archaeology adventure” story that’s also common in atom age sci-fi and mixes it with ATOM’s giant monster narrative, and the result is pretty great. Also, again, this is a giant mummified retrosaur that swims through sand like a shark. What’s not to love?

@glarnboudin‘s Entries:

Salikor is a loose homage to the primary monster of one of my favorite obscure kaiju movies, The Legendof Dinosaurs and Killer Birds. Like the plesiosaur in that film, Salikor emerges from a lake and proceeds to wreak bloody havoc upon the human populace, leaving a trail of blood and carnage in his wake until he finally has a fateful encounter with a flying retrosaur. His design is suitably vicious looking, with lipless crocodile-style exposed teeth and an armored hide.

Terravia emerges around the same time as Salikor, but unlike the monsters that inspired them, the two end up becoming lovers despite being wildly different species. It’s a pretty weird turn for a kaiju story, but not an unheard of one (more than a few lost Godzilla movie projects have similar premises). Terravia mellows Salikor out a bit, and their story has a sort of sweet “make love, not war” theme that fits ATOM well enough.

A lot of people like the idea of making retrosaurs fill niches that dinosaurs eventually filled when they became full on birds, and Tabbaogen here is an answer to the question of what a retrosaur penguin might look like. The answer is “pretty ridiculous and fun.” As his name suggests, he uses his body as a sled, much as penguins do. He’s also a lot more dangerous than he appears, which is always fun – he’d make a good tag team partner for Gorale.

@akitymh‘s Entries:

A vampiric newt from another world, Kabold’s head gives me a nice Wayne Barlowe vibe. It also reminds me a bit of Irys from Gamera 3, which is pretty neat. Its six limbed body is simple while still distinctly alien, and it has a nice collection of little tuber-thingies on its body. I love those little tuber thingies.

King Horn reminds me of all the space gorillas from Silver Age comics despite not actually being a gorilla. He’s very definitely alien, yet also unmistakably ape-y, and that’s pretty cool. Also, like a certain Ultraman monster, his name is slightly misleading, as his horns aren’t particularly prominent. I don’t know if that was intentional, but I like it.

Going with the Ultraman vibe of the last entry, Rampart here feels like a monster who was designed for a specific fight scene. Those two enormous armored plates would make for some very unique battles, with the retrosaur in between them providing just enough normalcy to ground the design. I also like how the taxonomic placement of this guy is unclear in-universe – it’s a nice touch.

I figured I took Martian anatomy about as weird as it could go with Podritak, but Sevarahz here might top that. His phallic head section is wonderfully gross, and his pelvic section, while recognizably Martian, is distorted into a really weird shape. The “tail” should probably have more limited joints since it’s technically a third leg (and Martian legs have a distinct bone structure and all), but it looks better as a serpentine tail, so we’ll let that anatomy slide a bit.

Akitymh’s final entry is Awkwas, and he’s basically a what you see is what you get monster: a great big retrosaur with a bearded dragon style frill, ready to fight other monsters and have a fun rowdy time. He doesn’t have a lot of frills to him, but in a way that’s kind of refreshing – we’ve got a lot of weirdoes in this contest, so it’s nice to have a few simple monsters for contrast.

@quinnred‘s Entries:

The most Ultraman-looking of our Ultraman homages, Odinokiy Soldat still manages to be a very weird and unique take on the “human hero who fights kaiju” concept, with his jet black skin and bone-white armored plates. The turtle-like beak is a particularly wonderful and unsettling touch. I love that, despite his grotesque mad scientist origins, he’s unambiguously a heroic monster, protecting the USSR from kaiju threats just as Tyrantis protects the US. It’s important to me that ATOM doesn’t demonize the USSR, even though a lot of what they did with nuclear testing is great monster origin fuel. I feel Odinokiy Soldat tows that line really well – his origin is horrifying, but at heart he’s a good person who happens to be loyal to his mother country, Russia.

I love plant monsters even though they’re often frustratingly hard to make – it’s so hard not to just make a new flavor of Audrey II, y’know? Papaver Magnus here not only manages to feel entirely unique in design, but also brings an interesting story hook: she intoxicates other kaiju. Sometimes this puts them to sleep, while other times it drives them into a rage. She could be a useful tool for kaiju control, or manage to make a kaiju attack even more violent than normal. A great design with a great story concept!

I didn’t expect to see an homage to my favorite sandsverse vendor in this contest, but here we are. Even if you don’t get the joke, King Bekantan is a great spin on the giant ape monster archetype in his own right. Instead of being a rough and tumble warlord, King Bekantan is a peaceful farmer who cultivates the earth (fruits in particular) and basically tries to protect the environment. There’s something eerie and beautiful about the idea of some giant ape striding the land only to spend all its time farming – it’d be such a beautiful yet surreal sight.

