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rayveewrites · 3 years

Text

So who wants to hear about my extremely weird Hermitcraft AU? Anyone? Too bad, I'm talking about it anyway and y'all can't stop me.

So, you know the fantasy trope of "an ancient super-advanced civilisation that disappeared off the face of the planet/went extinct due to hubris/got wiped out by a plague/etc"? Yeah. That.

...Let me explain.

In this case, the ancient civilisation was, in fact, Players. Players came in a variety of shapes, sizes, species, etc. Humans, Mob Hybrids, Werefolk, Cyborgs, Shapeshifters, assorted Halloween monsters, full-on robots, aliens, technically-not-aliens-but-basically-aliens... the list goes on. Now, what made someone a Player was never particularly well-defined due to sheer variety, but there were a few common threads. Players could break, pick up and place blocks, they could use chests, crafting tables and their own inventories, they could respawn in non-hardcore worlds, and they had a certain level of intelligence (about on par with, say, a human).

So, anyway. One of the most common threads were that Players- all Players- had access to magic. Typically this manifested in the form of inventories, crafting, being able to break/place solid 1m³ blocks, and, of course, enchanting, with Admin and Operator powers manifesting in various worlds for specific people. There were other forms of magic, of course, but learning those typically required (at minimum) a lot of study and/or a level of attunement to that particular branch of magic.

Players lived in communities, on worlds- in this AU, all the worlds were connected, but separated by the world borders. The various Hermitcraft worlds were some of these, as were 3rd Life and Legacy SMP and Hypixel and so on.

So, that's the worldbuilding preamble out of the way.

The worlds updated every now and then, and they added, tweaked and (occasionally) removed various mobs, blocks and mechanics. But this update, the Final Update... nobody's quite sure why, but it removed magic.

Not completely, of course. It set in slowly. Villagers no longer transformed when they were slain by zombies. The monsters of the night became less and less common. Portals became unreliable, until they eventually stopped working entirely. World borders started to fail (and I feel sorry for those unlucky enough to neighbour servers like 2b2t). Enchanting became more temperamental. Still, Players were adaptable. They could manage.

Until they couldn't. See, while Players had magic running through their systems, and had since the universe had existed, all of a sudden their children...didn't. The big problem was that most species- Hybrids, Werefolk, Spaeshifters, Aliens and not-exactly-aliens... their biology meant their children physically couldn't survive without magic. The one exception? Humans.

Already in the majority, humans were the only race who could still produce living children. But these children weren't Players. They had no inventories, no ability to use a crafting table or break a block with their bare fists like their forebears. They managed though, adapting and creating new ways to craft and smelt. And as time went on... they became the only ones left.

See, while Players were all long-lived, and capable of respawn, they did eventually experience the Final Death, from which there was no coming back (ignoring the occasional ghost, resurrection, or any necromancy-related shenanigans that were frankly extremely rare to begin with). And as time wore on, Players slowly died out, until all that were left were those who were Undying, and the Humans who weren't Players (it's worth mentioning that Immortals and Undying were two different peoples. Immortality was granted by the gods; when the gods faded, their gifts faded with them. Undying, on the other hand, were those who had experienced their Final Death but kept going. Undead beings, if you will). Undying could be killed, if their body was so badly maimed their soul had no choice to fly free, but not so badly they would just respawn; as Human societies developed, many Undead succumbed to this fate, either by choice or by force, acts done by fearful Humans.

Let's go forward, now.

It's been over two thousand years since the Players died out, and longer since the Final Update. There is only one world now, the world borders long forgotten. The Players are myths, legends; a mysterious race, now long gone, their builds crumbling to ruin. Nobody has encountered a zombie or creeper for millennia; the only spiders left are small and harmless, a far cry from the creatures once large enough for a skeleton to ride.

Archeologist study the ruins Players left behind. One city, Hermiton, was originally a camping ground for people to study the various ruins in the area; the crumbling remains of a vast monument, the stump of a tree larger than should ever have been possible, a gaping hole some claim leads to the centre of the Earth.

Near Hermiton lies a vast forest, beside the footprint of what had once been an immense mansion. The forest is a mixture of different species, most likely transplanted thousands of years ago. In that forest lives... something. A ghost? A spirit? a cryptid?

Whatever it is, it's not human. The locals claim she looks like a woman, with glowing eyes and long red hair. They call her the Green Lady, for the colour of her skin. They say her teeth are sharp, and that dark claws tip her fingers. They say her cheeks are hollow, her eyes are sunken- but that her gaze holds a fire no Human could hope to match. They say she lives in the forest, and that she is its guardian. They say that anyone who tries to chop down the trees, to clear the land, will face her wrath.

Outsiders will write this off as a modern-day folk tale, an urban myth. But believe it or not, there is something- someone- who dwells in the woods. Someone who brings those lost home. Someone who intercedes if there's danger. Someone who will run through the forest with a familiarity only born from centuries, millennia, of practice.

They don't know who she is. She's a guardian spirit. She's a ghost. Se's been there since the Ancients walked the land. They're not wrong about that last one. Once, she altered a sign planted by the one responsible for the enormous tree. Once, she had her arm sewn back on by the person who'd built the immense mansion. Once, she threatened the man who dug the vast hole, the one they say leads to the centre of the Earth.

She's a Player, the last one left. She's a zombie, the only one to still walk the Earth. She's alone. Once, she had a family, a home. She dwells near the ruins of that home, even now. Her kind, her kin; they're long gone. She's the only one to remain.

She waits for the day her family will return. It's written in the stars, in the fabric of the Universe. They will return. And she will be there, ready to greet them with open arms. For the Univers is kind. The Universe loves its Players.

Alone in the forest, ZombieCleo, Master of Puppets, the Undead and Undying, the Last Player, waits. She'll be there, when her family, her hermits, return.

Even if it takes another two thousand years.

#At some point this turned from a quick explanation to a full fic #jeez #I did go off #I dunno if I'll write any *actual* fics about this au #I'd like to though #It'd be about the return of the hermits #and there'd be some sort of calamity they'd ave to fight off or something #I don't know #It could also be a fun slice-of-life thing?#the hermits show up and just kinda have to...adjust to the New World #the human-looking ones learn the new language #(because languages change after two thousand years)#and try to assimilate #but it doesn't go very well #and some evil government folk try to capture them for study #but Players are just so hilariously OP it fails miserably #So they just kinda leave them be eventually #so there's like a <20-Player community living in the woods #and most of Hermiton knows about it but don't really talk about it #and these are the *hermits*#so obviously they don't stay there for long #They do their best to make the world a better place #and also build ridiculous megabuilds just because they can #maybe it'll connect to (my interpretation of) the Scattered AU #mostly because seadragonpulse lives rent-free in my brain #if anyone has any questions/ideas/additions etc feel free to contribute #I have a very in-depth world and Literally No Plot #hermitcraft AU #last player AU #Rayvee actually Writes

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rein-ette · 3 years

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A cleaner version of my previous ask 😅

Engport, babysitting (catsitting, plantsitting etc) or fire, please?

Oooookayyyy, so. I wrote...something. It's for the engport + fire prompt, but if I'm going to be completely honest it doesn't have anything that much to do with fire, though I swear I did come up with it because I was thinking about things related to fire. And this first part of it doesn't have much engport either, though there's certainly a lot of Port. It does have a cute small animal in it, if that's any consolation.

I do also have another idea for plantsitting, so I might write that at some point, but I didn't want to keep you waiting much longer so -- please accept my apologies and this fic that I can almost guarantee is not what you thought it was going to be.

Warnings: abuse of Greek mythology and one scene from Spirited Away. Also skulls. One skull. And I guess, death? But not really.

The realm of the dead was turning out to be a lot less crowded than Gabriel had expected. Since many mortals died every day, he had imagined that the banks of the river Styx would be crowded with souls, screaming or writhing or whatever spirits did in agony as they waited for their passage to the Underworld. Instead, Gabriel stood alone on what appeared to be a train platform, in the middle of a river so still he could easily see his own reflection in it, and so wide it might as well have been an ocean. Gabriel only knew it was a river because he could sense that the water was drawn to him like a curious child to pretty flower, responding to his immortal parentage. Unconsciously, Gabriel flexed his fingers and wondered if the steaming waters of the Styx would listen to him if he tried to command it. Probably not, and seeing as he was going to be knocking on the door of her master momentarily, Gabriel did not want to be introduced as that nephew who had angered the Goddess of Hatred the moment he had woken up in the Underworld.

Fat lot of good his powers had done him anyways, since he had died at sea.

Hadn't mother always told him the Oceanids were bad shit?

Sighing, Gabriel looked around again at his surroundings. He realized with no small amount of surprise that, while he had just been alone, now several shadowy figures stood with him on the platform, the edges of their figures melting in and out in the thick fog that rose from the waters around them. He tried to examine their faces to see if any of them were the spirits of his crewmates, but whenever he thought he could make out a feature their faces dissolved back into the fog. Exasperated, Gabriel glanced back at the river, noting with another jolt of surprise that now he could see the dark outline of a set of train tracks beside the platform, about half a meter underwater and stretching away into the blackness. Not long after he registered that, he heard the rumble of a train in the distance.

I suppose that's my ride, he thought to himself. The old myths said that Chiron ferried people on a boat across the Styx, but apparently the Industrial Revolution had come to the Underworld as well. Snorting at the thought, he dug in his pocket for his gold coin, which any good sailor always kept in case the ever-capricious ocean claimed them — even semi-immortal sons of river goddesses. Clearly, this was a good habit, because being semi-immortal had not saved Gabriel from that torpedo, which had reduced his poor ship to a lump of floating scrap metal before Gabriel could call up enough power to fill a water bottle, and, oh, all those poor soldier boys who would now never get a chance to die in a gruesome war and fulfill their heroic fates —

Gabriel could not find his coin. Frowning, he searched the front pockets of his admiral's tunic as well, even though he knew he had not kept it there. When that yielded nothing, he moved on to his back pant pockets, then his boots. For the first time since he had drowned in the icy cold Atlantic (which, admittedly, was not that long ago), Gabriel felt a shiver of true panic run through him. How would he board the train without his coin? How would he enter the Underworld? How would he join the ranks of the heroes in the Elysian Fields, where he belonged? Had he perhaps lost his coin when he had rushed to the railings to survey the damage on deck and was promptly dropped into the roaring Atlantic when a stray bit of flak from the exploding engine room tore clean through his right leg?

Now that he thought about it, that seemed likely.

At least he’d gotten his leg back.

The train slid to a rippling stop into front of him. With a soft swoosh, the doors opened, and Gabriel found himself staring at a man who, despite his smart train conductors uniform, could not have been anyone but Chiron, given that his face was a gleaming skull and his eyes literally balls of hellfire. It seemed the god had tried to update his aesthetic for the 20th century as well.

Chiron proffered to him a small wooden box, in which Gabriel could see several gold coins. Desperately digging through his pockets one last time, he finally shook his head. "I’m sorry, I don’t have the fare, I —"

The doors slid closed in his face, and immediately the train began to pull away.

Muttering a few choice curses, Gabriel stumbled a step away from the edge of the platform and watched as the train picked up speed and swooped away into the darkness.

Somehow, he doubted it would be returning to this station.

In the ensueing silence, Gabriel weighed his options. He could sit on this platform and mope, possibly for eternity. He could jump in the river and hope that his aunt either saved him or tore his soul into shreds from the agony. He could try walking along the rails in the direction the train had left, also possibly for the rest of eternity, in the hopes of reaching the entrance to the Underworld eventually.