A collection of massive crustaceans that pretend to be islands, the Humarr Petram take the medieval folktale of a living creature that’s mistaken for an island and give it a sinister atomic age spin. These would be one of the scariest kaiju to encounter, and could make for one kickass standalone story in the ATOM universe.

Finally, we come to the Slickener, an organic giant monster who may not technically be a kaiju, as its powers seem to have a negative effect on most Yamaneon-rich organisms. While you can identify the different terrestrial animals who inspired its design, the Slickener’s design nonetheless feels incredibly alien and off putting. It’s delightfully unsettling.

@godzillakiryu91‘s Entry:

Rayken takes a monster I’ve wanted to homage for a while - the titular beast from The Giant Gila Monster – and mixes it with the mythological amphisbaena to make a wonderfully lumpy monstrosity. The fact that you could also call this a “Beast with Two Heads” adds to the delightful B-Movie vibe, and that false second head could definitely produce a lot of fun scenes, both with human victims and fellow kaiju. Imagine a human shrieking as they think the monster’s about to eat them, only to realize they were looking at the wrong end! Hilarious.

@bowlofgabe‘s Entries:

A heroic pair of conjoined twin crabs. Hell. Fucking. Yes. Clawdia is the hero kaiju of Mexico, and as far as I’m concerned she’s just as fit for the job as Nastadyne and Tyrantis. Between her light psychic powers and love of luchadores, she has more than enough personality to carry her own series of adventures, and her sisterly bond with herself (Clawdia is technically two monsters in one) provides a nice emotional center for whatever those adventures may be.

Mixing a kaiju story with the darker sides of the space race, Eldritch Ed’s haunting origin story is paired with an oddly touching relationship between him and humankind. Despite being turned into a horrific monstrosity because of a botched experiment with Yamaneon and cosmic radiation, Ed devotes his life to protecting Earth from extraterrestrial threats, turning his accidental exile in earth’s orbit into guard duty. It’s hard to get more heroic than that.

@iamthekaijuking‘s Entries:

Plume is about as “realistic dinosaur”ish as an ATOM kaiju can get, exploiting the loophole within ATOM’s prehistory that states that a small lineage of dinosaurs who were direct ancestors of birds did exist alongside the Retrosaurs. She’s a pretty addition as well, a vibrant songbird of a monster who completes the trio of maternal monsters started by Bobo and Scutlgor.

Baby kaiju are adorable and I would have added more of them to ATOM if I wasn’t worried about their safety. Bubblor is basically an infant of a species very similar to Zillser, and takes everything cute about the later and amps it up a bit. That’s a lot of cute, even in such a big package.

Shēnghuó tǎ (my Godzilla font doesn’t have symbols with the little marks) hails from Ugugular’s planet and inexplicably resembles Chinese architecture, which is pretty rad. It’s the second of a trio of monsters that serve as “good” counterparts to the other Beyonder monsters. They probably defected almost immediately when the Invasion started.

Dhyandogen completes that trio, being a peaceful counterpart to The Great Beyonder and a stoic counterpart to Pleprah. His golden coloration gives him an almost angelic feel, and he makes for a good leader for this trio of extraterrestrial pacifists.

Essentially the Biollante to Tyrantis’s Godzilla, Unit 01 has one of the most tragic backstories of any kaiju submitted to the contest. Created to kill other monsters and then forced into stasis when not in use, her life is even more miserable and battle-heavy than those of the Beyonder’s kaiju, and her story culminates in a vicious rampage that humanity frankly deserves to suffer from.

@virovac’s Entries:

Themed around its power, Artileron is basically a wholly organic dinosaur tank. The heavily armored long necked goliath has head armor that coincidentally resembles a soldier’s helmet and shoots gastroliths at its enemies like tank shells, creating a pretty fun spin on the retrosaur concept. I imagine this guy talking like the Soldier from TF2 and it makes me happy.

A synapsid that evolved to coincidentally resemble paleo tyrant retrosaurs (which in turn are crocodiles that evolved to coincidentally resemble therapod dinosaurs), it’s my head canon that Bajingis is a member of the same species that Dreg’s mother belonged to. The idea of a big furry version of a retrosaur running around is cute, and could cause an interesting bit of confusion for the kaiju-ologists in ATOM’s world. Also, Bajingis is a fun name to say.