Gabriel took off his shoes and chose the last option, despite feeling that sulking for the rest of eternity held a certain amount of appeal. He was very good at sulking. Nevertheless, he waded into the water at the end of the platform and found immediately that Hatred was lukewarm, not freezing cold like he had imagined — a nasty, suffocating lukewarm which swirled thickly around his thighs with the collected resentment, broken promises, lurid thoughts and heavens knew what else of millions of miserable souls.

He had feared the water might send him immediately into convulsions of unbearable pain or suck his consciousness right out of him, but as he continued along the track nothing remarkable occured. Perhaps the Styx had sensed his godly parentage and was protecting its kin. Or perhaps Gabriel had collected so much resentment in his long life that the river didn't even recognize him as a foreign body. Whatever the case, Gabriel held his shoes gingerly in one hand and sloshed on.

Quickly, he lost all sense of time, distance, or direction. It felt like he had barely taken two steps before the platform he left was swallowed by the fog, and the tracks underneath his feet curved and meandered like a small stream itself, without rhyme or reason. Gabriel realized that even if the water had not immediately destroyed him, he could not walk forever, and when he finally collapsed from exhaustion he would either be eaten by whatever dwelled in this wretched river or drown over and over in its depths until it dissolved him like a piece of wet toilet paper.

Still, he could not turn back. There was no hope even if he managed to return to the platform, and while a lesser man might have cowered in fear on dry land anyways, Gabriel had spent most of his twenty one centuries of life fighting and wandering across the oceans anyways. Wading through an infernal river until even his immortal soul crumbled into the waves — it seemed somehow like a fitting end.

To distract himself from his happy thoughts, he began to sing. At times it was just a wordless tune, but when he felt inspiration hit he added lyrics. He sang of his birth on the sun-kissed banks of the Douro, the eldest son of its beautiful immortal gaurdian and a local Roman nobleman. He sang of his siblings, not all of whom had inherited his mother's immortality, and he sang in particular of the one brother who did and accompanied him through the aching, bittersweet years that followed. He sang of the lands he had travelled, some bursting with life and colour, others stunning in their harsh, barren beauty. He sang of his lovers, the princes and the ladies, the soldiers and the nymphs and the humble farmhands whom he had courted, bed, and occasionally wed — but never to last, for mortal lives were but a flicker in the endless night and even the immortal ones could not tether down his heart for long. The stars called him, the waves called him, and Gabriel always, always answered.

He suppposed now, though, he had finally found his last resting place.

This thought was immediately followed by a less melancholic one: I didn't know polecats could swim.

Gabriel stopped singing and instead stood and watched as the little furry animal approached, paws paddling furiously as it slipped through the water. It stopped when it neared him and splashed around for a bit, before lifting its snout and looking pointedly at Gabriel, its dark eyes gleaming and intelligent.

Gabriel hadn't known that polecats could give pointed looks, either.

He cupped his hands and extended them to the animal, which immediately scrambled on and promptly snuggled up in his palms, curling into a little content ball. Unable to hold back a smile, he stroked its slick, midnight fur with a thumb, marvelling at how soft and warm it was and how docile it seemed.

Well, he thought, at least I still sing well enough to seduce a polecat.

"You've seduced more than just a polecat, that's for sure," someone muttered.

-- part 2 is here --

#hws portugal #engport #hws england #i swear he's in it #i swear #if the last one was barely a drabble this one definitely isn't #i'll post the second half when i'm done and the whole thing on AO3 when i have a title #speaking of which please suggest titles if you have them #sorry again needcake this...has no fire #not in this part at least #it actually has a lot of water now that i think about it #why can't i follow instructions smh #anyways #fic

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hyperfixationtimego · 3 years

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Alright we’re trying this angst thing again

Diamond Brothers Angst because I said so

Both Daiya and Mondo have huge self esteem issues bc of the crash

Both think stuff along the lines of what the fuck I could have prevented that

Neither Daiya nor Mondo can sleep very well because when they hear vehicles driving past and the occasional screeching tires they’re back at the scene of the accident

They hear a semi truck rumbling past? Suddenly neither of the brothers remember how to move or breathe properly

They both survived the crash but they were both injured severely bc fuck dude that was a truck that hit them

The Crazy Diamonds witnessed the whole thing and they were Worried™️

And we all know how the Owadas hate being vulnerable

Neither of the brothers could actively ride their motorcycles for a long time after the crash because they couldn’t handle it emotionally

They played off their mental recovery time as time in the hospital

Daiya made Mondo promise not to get back on his motorcycle, much less the road, until he was 100% sure that he was prepared to handle it because what if there’s another freak accident that neither of them have control over

Mondo made Daiya promise the exact same thing because He Cares™️

Mondo has reoccurring nightmares about the crash and often sees Daiya dead in those nightmares

The gang shows up in the nightmares too and they’ve all been hit and it’s all Mondo’s fault and he couldn’t be a good leader because he wasn’t strong enough and why couldn’t he just be more like his brother god fucking dammit

Sometimes he sees Taka or Chihiro in place of Daiya and the Diamonds and that Absolutely Terrifies Him™️

Daiya has reoccurring thoughts about hijacking a truck to hit the driver who hurt him and his little brother

He wants them to feel all the same pain and more that they put the Diamond Brothers through

Daiya has breakdowns over this because even if he is a gang leader, he would not go that far

cue the Am I A Bad Person Complex™️

Mondo does not let himself stim

He doesn’t think it’s manly and it definitely doesn’t fit the Tough Guy™️ act

This leads to worsened focus and next thing you know he and Daiya are having a yelling match at home because if Mondo’s grades drop any lower he’ll be expelled soon and Daiya just wants the best for his brother but nothing works out the way it was planned

One time Mondo received a popsicle stick and paper heart from Taka

He was extremely happy

When he got back to his dorm he was that happy that he was shaking and then oh shit

Mondo broke it

He snapped the popsicle sticks in half

the note that Taka wrote,, it got ripped in the process

Mondo full on sobbed over this for an hour at the least

Actual

Real

Tears

He broke something that Taka— not just his bf, but his best friend— had worked so hard on to make just for him and he fucking broke it like a shit for brains idiot

Mondo is terrified of hurting his friends

Because what if he forgets to take his adhd meds one day and his emotional dysregulation is all fucked up and he has an outburst again and actually hurts his friends

Or what if he takes 2+ doses by accident and focuses too hard and is left staring at one (1) spot and everyone hates him and what if they think he’s a creep

Mondo hates going out of his dorm at night because what if someone else is out and they have a flashlight and now they’re pointing it at him and it’s bright and those are headlights and that’s

that’s his brother

on the ground

not moving

Mondo will start shaking and he’ll break down hyperventilating or freeze on the spot

Either way, he hates being vulnerable

Whaddaya think? :D was that enough angst?

also can you tell that i kin Daiya on the dl bc i too got hit by a moving vehicle to save my young mer sibling from being hit /lh but also srs lmfo

HEY TINK??? HEY TINK????????

GodDAMN make me cry over this shit oKAY-

also sorry this took ✨forever✨ I had to gather my Thoughts™️ and my brain did not want to work today 😌

also before we get into my things, tw for trauma (obviously), unhealthy coping mechanisms, underage smoking/drug relapse/smoking as a crutch, and suicidal ideation (passive, but still there)

First of all, y e a h oh my god?? There is literally so much internalized guilt for both of them,,,,,like they rlly do have episodes sometimes where they just. Play over the events of what lead up to the crash in their heads and fixate on what they could have done differently,,,,,even though in the moment they both did their best? Like “well, I shouldn’t have taken us down this street” or “if I had acted quicker, maybe it wouldn’t have happened” and.....yeah those thoughts really fuck with them, y’know?

and 100% that unexpected/overwhelming vehicle noises and/or presences are nearly debilitating. Honestly, I imagine that Mondo can’t go hang out with Leon and Taka or whoever else if said people are hanging out in Kaz’s workshop. Owada’s only ever been in there once and immediately had to leave when he heard Kazuichi starting an engine he was working on. Not to mention being surrounded by a shit ton of vehicles, even if they were idle, had kept him on-edge the entire thirty seconds he was able to handle it.

They both deal with a lot of phantom pain, as well. Like something triggers them and suddenly, even if they’re able to remain in the moment and keep conscious of their surroundings, they somehow feel every ache, every twinge of pain, every breaking bone, or bruised patch of skin that they felt on that day. It’s a lot more prominent in Daiya than it is with Mondo, but they do both experience it!

And neither one lets the other know when they’re feeling like shit or having an episode because 😌 Daiya. wants to be strong. for his little brother. and Mondo. sees his brother basically functioning like a typical person. and figures that there’s something wrong with him. because he can’t get over what happened.

Takemichi is absolute shit with Emotions and being vulnerable or getting people to open up to him, but he’s like..........internally these bitches are Not Okay what the fuck am I supposed to do about it???? So he kind of...tries to hint to both of them that he’s worried? Without making it obvious or embarrassing them, but he’s like.......fuck these assholes.......making me be the one to make them realize they need help goddamnit........

And michi exhibiting a change in behavior is pretty 👀 because. it’s michi I mean he’s not just gonna change the way he talks in front of u for nothing, u know? So both Daiya and Mondo are actually able to pick up on it, although their reactions differ pretty greatly.

Like Daiya’s first thought is “wow, he’s worried, that’s really sweet of him. Better convince him everything’s okay.”

Meanwhile Mondo’s is “wow, he’s worried. my stupid emotional turmoil is that obvious. he must think I’m some sorta fuckin idiot for not being able to get over it. or selfish. or both. yeah, probably both.”

Also I think Daiya’s pretty perceptive in general? Like he can Tell™️ that something’s going on with his brother, but........yeah emotional conversations....vulnerability......that’s rlly neither of their strong suits. + he also figures that if it were something mondo were really really really having trouble with, he would come talk to him!

And so Daiya has absolutely no concept of just how Not Good his brother is doing right now hbbvvvv

So he settles for being like “I’m just gonna stay strong and act like the memories and intrusive thoughts aren’t affecting me in any way because I want to be a good role model” (which. is not healthy obv)

oh g o d the nightmares

they are so horrible and vivid and concentrated at times that Mondo simply.....refuses to sleep. He’s exhausted, both mentally and physically, and yet he can’t bring himself to close his eyes because he knows what he’ll see if he does.

And of course it affects him to the point that his friends start to become worried. Like Taka notices a stark increase in tardiness or general absences, and, after an initial assumption that it was simply Mondo choosing not to care about his academics again, realized that there was probably a lot more going on than he realized. He really, really wanted to bring it up and let his boyfriend know that he’ll always be there for him no matter what, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to articulate it properly. The farthest he gets is with the question, “is everything okay?”

And as much as Mondo wants to respond to him by saying that no, in fact, everything is not okay, everything sucks and everything hurts and he’s tired and he hates himself and sometimes he wishes that the crash had killed him, but that’s selfish so he should shut up- he just.....can’t bring himself to open himself up like that. Yes, he and Ishi are dating, so logically he should be able to tell him all this, but.....it’s so much. It’s too much. Too much to think, too much to feel, let alone try to explain. So he shuts himself up with a quick, curt, “Yeah.”

And....Taka knows he’s lying. He’s not sure how he knows, but he does. And it hurts to see someone he loves so much in such a state of anguish, and basically be unable to do anything about it because....how is he supposed to respond? What is he supposed to say? Navigating everyday interaction is difficult enough without having to improv something that could affect his partner’s mental health indefinitely. So....he does his best. Which isn’t enough, really, but it’s something.