This is one where I’m pretty sure I misinterpreted the description, as a friend of mine pointed out that it was probably an homage to the ratbatcrabspider from Angry Red Planet, but I liked what I came up with so I’m sticking with it. Regardless of how off my drawing may be, Pomogitan is a crazy looking monstrosity of a kaiju, and definitely makes the extraterrestrial side of ATOM just a little crazier.

We’ve got more than a few apes in this contest already, but they’re kind of a male dominated archetype, aren’t they? It’s nice to have a lady or two to even things out, and Hagayag’s lumpy, hideous appearance definitely keeps things monstrous in the process. Since she’s described as being close to an orangutan, and since sasquatches are distant descendants of orangutans in ATOM’s world, I gave her a few sasquatch touches as well.

@plebeiantologist‘s Entries:

Mixing the vicious savagery of a hummingbird with the suave charm of a vampire, Nosferatu is an excellent solution to ATOM’s lack of bird monsters, as well as a clever and unexpected homage to Count Dracula. I love the serrated beak that evokes fangs without actually being them, and feel the same about how the interior markings of his wings resemble a scalloped opera cape without actually being one. He’s also not an evil monster – he needs to drink blood, sure, but that’s not lethal to most kaiju (just annoying), and he’s intelligent enough to smooth things over and even make deals with other monsters to get his sustenance. Overall, a cool and clever take on the idea of a kaiju Dracula.

We’ve got a lot of sad stories and a lot of silly stories in the contest so far, but none mix the two together as thoroughly as poor Dromeo here. A normal bee that was kaijufied, Dromeo wants nothing more than to find true love, mate, and die as a result of mating. However, as the only kaijufied bee of his species, he can’t find said mate, which means he lives in a perpetual state of longing. In addition to being extremely relatable, his situation is both hilarious and tragic.

I-Am-Fish-Mage’s Entries:

Another entry that plays with some of the more occult parts of ATOM’s universe, Gurt is what would happen if Pathogen used a dog instead of a retrosaur and the naturally occurring vampire virus instead of an artificial hybrid of different degraded strains of it. Or, more simply, a great big vampiric doggo. Gurt has the telltale signs of higher functioning vampirism, from the scar-like neck markings to the growth of bat wings. Very interestingly, Gurt’s kaiju physiology keeps him from fully exploiting the malleable nature of a strigoi vampire – instead of being able to turn into mist, Gurt can only become a sort of vampiric sludge, as his kaiju physiology refuses to transform into a gaseous state (Yamaneon can only exist as a mineral). It’s a really fun and well thought out cross of two very different monster types in ATOM’s universe.

While I haven’t made a file for them yet, between Promythigor’s file and various asks people have cleaned roughly how sasquatches work in ATOM. Ignorilla takes one of the weirder aspects of ATOMverse sasquatches – the fact that they’re mildly psychic and make people forget about them as a defense mechanism – and runs with it. The result is a giant monster that people have trouble seeing or remembering, which proves to be quite the hassle when it accidentally strolls on a collision course with mankind. It’s a great hook for a story, since it makes an otherwise fairly benign monster extremely dangerous through no fault of its own. Ignorilla also has plants growing in its fur, which is a nice nod to some other obscure sasquatch myths.

@bonelessnerd‘s Entries:

I couldn’t resist. Look, it was either this or drawing essentially the same pose as the original sketch – there are only so many ways to pose a hand that keep all of this glorious monstrosity’s anatomical quirks on display. Manoamano not only fills a niche ATOM didn’t manage to cover – i.e. the living body part monster – but does so in a unique and scary way, with the implication being that it’s merely a part of a much larger kaiju drifting out in the cosmos. It’s such a creepy plot that you almost forget it’s basically a giant hand with crab claw fingers and googly eyes. But you don’t, because a giant hand with crab claw fingers and googly eyes is awesome.

Like Humarr Petram, Nogad updates the “this island is secretly a monster” myth, although in this case the twist is a lot more sad than scary. Like the Writhing Flesh, Nogad’s bulk isn’t actually a positive, as the massive kaiju is stuck in a comatose state. It would die if its kaijufied parasites weren’t keeping it alive, and instead spends its life in a state of suspended animation, providing humans the rare opportunity to explore the internal workings of a kaiju without (too much) threat of harm. Nogad is spooky, sad, and intriguing, and would be a marvelously odd addition to ATOM’s kaiju ecosystem.

A size shifting dog with plastic skin, Rizablitz is basically Frankenweenie with an even bigger kaiju twist (and also less racism). The resurrected pupper can size shift from a normal sized dog to a kaiju-sized monster, and together with his owner he protects humanity. It’s a fun take on the “kid and their dog” story, and a nice light counterpoint to the previous two entries.