“You can tell me anything.”

Mondo wants to believe him.

—

Another side of that same coin is Mondo skipping class a lot more than is typical for him. It’s almost always with Leon, but he’s also begun slipping away on his own, occasionally, as well, now.

And....y’know, at first, Leon thought it was super rad that Owada and he were skipping more! Like it used to be that Kuwata would offer for them to miss the next class, and Mondo’s usual answer would be ‘not today,’ and then Leon would keep bugging him about it until Mondo either gave in or told him to fuck off.

But....there’s just something about how it went from Leon being constantly shut down, to being told yes around the first few times the idea was brought up, to how, suddenly, Kuwata wasn’t even the one asking, anymore. It’s....depressing? Uncomfortable?

There’s also the fact that hanging out while they’re cutting just....isn’t as fun as it used to be? Leon’ll crack jokes or come up with stupid dares, and Mondo’s responses will be noncommittal at best. And Leon’s had enough experience with sleep deprivation to know it in his friends when he sees it.

He’s never been put in this situation before - usually it’s kuwata having some sort of stupid episode and usually it’s owada who’ll tell him to chill the fuck out and think rationally about things, but....Mondo acts a lot different when he’s upset than Leon does. He smokes more. Cuts himself off from everyone. Doesn’t engage with anything.

It’s different with people like Toko, or Makoto, or Kaz, because Leon knows what they need. He knows whether or not they need vulnerability, or a physical presence, or tough love, or tactile grounding, or a willing ear or shoulder to cry on, but with Mondo......he just isn’t sure.

So Leon doesn’t comment.

——-

Chihiro’s probably the one to get him to open up about it ngl.

ANYWAY-

y e a h Daiya intrusive thoughts?????? fuck yeah???? absolutely??????

god yeah I rlly feel him on that ngl hbhdbdbdbbb

and MONDO DARLING 🥺

god okay it SUCKS because????? he doesn’t judge his friends for stimming????? Like he sees his friends fidgeting or repeating phrases or rocking back and forth and he’s like???? Hell yeah you go u funky kid ilysm

But when it comes to himself????? he’s like if I do anything aside from stay perfectly still, I’m weird and bad and a failure so I simply Will Not

he’s wrong but it doesn’t change the fact that he feels that way ❤️

hhhvhvvdd I’m also a slut for daiya doing his best as a makeshift parental figure,,,,,,,like fuck dude okay,,,,,,as an older sibling who also loves and cares about their younger sibs but often finds emotionally connecting with them to be difficult,,,,,,,,,mood??? And having all of that amplified by rlly being his younger bro's only support in his home life,,,,,,,like ok mr. owada go off

he feels a lot of pressure to get it right and make sure that Mondo's doing okay, so the grades really worry him. but, of course, grades are a touchy subject with mondo regardless, so as u said it devolves into arguments and yelling and a lot of defensiveness!!

and god okay,,,,,,,the heart rlly got me,,,,,,,like that hurt. it rlly hurt man okay damn

honestly??? I think that might be the thing that gets him to break. like that might be his final straw.

because when they meet up again, Ishi asks him about it and whether or not he liked it. And Mondo just.

fucking.

breaks.

down.

He’s shaking and he’s crying and there’s snot running down his nose and this is so ugly and so not manly but he can’t stop. he can’t stop. Because there is this sweet, gentle, kind, sweet, beautiful, darling, sweet man before him who did something so nice for him, something he didn’t deserve, and he destroyed it.

Like he destroys everything.

And so when Taka panics and asks him what’s wrong (yes Ishi gets worried that he did something bad and yes ishi also gets worried that his boyfriend didn’t like the present because hdbdvdvd kin 💛) owada just. spills everything. and he doesn’t even begin with the gift??? he starts with apologies upon apologies, many of them incoherent, and many of them with Mondo not even certain what he’s apologizing for, just that he knows he needs to

and ofc Taka is like o-o because wow ok

but after his initial shock, and after Mondo has thoroughly cried himself out and explained everything he could stand to explain at that point in time, Taka just......holds him. And strokes his face, brushing away the tears that have not yet dried, simply offering his body as a weight, as something for Mondo to ground himself with. And it works.

And Taka insists that Mondo has nothing to apologize for, only that he wishes Mondo would have told him what was going on sooner. Because he wants to help. And hearing that just gets Owada’s waterworks going all over again, but he’s still got Ishi there with him. He hasn’t scared him off.

And it’s more than enough.

—

and UGH yeah????? yes absolutely absolutely okay okay so,,,,,,,,mondo comorbid adhd/depression/anxiety

like sir 🤝

got me fucked up smh

honestly he’s probably not diagnosed with the depression or anxiety, either, until something like the incident with ishi prompts him to realize oh wow I’m not okay actually

so yes he 100% does???

he constantly has all of these what if situations swirling around in his brain about what might happen if he fucks up, or does something that he doesn’t qualify as fucking up in the moment, but leads to something awful or painful or harmful for someone else, and he’s just??????? g o d

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sea-and-storm · 3 years

Text

BETTER WITH AGE : Ghoa Mankhad

PROMPT : Describe your muse at ages 20, 40, and 60!

Tagged by @afreesworn, so blame her for this rambly bit of quasi-prose because when I saw this meme, it decided to live stubbornly rent-free in my head until I finally sat down and wrote it out. But it's late and I'm rusty, so excuse the inevitable clunky writing and weird stream-of-consciousness rambling. x:

Also I haven't been on tumblr in a hot minute and I'm probably gonna go on a meme spree here soon so I'll spare people from a tagfest since I have no idea who has or hasn't done these. :T

So uh, if you see this and wanna do it, just.. consider yourself tagged!

-- AGE 20 . . .

At age twenty, Ghoa is only just gaining her first true taste of freedom. It hasn't been long since she left the Steppe behind, fleeing a life of violence and oppression at the mercy of others' cruel whims.

Kugane is still very much a foreign land to her, equal parts terrifying and intoxicating. It is a city whose lifeblood is the trading of koban, unlike the bartering and trading -- and the taking by force -- that is prevalent in the lands she calls -- no, called her home.

Even more awkward to her is the earning of coin; but for that problem, there is an unexpected solution. Her name is Ino, a hyuran native of the land Ghoa now finds herself in. The only things that come more easily to her than her usual cocksure grins are the coins that she seems to have a knack for getting her fingers on. She readily takes the wayward Xaela under her wing, and together they begin to dream of schemes to turn their lives around. Gods know they both deserve it after the difficulties they've both already lived through.

At twenty, Ghoa doesn't yet know that this relationship born of mutual survival will soon grow into something more. Friendship. Companionship. Love. She's even less aware that the same relationship that pulled her up from the darkness of the past will end in yet more tragedy. She's blissfully unaware of the scars that this loss will one day leave behind, an invisible guilt that would linger with her for many, many long years to come no matter how hard she tries to outrun it.

As for the Storm? There have certainly been times in her twenty years that she has felt the itch of electricity arc across her palms, aching to be released. Yet she has kept it pushed deep down, kept tightly under control. Her upbringing has led her to fear the power born to her. Rather than continue to train to control it, she opts instead to push it down, push it away. It rumbles like darkened clouds on a distant horizon, the occasional faint but harmless rumble of thunder carried upon the winds. That rumble begs for her to let it loose, to let the rains and winds and lightning break free around her. Instead, she turns a blind eye, pretending not to hear its pleading as she looks towards what she hopes to be a sunny future.

-- AGE 40 . . .

At age forty, Ghoa has gone through a gamut of changes that she never could have anticipated.

She has loved and lost, and she has blamed herself for it. She's roamed far and wide, half searching for a place that she might call 'home' and half attempting -- without success -- to outrun the ghosts of the past. Her life has turned towards the dark, towards the selling of illicit potions and dangerous poisons and the ever-profitable trade of secrets. She has become a creature of hedonism and selfishness, closing her heart towards those around her and putting her own needs and whims above all else. She has finally learned what it seems her earlier years had perhaps been trying to teach her all along: that the joys of the world belong only to those strong enough and clever enough to climb upon the backs of others to grasp them. And she has vowed never to let another climb upon her in their own pursuit ever again.

It would have been easy for her to continue down this path, to continue down it until nigh impossible to turn back. Yet within these twenty years, chance has once again placed someone in her path that would radically change her life's trajectory. Rather, she met several someones. She calls them friend, lover, kin.. but most of all, at age forty, she calls them family. Blood or not, she has come to share a deep and profound bond with each of them.

Through them and their various trials and tribulations, she has come to see that she was wrong. Joy is not the sole providence of those who seize it by force of will. It belongs to those whose backs have been tred upon, yet still rise up from the darkness -- often with one another's help -- time and again. It belongs to those who refuse to give into despair and anger and bitterness, no matter how tempting. It belongs to those who are strong enough to allow themselves to be vulnerable and feel, rather than closing themselves off to everything and everyone around them.

At age forty, Ghoa can say without hesitancy or reservation that she is surrounded by those she cares for and whom care for her in turn. In coming to love them, she's come to love herself. Most of all, she has learned that her 'home' is not a physical place. It exists at a table full of drinks and raucous laughter. It exists in a conversation first awkward and quickly turned warm from a man who is at once unknown and yet achingly familiar to her. It exists wrapped in strong arms, even as tears well in her eyes and her clutching fingers are reluctant to ever let go.

Home is where she can be with those she loves, and perhaps that yet undiscovered realization is why Ghoa has been so very restless her entire life.

These past twenty years have yielded to her one more life-altering realization: that she can no sooner deny the Storm within her than she can deny her very self. It runs in her blood, electrifies her soul. Suppressing it is suppressing herself and, after all, had Ghoa not long ago vowed never to allow herself to be suppressed again?

Though the reunion has been long in the making, Ghpa's bond with the Storm feels like catching up with a long lost friend. At times, it is awkward and uncomfortable and even explosive. Others, they are in perfect harmony with one another. Regardless, Ghoa no longer winces at the rumbling skies as they approach, but looks instead with eagerness as the wind and rain begin to whip around her. Her breath hitches in excitement with each flash of lightning and roaring peal of thunder. They're discovering each other all over again after so long apart, and it will take time.. But it is a start that Ghoa has eagerly made.

-- AGE 60 . . .

At age sixty, Ghoa has begun to show the ravages of time. Her hair, once the color of breaking waves, has darkened and faded in vibrancy over the years. Lines have begun to form at her eyes and at the edges of her smile; their initial coming, of course, much to her dismay. Yet for what she has traded in youthful beauty, she's gained in poise. There's a certain air she keeps, a wisdom and a knowing sense that has come from a long life full of the lowest lows and the highest highs, from a life lived well and to its fullest.

She looks back now on the past six decades and sees all the past versions of herself with renewed clarity and understanding. The scared young woman just trying to survive the cruel hand dealt to her. The one who at one turn felt hope and love for the first time, and then just as quickly replaced both with guilt and self-loathing. The woman who convinced herself that she was better off putting herself above all others, caring not for who she hurt in the process. And yet, there is also the woman who found herself caring so much for those around her that she would fling herself into the face of danger to protect them at a moment's notice.

Ghoa looks back on these women now and realizes there was no one single point at which she became herself. She is the sum of all the parts of her life, both bitter and sweet. Even the worst moments of her life, she realizes now, eventually lead to change -- growth -- within herself. Though.. perhaps not in a linear fashion, as Ghoa was ever wont to stumble along the way. But with that realization now comes acceptance, peace, and healing. For the first time, she is able to look back at her years without picking out all the parts she wishes she could change.

Now at sixty, Ghoa has likely lost some of those she cares for along the way, gone but never forgotten nor less loved. Yet as always, the Storm within remains her most constant companion. Gone are the days where she fears its power or it roars out of her grasp unbidden. There is a mutual respect and understanding between them, and with that comes a power she never knew.

Once as a girl, Ghoa watched as Elder Unegen called lightning down from the sky upon herself and walked away not only whole, but embraced by arcing jolts of electricity curling protectively around her until she released them back unto the sky. She doubted back then that she could ever be so powerful. Yet now, Ghoa has not only performed the same feat, but she has done so in front of the next generation of Stormcallers. She will fill them with awe at what is possible, and she will guide them with a gentle but firm hand as any Elder Stormcaller aught now that she has come full circle and returned to the very tribe in which her long story began.

#ghoa mankhad #restless seas #HOO BOY IM RUSTY WITH WRITING #i should have went back and edited but #it's almost midnight #yolo or smth #ffxiv rp #balmung #crystal rp

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tenthgrove · 3 years

Text

L’Inizio- A La Squadra Backstory Collection

Chapter 2: Dove La Mia Passione Mi Porta (Prosciutto)

Word count: ~3300

Warnings: parental illness, parental death, parental rejection, implied transphobia, drinking

Don Crepuscolo flicks idly through the corner of a book as he sits in his study. His mind filters out the occasional clatter of footsteps on the upper floor of his Neapolitan mansion- the maid, most likely, as well as the visiting capos he permitted a tour of the bedrooms, to get them out of his face for a while until the meeting scheduled later in the afternoon.

The middle-aged don jolts at the sight of the young man in his doorway, having approached the office quiet as a snake with no disturbance to the man’s wavering focus. Crepuscolo collects himself, joyed with recognition of the figure come to see him.

“Maiale! Daughter!” Crepuscolo greets. He opens his arms and beckons the young man to embrace him. Hands folded, he approaches quietly, and seats himself a distance opposite the desk.

“Hello, father,” Prosciutto speaks apathetically.

“Maiale, my dear, hello! I believe this is the first chance you’ve given me to congratulate you on the excellent results you’ve achieved on your examinations. Truly, I knew in my heart you’d do me proud,” the don praises. Prosciutto glances out the window.

“Yes, a pity your mouth did not agree with you until now,” he utters.

“No matter, no matter! What truly pleases me with your visit is that, well, you’ve simply been away on your- little celebrations so much this last month I’ve barely had any chance to see you! I really must know, what are your arrangements for your future now the necessary grades have been secured?”

Prosciutto takes a deep breath. He pushes a little dirt from under his nails and, after a few more moments, speaks. “As you know, it has always been my intention to go onto university.”

“Yes, yes, you had your eye on a place in Milan, last I checked.”

“No, Florence,” Prosciutto refutes him. “But anyway, I simply intend to go where my passion takes me.” Crepuscolo leans forward. He smiles.

“Practical and so assured, yet with a distinct streak for adaptability and the eclectic. Some things never change, do they Maiale?”

“No father, perhaps not.”

“Clearly. Now be a good girl and answer the question I asked you,” the don demands, gritting his teeth. Staring blankly, Prosciutto uncrosses his legs.

“Well father, the first thing I’m going to do is disown you,” he announces. Crepuscolo stutters in shock. “Disown?! But Maiale! How would you even do such a ludicrous thing?!”

“The normal way,” Prosciutto responds calmly. “I’ve been able to track down a lawyer. The same one who handled Mother’s will, incidentally, and begin the process of removing you as my next of kin and transferring it over to Signora Loreta. I have relinquished you of all obligations to me, and mine to you.”

“Have I taught you nothing, girl?” Crepuscolo snaps. “I am your father. I allowed you to live in this wonderful house, and paid for your tutoring and clothes, and let you live in luxury while half the children in this city wallow in the streets. You will never be free of obligation to me!”

“And as you were doing all that, you also threw your one year old son out into those streets the children wallow in!” Prosciutto retorts, his voice finally beginning to raise. “It is only right you should receive the same level of regard from your children, Don Crepuscolo.”

“But I always treated you well, Maiale!” the father insists. Prosciutto clenches his fists, and scowls.

“You left me alone at my dying mother’s bedside, while you were off in The Caribbean, with a girl half your age! If that doesn’t free me of any and all moral obligation to you, THEN WHAT DOES?!” he shouts. Don Crepuscolo goes quiet, then grips his desk in anger. Prosciutto gives his father a curt nod, and stands up, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. He turns his back on his father.

“You will have no penny of my wealth!” the don yells. Prosciutto turns around. The corner of his mouth flickers into a brief smirk.

“Nor would I ever ask for it. Mother’s lawyer and I had other discussions, regarding the specific terms of her inheritance. As he advised me, the criteria laid out for taking charge of her fortune myself could be fulfilled as simply as presenting my graduation certificate to the relevant parties. Since the clauses regarding my personal, direct inheritance were filed under a separate executer to the rest of her testament, you father, have no role in their fulfilment. My request to the bank is being processed as we speak,” Prosciutto explains. “So, I will make my position very clear. You are a sinking ship, and I do not need, nor intend, to be around when the engine blows. Goodbye, Don Crepuscolo!”

Prosciutto makes his way to the door. As he reaches for the latch, Don Crepuscolo smashes down on his desk.

“MAIALE!”

“Do NOT call me that!” Prosciutto screams. His body goes still, eyes wide. He gathers himself and storms out, grabbing the last of his bags outside the door and sprinting for the mansion’s back exit.

::::::::::::

Prosciutto steps off of the bus and strolls along the concrete pavement, towards the little white cottage at the end of the road. Setting his suitcase down on the porch, he knocks quietly on the door. He receives no response.

“Loreta!” he calls. “Signora? It’s only me! May I come in please?” An eager patter of footsteps approaches him. The door swings open.

“Prosciutto!” The woman greets eagerly. She is younger than she perhaps ought to be, not even a decade older than Prosciutto and with an appearance of perhaps less than that. Her thick, green hair is tied out the way at the back of her head, and Prosciutto notes the impracticality of her pink and brown jumper in the summer sun. “Oh Prosciutto,” she coos, bringing her hands to her mouth in joy. “Your voice, it’s wonderful!”

“Is it?” Prosciutto remarks, startled. “I didn’t think it had changed much yet. Father certainly didn’t notice, not that that’s a bad thing.”

“The don never did pay much attention, did he? Well, it certainly sounds like progress to me, so you should be proud of yourself, Prosci. Now, come in, come in!” she urges him, taking my the wrist and leading him to the house’s small kitchen. “So, tell me what you and your father talked about. I know you were very anxious about seeing him. Did you... take the big step?”

At that moment a young boy bounds in from the hallway, flinging himself at Prosciutto with open arms. “Fra!” the child shouts excitedly. Prosciutto picks him up and holds him.

“Hello Pesci, how are you doing, eh?” Prosciutto greets him. The young boy babbles something incoherently and bites his knuckles. Loreta gives a little laugh and takes her son from his brother’s arms.

“Pesci’s doing great, thank you. He’s settling into the new daycare and making a couple friends,” she announces, putting him down on the ground.

“Wonderful,” Prosciutto remarks with a smile. He leans down to address the child. “Now Pesci, why don’t you go play in your room for a minute. Let your mother and I discuss some business. If you’re good, I’ll take you to the park afterwards,” he promises. Pesci nods and hobbles back to his bedroom. Prosciutto sighs and stands up, turning back to face Loreta.

“Yes, I told my father I don’t want a relationship with him any more,” Prosciutto affirms. “He took it... poorly, but I believe he understands that I can’t be stopped. I shouldn’t be seeing much of him any more.”

“Congratulations. That was very brave of you, Prosciutto, and very good. Hopefully this will make things much easier for you from now on,” Loreta praises him.

“Yes, it very much will. I don’t have to worry about him finding my pills any more, and I’m looking into getting my first surgery before the end of the year.”

“That will be excellent for you! Changing the subject, you’ll have to remind me, my memory’s completely gone! What is it you’re planning on studying?” Loreta enquires.

“Politics, with a little literature on the side,” he answers.

“Politics? Do you plan to work with theory or practice?”

“Theory, god, never practice. If I tried that, father really might send an assassin out for me. I’m hoping to go into journalism, or something of the sort, though eventually I want to veer back into academia. I think it would suit me.”

“Definitely!” Loreta enthuses. “You could do anything you put your mind to Prosci!”

“I can only try. Now, your attention please,” Prosciutto says, whipping out a slip of paper from his pocket and places it down on the table. “I’ve done some maths. With the amount I’m getting from the inheritance, I can up what I’m giving you to 1 million lire a month, all the way up until Pesci turns 19. This is excluding a little extra to help with university costs, as well as some flexibility for you to take more in an emergency, say, if you ever lose your job. What do you think?”

“Prosciutto... I could never take from your mother’s money, it just wouldn’t be right,” Loreta refutes him.

“You were young, Loreta, you didn’t understand what you were doing. Believe me when I say that if my mother were here, she’d forgive you. Besides, father didn’t throw you out as his mistress, he threw you out as his wife. You deserve this money, Loreta, and I’m going to give it to you,” Prosciutto insists.

“It isn’t right,” Loreta repeats sadly. “Horrible thing, what happened to that woman. To just waste away for years on end while your husband prances around with some... girl. I should never benefit from that suffering. If I ever get sick like that, Prosciutto, just pull the plug. Pull the plug.”

Prosciutto sighs.

“If not for you, then take it for Pesci. Regardless of how she felt about you, I know my mother would never approve of any child living in poverty, especially not one I call my brother. Take it for him, please,” he begs her.

“Alright...” Loreta concedes. “I suppose I do really need it. Thank you, Prosciutto, it means a lot to me.”

“It’s what you deserve. Now, you’ve got your money, and I’ve got my freedom, and it’s all thanks to my mother’s will,” Prosciutto begins, pouring out two glasses of brandy from the cabinet. He sits down at the table. “To Signora Crepuscolo, for both our salvations.”

Loreta smiles and raises her glass, before drinking. Pesci returns from the hallway, and she quickly hides the glass and bottle behind her torso.

“What’s the matter darling, are you having fun?” she asks.

“I wanna play with Fra!” the boy insists.

“I suppose we’re done here anyway,” Prosciutto concedes. “Shall we?”

“I’ll just get Pesci’s coat,” Loreta agrees. She hurries off into the hall.

::::::::::::

A mere street away from the young family, a group of youths gather in the abandoned office. The youngest of the boys, a slender young man of 17, with raven hair and a hateful eye looks around the group critically as he shuffles on his feet.

“I’m in the right place aren’t I?” he asks. “Cause right now I feel like I’m either here to play tag or get stabbed, and neither of those is what I was called in for.”

“Depends,” one of the other boys says. “Are you Sorbet?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Matteo, I’m in charge here. I’m the one your pay’s been coming from,” the group’s leader explains. Sorbet looks him up and down and sees a sad, dishonest looking man only a few years older than him. It’s clear this boy isn’t actually where the buck stops rolling in this sad little street gang of theirs, but the fact Sorbet hasn’t been attacked yet tells him the boy’s story is at least close enough to the truth to trust what he’s about to say. He decides to hear him out. “I’ve heard a lot about you. ‘Said you’re good with your fists and better with a gun. Is that true?”

“That’s correct,” Sorbet says with a smirk.

“What is it you do right now? Errands?” Matteo asks.