@polygonfighter‘s Entries:

A kaijufied personification of the La Brea Tar pits, Index is a mass of tar animated by kaijufied bacteria and wearing fossilized bones as armor. Its powers have a vaguely ghostly vibe, and it preys on its fellow kaiju with the aims of decorating its lair with their corpses even as they slowly turn into clusters of Yamaneon. Altogether it has a nice ghoulish vibe – the kind of monster that would make other monsters scared.

Another monster that has a great Hanna Barbara vibe, Volcanus’s bug-like appearance is mixed with some strangely human features to make it extra creepy (and also hard to place taxonomically). While he’s posed as a rival for Index, he definitely isn’t the heroic part of the duo, as Volcanus is noted to hate everyone, kaiju and human alike, with explosive intensity. Creepy and vicious, Volcanus is an excellent antagonist monster.

SirKaijuOfVaudeville’s Entry:

A great big subterranean monster, Torgong’s story is another one that brings in some Archaeological Adventure tropes to ATOM’s universe, providing a villainous contrast to the Reptodites with its society of subterranean mole people (mole in the “they live underground” sense, not the literal sense). Torgong’s owners are wicked race of rock eating cave dwellers who have enslaved another race of more peaceful, slightly insectoid cave dwellers. Torgong is of course their bestial god, and looks nice and freaky as a mole monster should.

@scatha5‘s Entry:

Being a mammal, Cervere brings some diversity to ATOM’s pantheon of monsters basically by default, but his powers are what truly make him shine. Cervere is designed to be a kaiju-repellant, with a scent designed to drive other kaiju away. That’s right: it weaponizes the odorous nature of mammals. Cervere releases this smell through a colored gas emitted by its mouth and ears, providing a nice visual for its power as well. Unfortunately for the lazy cat, the power can attract and repel in equal measure, and sometimes Cervere is forced to fight against monsters it was supposed to scare off. It’s a really clever power that makes ties this punk rock kitty together quite nicely.

@cstalli‘s Entry:

As beautiful as they are alien in appearance, the Trifitan Arum are a gorgeous entry in the contest (make sure to check out the original drawing, which is a lot prettier than anything I can manage). Though they appear humanoid, they’re entirely made of terrestrial (albeit hybridized and heavily mutated) plants. They’re also a swarming monster – weak individually, but strong when collected in a large group, making them sort of a benevolent counterpart to the Heisei Gyaos.

@profcene‘s Entry:

A prehistoric aquartic hyena, Gevlek is yet another monster that feels sort of like a Hanna Barbara design (and that is always a compliment here as far as monsters go). Contrary to stereotypes, Gevlek isn’t a malicious bully or a cowardly predator, but rather a social creature that wants a clan. Like most ATOM-verse monsters, though, he’s also kind of socially awkward, so finding that clan is harder than it seems – especially since he’s the only member of his species around. Still, he’s a clever creature, and, again like many of his peers, he proves a valuable ally once you get past his rough edges.

@ask-drakos‘s Entries:

There were far less birds than I was expecting in this contest, but on the plus side the ones we have are all varied and solid designs. Okhalee is a victim of quick kaijufication, much like the Myrmidants and Girtabane, which means he resembles a normal animal with some sudden and extreme mutations. Most notably, he takes the vocalizations that make songbirds so interesting and weaponizes them into a sonic scream – a power that’s strangely absent from ATOM’s lineup of kaiju given how prevalent it is in kaiju media. Kinda fills a couple missing niches at once, huh?

We end with Crab Voltron. Well, ok, technically Crustacean Voltron since they’re not all crabs, but Crab Voltron is more fun to write. It’s an appropriately weird idea to end with, I think, and like so many lunatic things in ATOM, this one is the fault of a mad scientist. And y’know what? It’s honestly not the weirdest thing mad scientists have done in this world. In fact, Crab Voltron is almost a logical response, and I love that.

And that’s it! That’s all 79 entries! I cannot overstate my satisfaction with the results of this contest. The amount of creativity on display her is astounding, and I absolutely adore how game you guys were for playing with my little monster story. Make sure to check out the originals, as linked to in this post, and stay tuned for the announcement of the winners and the presentation of prizes and all that! It should take me… oh, maybe a week or two?

“Why so long?” you ask. Well… look, this contest got roughly 4 times as many entries as I expected, and all of them are so high quality. I can’t limit myself to five winners - there have to be more, which means more work for me, which means I need some time to pull it off. So savor these sketches while you wait, because this might take a while.

#ATOM Create a Kaiju Contest #Atomic Time of Monsters #kaiju #giant monsters

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