“Mostly. Though lately I just do whatever’s needed. I guard meet-ups, deal with troublemakers-”

“Yes, that’s what we’re here to talk about,” Matteo interrupts. “Word is, you’re good at it. How would you feel about... maybe doing a little more than beating them up for a change?”

“You want me to kill someone? Done. The pay better be good though,” Sorbet agrees unconcerned.

“Oh, it will be. But what if I wanted you to kill multiple people? What if, you became the guy I call when I want someone killed?” Matteo proposes.

“I’m up for it, but I’d want to know why. Why’s a group like us suddenly need a massive hit list?”

“Opportunity,” Matteo answers. “It’s not that we’ve got a hit list, just that we might be able to afford one at some point in the future. “With Crepuscolo and his lot on his way out, it’s only a matter of time until we can come out of the shadows.”

“Ambitious. What makes you think we’ve got the manpower to usurp them?”

“Maybe we don’t, but we’re hoping whoever does will let us do what we want a little more. You know?”

“Passione, I imagine,” Sorbet surmises. The others nod in agreement.

::::::::::::

It is January of 1989 and Prosciutto is freshly 24. His diploma hangs over the wall of his lounge, above his typewriter and an array of open books. He pours a glass and relaxes, sitting back against the comfortable expanse of his settee. He takes a sip of red wine and flicks through his calender. Loreta will be visiting tomorrow with Pesci, and Prosciutto is looking forward to it very much. Supposedly, Pesci learned to ride his bike the other day, and he’s eager for the two to go out together.

Prosciutto feels he deserves a bit of a celebration. His last article, by all early measurements, performed very well, and there’s talk of promoting him among the newspaper agency. If all goes to plan, he might not need to rely on his mother’s inheritance for much longer. Perhaps, he might even be able to buy Loreta a new house. Pesci could use the space now he’s bigger.

Someone knocks at the door frantically. Prosciutto gets up cautiously, conscious of how incredibly late it is for someone to be looking for him. The knock rings out again, louder this time, and Prosciutto reaches for the door of the living room.

There’s a mighty crash, and several footsteps rush into the front room. Prosciutto rushes for the drawer to get his gun, always a good thing to have when you’re the estranged son of a crime boss. He aims it readily as the living room door is bashed open.

Four men, armed to the teeth, spill into the sitting room. They aim their weapons at Prosciutto, held back seemingly only by the warning hand of their leader. The man looks down at the photograph in his hand, and back up at Prosciutto.

“I take it you don’t go by Maiale any more.”

“No, but thanks for checking. Why the hell are you in my house?” Prosciutto demands.

“You are the eldest child of the late Don Crepuscolo, yes?” the man asks. Prosciutto lowers his gun.

“Why do you say late?”

“Your father was executed by order of our boss, yesterday evening. Depending on the course of this conversation, you may or may not be joining him,” the man explains. “Now kindly drop the gun.”

Prosciutto complies.

“We’re from Passione, if you didn’t know,” adds one of his companions. “They said you were a journalist, so I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the war that went on,” he notes.

“I... try to avoid covering stories related to the syndicates,” Prosciutto explains. His heart is hammering at a million miles an hour. This feels surreal, dream-like, but deep down Prosciutto knows it’s very, very real.

“Long story short,” the leader continues. “If you want to survive, it will be in Passione’s debt. Gotta make sure the boss can keep an eye on you after all. Now come on, you and I are going to get into the car. Sorbet, Gelato, go upstairs and take anything of value.”

“What? You’re taking my stuff?” Prosciutto protests. The leader shrugs.

“You got it all from your parents, didn’t you? We own all your parents assets now. That makes it ours.”

As Prosciutto stares dumbstruck, two young men with interlinked arms head up the stairs. His stairs, his house. He stand’s defenceless as the groups leader grabs him by the wrist.

“And by the way, Crepuscolo, we know about your brother. Just in case you were planning on making a run for it at any point.”

Prosciutto Crepuscolo is compliant as he is dragged from his home. Driven away in the backseat of his captor’s car, he watches helplessly as his house is burnt to the ground.

::::::::::::

“My father’s house didn’t last long either,” Prosciutto adds. His audience, consisting of one attentive Risotto Nero, and the passed out body of Gelato over the back of the sofa, remain quiet. “They knocked it down the other year. I’m sure you would have seen the construction work.”

“Yes, I think I recall that,” Risotto answers.

“Now here I am, second-in-command to the brand new assassination squad. Truly I’m honoured,” Prosciutto tuts. He downs another shot of alcohol, and Risotto apprehensively takes the cue to do the same.

“You don’t have any resentment to Sorbet and Gelato for the house?” Risotto asks.

“I can’t really, they didn’t benefit from it. Besides, at the end of the day, this has worked out for me. I don’t think I would have really made it as a journalist,” Prosciutto maintains.

“I wouldn’t agree!”

“Yeah, well you can keep it to yourself. I gotta cope somehow. Honestly though, the one part of this I do regret is my brother. I wish I could have spent more time with him, growing up, but I didn’t want to mix him up in... this.”

“He’s the reason you rejected the role of captain, isn’t he?” Risotto realises.

“Yes,” Prosciutto admits after a pause. “If I were in your role I don’t think I’d be able to make time for him at all.”

“I understand. It’s very noble of you, Prosciutto. To look after him like that.” Risotto judges. Prosciutto tuts.

“Whatever.”

The doorbell rings and Risotto tries to stand up.

“No, no, I’ll get it,” Prosciutto insists. He puts down his glass and heads downstairs to the door. The boy behind it trembles heavily as he looks up at him with pleading eyes. “Pesci?”

“Hi, Fra,” the boy says weakly.

“Pesci what in god’s name are you doing here? I told you not to come to this house for any reason!” Prosciutto admonishes him.

“I’m sorry! I know what you said but- Mum’s still in the hospital and... I really didn’t want to be alone again tonight.”

Prosciutto leans down. His eyes widen with worry.

“Alright, if that’s the case then you can come in,” he permits. Pesci steps forward and falls into his arms. He starts to sob.

“She’s really sick, Fra.”

“I know Pesci, I know. I’m here.”

#la squadra #la squadra di esecuzione #prosciutto #prosciutto jjba #l'inizio

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howimproper · 3 years

Note

For Qingming x Boya. Qingming slowly changing Boyas mind about demons

So, this went in an unexpected direction but I can't say I don't love it 😂

A Road Less Travelled

When Qing Ming had contacted him via magic ear to set up a rendezvous, Boya hadn't thought in a million years that it would go this way.

Typically, it's to join forces for a hunt, (Boya is convinced this is no more than an excuse however, because those hunts are always well within Qing Ming's ability) or instances gaining in frequency simply to catch each other up on their lives. To share in a companionship that grew quickly and terrifyingly as easy as breathing.

Boya is not adverse in either case.

With the death of the Empress, Boya's life had changed exponentially. His presence in the palace or even Imperial City itself required less and less until he is eventually finding himself sent far and wide. It's not only him, he knows. His sect was created and maintained to protect the palace from the threat of demons and spirits alike, and just because the Evil Serpent housed within the deceased Empress is no more for a time, does not mean other threats do not exist. As the head of the sect and arguably its best warrior, Boya is no stranger to his skills being in constant demand- however his superiors willingness to grant so many requests is...new.

Boya can't decide if they're trying to get rid of him, or are simply uncertain of what to do with him and his unexpected fame at being one of the main hands that dealt with the rise of the Evil Serpent and, by happenstance, the death of their nations ruler. Do they lord him as a hero, or an unwitting traitor quickly swept under the rug?

Never mind that the Empress had seen to her own demise. Boya has, and never will, understand nor enjoy politics. He much prefers the simplicity of wandering village to village to city to countryside in search of his next quarry. Less politics, less complication. He has grown used to and learned to embrace the isolation, and emphatically ignores the pangs of loneliness he certainly does not feel when he is surrounded by people who do not know him or his mind.

He most certainly does not look forward to the warming of the magic ear he had gifted Qing Ming, or the smooth, almost playful cadence of his voice when he is contacted at random for reasons innocuous or intent. And he most definitely does not drop everything he happens to be doing at the time to indulge the other guardians whims. That would be irresponsible of him, not to mention undignified.

Except sometimes he does and he's not even sorry, what is wrong with him.

It has only been a handful of short months since the last time he'd dropped everything to find his feet taking him to a quiet lakeside home near a far away mountain. Not long at all since he'd indulged in the tranquillity and ease of the only presence he'd found that did not raise his hackles or feel like the weight of chains on his shoulders. Boya is self aware enough to know that he is not a people person. He has the skills, as all those born amongst the elite do- but he has long since grown too abrasive, too direct from long years spent honing his body instead of his tongue to be comfortable rubbing shoulders with self important nobles or braggart so called intellectuals masquerading as scholars.

Once, when he was younger and blinder to the truth of the world he dwelt in, he might have been more suited to opulent surroundings and the couth if hollow companionship of the equally sheltered and stupid. But then his mother had been torn from him, and he'd become more austere, rough, jaded. Not consumed, but definitely intent on ideas of revenge and self righteous anger at the being responsible for the death of his innocence. As he'd grown in body, skill and mind however, Boya had honed those qualities into a fine weapon that he aimed mercilessly at not just the one, but the whole of demonkind.

Boya has hated demons for so long, that when faced with the man who was for all intents and purposes his opposite, he had found the control he sweat and bled for crumbling to dust between his fingers, and he had lashed out.

He still doesn't know, to this day, what stayed his blade throughout the infancy of that acquaintanceship. Whether it was the presence of his fellows or the weight of the task they all shouldered- until eventually time and exposure had ever so slowly smoothed reflexive hackles, if only enough for him to notice the quiet, sombre air of understanding that permeated often short and prickly interactions.

Only for those hackles to stand straight back up with every instance of sympathy or outright regard for the beings that exist purely as cruel thorns in Boya's soul. At every sign that this man prefers the company of beasts, kin of half of his blood.

Boya hates demons as surely as the sky is blue and his heart beats within his chest, but against all conceivable reason, Boya can't hate Qing Ming.

When he tries, Boya just finds that he hates himself.

Against all logic, it was only the passing of days that tempered him to the man's presence. Barely moments in time that gently uncoiled the tight grip of his ire until he found himself beset with an inexplicable sense of kinship that brought nothing but confusion in its wake and made every attempt at rebuke reflexive and half hearted at best. Until they stopped all together and Boya instead found himself drawn in ways he'd never before experienced. Until for the first time in his life, he'd turned the weapon crafted from the bleeding edges of his stone heart to protect an existence he'd spent longer hating than living.

At first, he told himself he did it out of duty. There were a great many lives threatened in the City, in the world, and he would fulfil the purpose he'd curved into himself gladly and with a small, quiet relief. But that had only been part of the reason, and it had taken some long months of separation and reflection before he'd realised it. Then some further time spent agonising over the ambivalent nature of the realisation, and a few shameful nights spent trying to drown it. Boya is not known for seeking life's answers at the bottom of a bottle, but if there is one existence that can drive him to it, it is probably Qing Ming's.

He can't decide if his eventual acceptance of the matter was brought about by lowered inhibitions or the regretful insight one experiences only during the first moments one opens their eyes to a truly magnificent hangover. Mayhaps he simply grew tired of waking up face down on or sprawled half under a drinking table in some out of the way inn room he’d stomped into at some ungodly hour.

Honestly Boya thinks he probably shouldn’t drink at all. His constitution for it in excess seems to leave much to be desired. He can’t be good at everything, he supposes. A realization he is endlessly glad to have come upon alone. Gods forbid he be prone to acts not of his character whilst sober, (if he had had company Boya is of the mind that he might have bemoaned the sorry state of his life in a most undignified manner and he swears never to drink again. It’s only a short while later that he makes a liar of himself and wakes with the indentation of bamboo and regret pressed into his brow.)

The occasional presence of his dizi on the table leads him to think he might be either a whimsical or maudlin drunk. All the more reason to avoid it, (he hasn’t received any complaints yet, so at least he does it well quietly, aish.)

He is not pining. He isn’t.

And if he’d come to an abrupt halt in the middle of a busy street to many startled or annoyed protests the first time the magic ear he’d given to Qing Ming had warmed, no one needed to know, because Boya will take it to his grave.

It’s a process of years, but it is, regardless, a process. One Boya hadn’t much fought against after those first few nights spent agonising over it with the taste of wine sharp on his tongue. The fact that it came about even without the confusing presence of Qing Ming there to turn his life upside down resigns Boya to the belief that he is indeed quite pathetic, all told.

Still, he always answers, and still, he always eagerly goes where bid.

Boya wishes he could hate it.

Never more especially than the first time he meets a demon picking wildflowers of all things on an overgrown road obviously less travelled, (a small, unwashed slip of a thing in the guise of a child, with eyes too big when they’d met his and small, girlish hands clenching in fright around green stems) and lets it go.

He’d grasped the hilt of the blade carried at his back, fully intending to draw it when, inexplicably, he’d been taken in by the fear in its- her eyes and felt not like a righteous man, but a demon himself.

What is wrong with him.

He tells no one, and drinks himself into a stupor the next night. He ignores the wildflowers he finds outside his door the next morning.

It’s all Qing Ming’s fault. Him with his ridiculous exquisite robes and that stupid fan he hides those mischivous attractive smiles behind. Gods, he’s pathetic.

“Is this where your friend is waiting, Mr. Boya?” Small hands grasp and tug on the sleeve of his travel cloak, and Boya resigns himself, once again, to the lack of urge to shake them off.

“Mn.” He grunts in reply, and the little girl trailing at his side like some misshapen duckling beams, wildflowers in her hair.

How the mighty have fallen, he thinks as he weaves a path through the small village towards the tea house he’d been informed to meet at, freshly washed and happily bouncing demon child following at his heels. He has gone from mercilessly slaying demons to throwing the cute ones at someone always too happy to take them.

Divine Lord take him, he is so pathetic.

#bo ya #qing ming #onmyoji #the yin yang master: dream of eternity #my dumb writing #prompt fills #qing ming x boya #pre-slash

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noonmutter · 3 years

Note

Kinky Questions, Go!! ALL 50! At least the ones you haven't gotten yet.

*knucklecrack*

1: Kitchen Counter, Couch, or on top of the dryer?

"Yes. If I gotta pick one, couch. Th' dryer's noisy an' I like bein' able t' hear th' other person.

2: Your last sexual encounter: Good or Bad and why:

Answered here!

3: A fictional person that you think would be good in bed:

(I actually don't know any ingame fiction to draw an answer from here, sorry. <.<)

4: Something that never fails to make you horny:

"Pullin' me int' you. Up, down, chest-t'-chest, back-t'-chest, whatever. Not often I get manhandled, y'ken?"

5: Where is one place you would never have sex:

"I mean, never say never, but somewhere it'd take some real convincin' t'get me t' do it? Th' meetin' space at th' center o' th' Dreamgrove. I'd sooner set my 'air on fire than fuck where th' statue o' Malorne might watch me, an' Remulos would not approve."

(Rest below the cut! Yes I did do all of them!)

6: The most awkward moment during a sexual experience was when:

"...Wakin' up in a pile o' people after an especially long bender, none of 'om I recognized, an' not one stitch o' clothin' anywhere in sight except fer a gnome-sized miniskirt. An' there were no gnomes in th' pile! "Days like tha' are why I don't fuck drunk anymore."

7: Weirdest thing that ever made you horny:

"Tenderizin' steak." Sigh. "Pretty sure it was th' smell o' th' raw meat, mostly.

8: What is the best way to sexually bind someone: Handcuffs, Rope, or Other [if other please explain]:

"With my bare 'ands, or with my teeth 'oldin' somethin' sensitive. Wolf's snout kin fit all th' way 'round most people's throats without actually bitin' down as long as I get th' canines all th' way across, an' as long as neither of us move too terribly much, it's great fun."

9: What is the fastest way to make you horny:

"Hook a finger in my collar an' pull me t' yer eye level. Trouble is, if we're not already pretty damn close an' y' start grabbin' at my collar, I might punch y'."

10: Top or bottom?

"Switch."

11: We were about to ____________ but then ______________ [example: we were about to have sex but then his mom walked in] "We were about t' sneak off t' start our 'oneymoon but then I tripped through a portal some jackass dropped in th' middle o' th' weddin' party an' 'ad t' fly all th' way back first.

12: Is one orgasm enough? Are multiple orgasms necessary?

"Sometimes it's enough, sometimes it's a start, sometimes it's not even th' point. Really depends on th' mood at th' moment, dunnit? I like t'go as many rounds as either of us kin stand, most o' th' time, but I def'nitely find plenty o' value in just one long, slow go tha' ends when it ends.

13: Something that you have hidden in your room that you don’t want anyone to find:

His expression was less jovial than for most of these questions. "Th' collar I made for Vandy."

14: Weirdest nickname a significant other has ever called you:

"Squigglebird. Long story."

15: Two things you like [or dislike] about oral sex:

"Like th' noises it makes a person make--vocally, I mean--an' th' views it gives o' th' person I'm goin' down on an' th' person tha's goin' down on my. Don't like th' taste all tha' much, really 'ate some o' th' noises yer lips an' throat make if yer a li'l overzealous."

16: Weirdest sexual act some has performed [or tried to perform] on/with you:

"Li'l inflatable toy thingie in m' backside. Felt alright fer a while, cuz I mean it wasn't like it was th' first time I'd 'ad anythin' in there, but ah... she kept goin' past my willin'ness, an' it got pretty damn uncomfortable pretty damn fast. I might be willin' t' try it again but not without a lotta thought b'fore'and, an' not with my 'ands bound.

17: Have you ever tasted yourself? [If no, would you?] [If yes, what did you think?]

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Tasted like cum. Nothin' special."

18: Is it ever okay to not use a condom:

"I mean, if y'both agree to it an' y'don't fool around with anybody else, then yeah it's fine. Overwhelmin' majority o' th' time, I wrap up, even with m'wives."

19: Who was the sexiest teacher you ever had?

"...I din't 'ave any teachers I thought were sexy? My first shan'do was a 'andsome elven woman 'o could arm-wrestle a grizzly an' win, but she wasn't wha' I'd call sexy. Too gruff, too keen t' be alone."

20: A food that you would like to use during a sexual experience:

"Not somethin' I really think about in advance, t'be honest. Cook or no cook, food just kinda 'appens on a whim."

21: How big is too big:

"Can't get my mouth 'round it is usually a problem. Length isn't so much a concern, just means y' won't get t' bury it all th' way after a certain point unless y' want me dead."

22: One sexual thing you would never do:

"Mess with any bod'ly fluids besides cum. I tried real 'ard t'understand tha' one an' I just can't, sorry. Gross."

23: Biggest turn on:

"Depends on th' person; wha's 'ot from one is wierd comin' from another. Pickin' out of a hat? When Val'rin says somethin', then rolls 'is eyes up t' look at me an' tacks on a plaintive li'l 'Sir?' at th'end."

24: Three spots that drive you insane:

"Pretty much anywhere on m' throat, th' undersides o' my wrists, an' my 'air. Partic'larly yankin' on it. Just... don't come up an' do it outta nowhere. Like with m' collar, tha' shit'll get y' punched an' I'd argue y' prolly deserve it."

25: Worst possible time to get horny:

"Most times aren't really tha' bad, Iunno... middle of a warzone I guess?"

26: Do you like it when your sexual partner moans:

"I'm kinna suspicious of anybody 'o doesn't. Wha' kinna person doesn't love tha' kinda instant feedback? Tell me I'm doin' a good job, tell me 'ow t' do a better job, tell me just 'ow blown yer mind is by losin' track o' words, sing me a song."

27: Worst sexual idea you ever had:

"Really dunno why I thought it was a good idea t' let a blindfolded guy toss me anywhere, least of all into a bed with a solid headboard on it."

He touched the back of his head in remembered pain.

28: How much fapping is too much fapping:

"When yer chafed an' still 'aven't finished cuz yer too damned raw and desensitized t' get off, it's prolly time t' stop fer a while."

29: Best sexual complement you ever got:

Answered here!

30: Bald, landing strip, Jumanji:

"Landin' strip, ideally. I kin deal with whatever but tha's th' most convenient amount. Less potential fer mess."

31: Is it good sex if you don’t nut?

"What a bizarre question, 'course it is. Shit, sometimes tha's 'alf th' point."

32: Fill in the blank: “If they ____________, we are fuckin”

"Bite my neck 'r pin me t' a wall."

33: What your favorite part of your body:

"My 'air. It's gotten damned difficult t' take care of, but th' tradeoff's pretty worth it."

34: Favorite foreplay activities:

"Touchin'. Just... touchin'. Runnin' my fingers real light an' soft across ev'ry...single...inch...of a playmate's body. Learnin' th' curves, th' blemishes, th' scars, th' ins, th' outs, th' sensitive spots, th' ticklish bits, th' fav'rites all by touch. I kin do tha' fer hours if they'll let me."

35: Love (>,<, or =) Sex For those of us who don’t remember our math that's “greater than, less than, or equal to]

"Does not equal. Th' two kin be completely unrelated t'one another an' tha's perfec'ly fine. They kin en'hance each other when they're both involved, but they aren't incomplete without one another at all."

36: What do you wear to bed?

"If I kin get away with it, nothin'. I run 'ot these days, it's real easy t' overheat if I wear stuff t' sleep.

37: When was the first time you masturbated:

"Gods, Iunno. Thirteen? Fifteen? Somewhere in there."

38: Do you have any nude/masturbating pictures/video of yourself?

"Not tha' I keep fer very long. I make 'em an' send 'em t' people tha' I made 'em for, then I get rid of 'em cuz I don't wanna watch m'self wankin' or whatever."

39: Have you ever/when was the last time you had sex outside?

"So many times, gods alive. Last time was a few days ago, if y' count th' back acres on our property as outside enough."

40: Have/would you ever have sex outside?

Leon just kinda snorted. (See previous answer!)

41: Have/would you ever had a threesome?

"Sev'ral times, an' I would 'appily do so again with th' right people. Fun, but occasionally tricky t' figger out."

42: What is one random object you’ve used to masturbate?

"Most o' th' time I'm very borin' an' just stick t' my 'and an' maybe a dildo, but I got one o' those vibratin' sleeve thingers not too long ago tha' I've been meanin' t' try out..."

43: Have/would you ever masturbate at work/school?

"No, an' maybe. If I were still workin' in a kitchen where other people 'ad t' work an' there's food ev'rywhere, it'd be an absolutely not. I work in a private workshop by th' 'ouse now, so I kin get away with it more, long as 'm careful. Thus far I 'aven't been so tempted tha' I couldn't make it back in th' house first, though."

44: Have/would you ever have sex on a plane?

"Never been in one, be willin' t' try. I've 'eard 'ow tiny those bathrooms are."

45: What is one song you’d like to have sex to?

"...gonna 'ave t' ask me that'un again in a few months when I know more songs, sorry."

46: What is something nonsexual that makes you horny?

Answered here!

47: Most attractive celebrity?

"Do th' Tarts count as celebrities? I'm not even gonna try t' pick one, but tha's all I got."

48: Do you watch gay/lesbian porn? why/why not?

"Not a big porn-watcher in gen'ral, my life feels like a goddamned romance novel as it is. Not often I need more'n a couple o' particularly fond mem'ries."

49: If a child was born on the occasion of the last time you had sex, how old would that child be right now?

"Four days."

50: Has anyone ever posted nude pictures of you online?

(Hard to answer this one since the internet at large isn't really a thing in WoW, at least not in a widely-accepted enough way for me to answer it...)

51: What is one thing that NEVER makes you horny?

"Put-downs. Don't call me slut or boy or bitch--gods, especially not bitch--or th' like if y'want me t' go 'ome with y'."

52: Do you have stretch marks? (How do you feel about them? Has anyone ever had a problem with them?)

"Not tha' I've seen."

53: Do you like giving head? (why/why not)

"Like givin' it cuz it makes m' playmate feel real nice, don't like th' flavor s' much."

54: How do you feel about tattoos on someone you are interested in?

"Doesn't make a dif'rence t' me, aside from most tattoos bein' pretty."

55: How would you feel about taking someones virginity?

"Done it, though I'm not a fan o' th' phrasin'. They put some trust in me, I din't take anythin'."

56: Is there any food you would NOT recommend using during a sexual encounter?

"Nothin' spicy. Period. Just don't. It's not worth it."

57: Is there anything you do on Tumblr that you would not like your significant other to see?

(Another one that doesn't really have an answer in this context.)

58: Do you own any sex toys? (what is it? (how long have you had it?)

Leon burst out laughing and pointed at the full-size steamer trunk at the foot of his bed. "Tha's not even close t' all of it, either. Gods alive, wha' a question t' ask me!"

59: Would you give your significant other unrestricted access to your Tumblr for a day?

"Wouldn't give 'em unrestricted access t' anythin' private o' mine fer a day. If it's tha' private t' begin with, it's cuz it's my safe 'aven, an' they respect tha', same as I do their private stuff."

60: Would you be offended if your significant other suggested you get plastic surgery?

"A li'l bit if it came outta nowhere, but I've talked a fair bit about wishin' I could get rid o' some o' my scars. It's not somethin' I wouldn't consider tryin'."

61: Would you rather be a pornstar or a prostitute?

"Pretty 'appy doin' th' latter as it is. Don't think I'd wanna try th' recorded stuff, it seems like it'd be really awkward t' do tha' fer a cam'ra crew an' with somebody 'o ain't really enjoyin' it."

62: Do you watch porn?

"Not really. Most of it's not int'restin' t' me."

63: How small is too small?

"'Too small' is 'ard fer me t' quantify. I 'aven't found anythin' too small fer me t' work with some'ow."

64: Have you ever been called a freak? Why?

Bit of a flat look. "Worgen."

65: Who gave you your last kiss? Did it mean anything?

"Me an' th' guy 'o fucked me on th' fence out back shared quite a few kisses b'fore, durin', an' after. Mostly they meant 'fuck yer hot.'"

66: Would you switch phones with your significant other for a day?

"I mean, I could. Nothin' on there I wouldn't want any of 'em t' see. Be a bit inconvenient though."

67: Do you feel comfortable going “commando”?

"Frankly I'm more comfortable tha' way than otherwise. Spent too long with a big ol' poof o' fur around m' crotch t' be comfy with most undies. Same reason I'm not overly fond o' shoes either."

68: Would you have a problem with going down on someone if they hadn’t shaved their pubic hair?

"Purely in a logistical sense, yeah. I kin still go t' town an' do thin's right, but it's... sloppy. Those 'airs seem t' WANT t' get in yer mouth, an' all tha', an' it's just so much messier overall."

69: If you could give yourself head, would you?

"'O says I can't?"

70: Booty or Boobs?

"I am very much an ass man."

71: If you had a penis, what would you name it?

"I do, but I didn't. Namin' it seems strange."

72: Have you ever been on an official date?

"Sev'ral, but all of 'em only took place in th' last few years. Never when I was growin' up."

73: Have you ever cheated on someone? (Why?)

"No, an' I never will, an' you kin quote me on tha'."

74: If you were a stripper, what would your name be?

"I 'aven't th' faintest idea 'ow tha' works."

75: Have you ever had sex in your parents bed? (Would you?)

"Nope. Never 'ad th' opportunity, an' I think I'd rather throw up on th' floor an' eat it."

76: How would you react if you found out your parents had sex in your bed?

"Sweet, I'm gettin' a new bed!"

77: What was your reaction the first time you saw a penis/vagina

"Assumin' we're not talkin' about my own bits... 'That's not gonna fit!' fer a dick, an' 'This is a lot less sexy than th'other lads made it out t'be' fer a cooch."

78: If you had a penis/vagina for a day, what are five things you would do?

Answered here!

79: Oral, Anal, or Vaginal?

"Yes."

80: What’s the first thing you look at on someone of the opposite gender?

"Their face. Also 'ow they carry themselves. But mostly their face."

( @pinpep @shckaewynn @valarin-sunstorm for mentions )

#prompty things #leon #SUCK IT RANEK

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kasienda · 3 years

Text

Restorative Justice - Chapter 2 - Preparation

Summary: Chloé has never been a fan of Ms. Bustier’s community building activities. In fact, she detests them. She doesn’t want to learn about the drab boring lives of her peers. And she absolutely can’t stand it when their confessions make her feel things. Feelings that she doesn’t even have names for. But when Adrien unknowingly shares his struggles with his double life, Chloé vows she will do anything to get Ladybug set things right. Even if it means pissing off the heroine. Chloé was already mad at her anyway.

Chapter 1 - Community Circle

Chapter 2 - Preparation

Two weeks had gone by and Chloé had made absolutely zero progress in her self-assigned secret mission, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. She had spent hours on the roof of the hotel with the bee signal trained towards the sky both during, and not during, akuma attacks hoping Ladybug would give her the time of day. Chloé wasn’t sure what she was going to say exactly, but she figured Ladybug needed to know that she was going to lose her partner if she kept echoing the way his father treated him. It hadn’t mattered, because Ladybug never came. When the spotted heroine hadn’t shown up over the course of several days, Chloé staged a loud conversation with Sabrina during class about how she wasn’t even going to ask for the Bee Miraculous (though of course Ladybug would be better off with Chloé on her team). She just needed to give Ladybug some valuable intel. But Ladybug still hadn’t shown. And neither had Chat Noir. Which stung more than a little bit. Adrien had heard the conversation as well. And supposedly, he still considered her a friend. At least, that’s what he said when she asked if he was mad at her for something. He had seemed genuinely confused at the question. But it wasn’t like she could follow up with a “Then why didn’t Chat Noir show up on my hotel roof when I asked him to?” She supposed that neither of the heroes truly believed she had anything valuable to share with them. God! She wanted to tear her hair from her scalp in frustration. They were both so dumb!

Keep Reading on Ao3

When contacting them as superheros failed, she figured that she would try their civilian personas. Chloé had taken two steps toward Marinette one morning in the courtyard when the girl was there early for once before promptly changing her mind. Marinette was never ever going to hear her out. As Ladybug, the girl had to at least pretend to be neutral toward Chloé. But as Marinette? Absolutely no way! Really, Chloé didn’t need them to talk to her anyway. She just needed them to talk to each other with complete honesty. But as long as they didn’t know who the other was they couldn’t be that honest. What if she just sent them anonymous notes in their lockers or something? It wouldn’t even have to be long! Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir. Ladybug is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Boom! Done! End of story. Chloé had seriously contemplated it. She had the notes written out and everything. She was just waiting for the opportune moment to slip them into said lockers. But then the whole ‘Lila planting evidence in Marinette’s locker’ thing happened. Clearly, lockers were not secure enough. Chloé had shredded the notes. And unfortunately, the blonde was back to trying to talk to Marinette. Chloé had found her alone at a table in the library during a study period. Marinette had five books sprawled out around her as she frantically scribbled on a piece of paper. Chloé stood in front of the table expectantly. Marinette didn’t even look up. Chloé cleared her throat dramatically, which only earned her a sparing glance before Marinette’s attention was back on her reference book. The blonde thought about just asking if they could talk for a minute, like a normal person, but this was Marinette. And well, Chloé had never been reasonable with Marinette. Especially not when Marinette was ignoring her. So instead, Chloé went and collected two volumes of an encyclopedia before returning to Marinette’s table. She then dropped the books unceremoniously from as high as she could comfortably reach. The heavy blue volumes hit the table with an explosion of sound. Marinette jumped twenty centimeters from her seat, her gaze shooting up in indignant frustration. “Chloé!” she shrieked. “What the hell?” “You were ignoring me,” Chloé observed. Marinette sighed, rapidly moving to collect her belongings. “I seriously don’t have time for this today. Can’t you just disappear until tomorrow or something?” “You need to listen to me!” Chloé insisted. Marinette stacked up her reference books into a neat pile. “I don’t need to do anything of the sort,” Marinette told her before stuffing the last of her work back into her backpack, and leaving the blonde alone at the table. In the library. With dusty books. Ugh. Really, Chloé needed to just lock them in a closet together or something! Surely, Sabrina could come up with some scheme to get them in a room with no windows and a locked door. Surely, the hotel had some storage closet somewhere that they could use. Or maybe something at school would work better. Sabrina was amazing at getting people to do as she wanted. And God, that had come in handy on occasion. Adrien wouldn’t be hard. He might even listen to Chloé, but she’d need Sabrina for Marinette. Only Sabrina could still trick Marinette. It wouldn’t really work though. Marinette would probably love the forced alone time with Adrien. And they were both so stubborn. They’d never reveal their identities just to get out of a locked room. Her fingernails clicked on the desk in rapid succession like a series of grace notes. They wouldn’t reveal their identities for their own convenience, sure. But if someone else needed Ladybug and Chat Noir? So, Chloé would just have to lock them in a room together and then inspire an akuma. It wouldn’t be that hard, would it? And creating an atmosphere for an akuma shouldn’t be that challenging either, should it? Like, she had done it by accident how many times now? How very heroic. She quickly realized it couldn’t work anyway. For them to know about an akuma, they’d have to have their phones, but if they had their phones, what would stop them from contacting Adrien’s bodyguard or Alya and Nino to get out of the room? She had tried to approach Adrien directly, too. She only had the five or so minutes before he had to be in his limo after their last class, being shipped off to whatever lesson he had going on that day. “It’s been a long time since we talked, Adri-kins,” she told him. “We should set up a lunch date to catch up.” He smiled at her. “My schedule is really packed this week, Chloé. Maybe have your people call my people to set something up later in the month?” he said lightly, as he brought his fencing bag to his shoulder. The brush off hurt more than a little bit. But of course he would want to spend every scrap of free time with his close friends. Which was a very short list, and she was clearly no longer on it. Maybe this whole idea wasn’t worth it in the first place. Like, why was she trying so hard to help Adrien when he barely gave her any of his time or attention anymore? “But maybe I have something important and urgent to talk to you about,” she admitted. He tensed, his green eyes giving a cursory glance over her whole form. “Is something wrong?” He reached out a hand to her shoulder. “Has your mother…?” She waved away his physical comfort. “My mother is in New York!” she snapped impatiently. “She hasn’t spoken to me in weeks.” Which meant she couldn’t have said anything hurtful to tear Chloé to pieces. She had no reason to be upset. None at all. But his frown only deepened, and he stepped forward again. And that’s when she realized he probably would make time for her if she asked. The idiot. “It’s nothing about any of that. I’m fine. I’m worried about you,” she insisted emphatically. And with those words he pulled away, and closed himself off immediately. “I’m fine, Chloé,” he told her with that stupid pasted on fake smile. “What could I possibly have to complain about?” he asked her before walking to the door and waving farewell. She had wanted to run after him so she could scream at him. That had been three days ago. She furiously wiped away the tears that were sliding down her cheeks. Why couldn’t she help him? Why wouldn’t he let her? He was growing more withdrawn by the day! Not that anyone other than her seemed to notice. Which she couldn’t understand! It was so obvious! When he had first come to school, he had been an excited puppy anytime anyone included him in a conversation or invited him to some social outing. Chloé had assumed that the novelty of school and peers would eventually wear off, but a solid year later, it hadn’t. He was still an excited puppy with any scrap of affection. Or he had been until recently. Adrien had been far less animated for the past week. He still smiled and said all the right things when people engaged with him, but it wasn’t real. He was going through the motions. Pulling out the politeness and the charm that had been drilled into him as a child that grew up in the spotlight. And normally, Chloé could have dismissed the change in behavior as a sign of fatigue. The akumas recently had been constant and brutal, and Gabriel showed no signs of easing up on Adrien’s commitments or expectations. But it was more than that because he hadn’t transformed gradually over time as his responsibilities built up. No, he had changed from puppy Adrien to polite Adrien in the span of a few minutes. From sunshine-child to creature-of-the-night literally instantaneously. Chloé had been in class sitting next to Sabrina as always, working on their project. Or well, letting Sabrina take notes on their project, but whatever. Ayla and Marinette sat in their usual seats with their heads together with Nino sitting a few feet away occasionally laughing or shaking his head at whatever nonsense they were saying. Then Adrien had arrived late to class from a photoshoot of something. “What are you guys talking about,” he had asked as he took his seat next to Nino. “N-nothing!” Marinette had stammered, her face turning tomato-red. Nino rolled his eyes again. “Don’t worry about it, dude. Girls are crazy.” And Chloé had watched Adrien’s shoulders stiffen. And his eyes go flat. And of course there was that stupid polite smile in place. He was upset. He was upset that they his friends were keeping things from him. And of course the other three keeping secrets from him would drive a wedge into his soul. How could they not know that? Chloé didn’t care that they were doing it to protect whatever was left of Marinette’s dignity. Chloé didn’t care about Marinette’s dignity at all. They were hurting him. Making him think they didn’t trust him either. Just like his father. Just like Ladybug. And since that day, he had stopped initiating conversations. He didn’t talk about his favorite video games, or whatever anime he had binged that past weekend. He didn’t light up like a supernova when Nino asked him to come to a party or the girls invited him out to ice cream. And worse, he wasn’t accepting their invitations. He was making excuses for why he couldn’t even try. Not even real excuses like whatever stupid lessons his father had him taking, but fake ones about being tired or needing to study. As if! Adrien didn’t really need to study. He was one of those obnoxiously intelligent kids who just absorbed academic knowledge through osmosis or whatever. And even if he needed to study, (which Chloé still doubted), he wouldn’t miss out on time with his friends to do it. He would just stay up all night instead. But he was declining invitations and she guessed everyone was just so accustomed to him not being able to come, that they didn’t notice he had stopped trying. And the second his friends’ eyes were off him, he would wilt like a plant without water. And his so-called friends didn’t notice that either! Not even Nino. But Chloé noticed.

And she didn’t like it. And as loathe as Chloé was to admit it, Marinette wasn’t faring any better. She was probably worse actually. The part-time superheroine had bags under eyes, and she was constantly falling asleep in class only to wake up screaming in pure terror. Chloé did not want to know what those nightmares were about. Then, the civilian side of Paris’s savior and super heroine had randomly burst into tears at least twice in the last three days, and refused to explain to anyone - even Alya - what was upsetting her. But that didn’t mean Chloé had to help her. Marinette had made it clear that she didn’t want Chloé’s help, which was just fine because the feeling was completely and thoroughly mutual. Marinette had always acted like she was some great authority on moral goodness. But Chloé knew Marinette was selfish, too. Marinette neglected responsibilities for her own gain, she lied more frequently than anyone realized, and she pushed her way into situations that were none of her business thinking she knew better than everyone, often making everything worse! Marinette always assumed the worst of Chloé even when she legitimately was trying to help. Which is likely why Ladybug had always assumed the worst of Chloé even in the very beginning when Chloé had tried to help her locate Vanisher’s akuma. Why Ladybug had been so insistent on seeing the worst in Queen Bee even right after she had helped Ladybug and Chat Noir rescue that runaway speed train. The heroine hadn’t been wrong in that instance, but that was hardly the point! But then, something had changed when her father had been akumatized the first time. And the spotted heroine Chloé had so admired offered her compassion, a shoulder to cry on, and a second chance. Told her she wasn’t useless and could become a hero if she wanted to be. Had invited her, Chloé, to race across rooftops and serve as her partner against a vicious akuma, when Chat Noir had been mentally transformed into an actual cat. And for the first time in a long time, Chloé had had hope that she could become something… better. Something… worthwhile. No matter what her mother said, or her classmates thought of her - she could be a hero. Someone others trusted without question, someone people respected, looked up to, and emulated. Chloé didn’t know how to be that person, but she knew that she wanted it. And that she was willing to try. But then a few weeks later, Paris’s heroine had taken it all back. Even after Chloé fought against Hawkmoth with her. Even though Chloé hadn’t done anything differently. Even though she had tried to find others ways to build herself up instead of tear others down by making collages of selfies and videos dressed up as Ladybug rather than targeting others. None of it had mattered. Ladybug had just stopped coming to her with the miraculous. And then, right after Chloé had managed to fight off an akuma all on her own, Ladybug had shown up and said she’d never get the miraculous again because people knew who she was? It was a load of bullshit! Because that hadn’t mattered when her father was akumatized, it hadn’t mattered on Heroes Day! Which led Chloé to one inescapable conclusion - Ladybug was just like everyone else. Someone who changed the rules when it suited them, went back on their word without thought, and wasn’t nearly as kind or compassionate as she pretended to be. Really, Chloé should have known better than to ever hope. She shoved her notebook off the table in front of her, sending it flying into the back of Ms. Bustier’s desk with a satisfying bang when the metal furniture snapped back into form. “Chloé?” Chloé started at the voice of concern. Ms. Bustier slipped into the classroom from the door in the back and quickly approached her. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing!” Chloé spit out venomously, whirling away from her teacher towards the front of the room. Ms. Bustier put down her bag at her desk, rolled the chair from her desk in front of Chloé’s table, and took a seat. Chloé shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t want to talk out her feelings. “What were you working on?” her teacher asked, her voice calm and smooth as a still lake. Chloé shook her head rapidly. “Nothing! It was a stupid idea. I’m clearly not cut out for it.” “Maybe you just need some help,” was the gentle suggestion. Chloé sighed glancing up into the warm face of her teacher. “I… was trying to fix something. But I should’ve known better. I’m really good at making a mess of things. The idea of me fixing something is ridiculous.” Utterly ridiculous. Silence permeated the otherwise empty classroom. It was stifling. Chloé stared into her hands, folded under the desk. Her teacher remained silent, sending her emotions spiraling down to new depressing depths. Even Ms. Bustier didn’t know what to say. Clearly, Chloé was a lost cause. And so was her self assigned mission. “Do you want help?” Chloé looked up, searching the compelling green eyes of her teacher. She seemed earnest in her concern, but Chloé has been burned before. Her childhood nanny, Adele, had promised to help her, too. And then the petite woman had gotten herself fired and Chloé had never seen her again. It’s not like Bustier could actually help, anyway. But then, another thought struck through her psyche like lightning. Ms. Bustier totally could make a couple of kids sit alone in a room together. In a fucking circle. But Chloé hated circles. She took a deep breath. This was for Adrien. For Adrien. For Adrien. “Could… could we maybe do one of those circles? Not the community one, but the other one when people are fighting?” Ms. Bustier raised an eyebrow. “You want to do a restorative circle? Did I hear that right?” Want was not the correct word. But Chloé had tried everything she could think of. And at least the circle didn’t require getting someone akumatized. She forced herself to nod. Her teacher leaned forward and put a hand on Chloé’s knee. “Did something happen? Are you and Sabrina not speaking?” Chloé physically recoiled at the very idea. “What?! No! Sabrina is great. No… this would be with...” her indignation evaporated instantly, and she found her gaze glancing over the shoulder of her teacher’s white blazer. “With Marinette and Adrien.” Ms Bustier sat up straighter. “You’re just full of surprises today, Chloé.” Chloé risked another glance up, but her homeroom teacher was smiling. “Okay, and was anyone else affected by this conflict? Anyone else that you think is involved or might have hurt feelings? Or anyone else that hurt you in this same conflict?” Chloé cocked her head to the side, letting herself consider the question. Really, it just needed to be Marinette, Adrien, and Chloé. But… Alya’s presence could prove to be incredibly useful. And if Alya was there, Nino would likely reinforce everything the brunette would say… The only problem was involving more people would piss off Ladybug even more. Chloé grinned at the thought. She had never been above getting a bit of revenge when it was deserved. (And maybe undeserved). All five of them it would be. “Césaire, Lahiffe, and Adri-kins,” Chloé supplied. Bustier went to her desk and retrieved a notebook and quickly wrote down the names. “What happened?” Chloé hesitated. Technically, nothing had happened, though of course she and Marinette had a ton of history, dozens of fights and altercations that she could pull from, and yet… “I tried to tell Marinette something really important. But she won’t listen to me. And I can’t totally fault her for that, but this is really really important. Like fate-of-the-world-important!” she exclaimed, her hand stretching out to indicate the scope of the situation at hand. “What is it that you want to tell her?” “That she’s a blind self righteous know-it-all,” Chloé ranted. “And she needs to knock it off because she’s hurting someone that we both care about.” “Adrien?” Ms Bustier guessed even as she was taking notes. Chloé nodded. “Yes, Adrien, but she doesn’t even know that she’s hurting him because he will just sit there and take it! He’ll never say anything,” she lamented, her lips twisted into an indignant sneer. “But eventually he’s going to break, Ms. Bustier. And I don’t want to see that! I’ve been trying to get her to talk to me so I could give her some context and explain what she was doing, but she ignores me completely, or won’t even let me say hello before she declares she doesn’t have time for me and runs off!” “I can see how that would be frustrating for you, Chloé,” Ms. Bustier empathized. “But I also need you to understand that the purpose of the circle is to heal things between you and Marinette. It is not so you can yell and berate her when she is not allowed to leave. Do you understand?” Chloé sighed, but nodded anyway. “Now, do you have any idea why Marinette might be acting this way? Any reason at all that Marinette might distrust you or be unwilling to hear you out?” Chloé glanced away toward the classroom window, her righteous anger fading. When she turned to the front again, her gaze remained locked on her nails. “Perhaps,” she admitted, her voice carefully flat. “I may have antagonized her unfairly once or twice in the past.” Ms. Bustier’s lips trembled as if she was trying not to laugh. Chloé huffed out a sigh. “Okay fine, I’ve done a lot to her over the years. But that’s not true this time! Listening to me would make her life far less stressful and get her closer to Adrien.” “That’s quite the claim,” Ms. Bustier commented neutrally. “It’s the truth!” she declared hotly. “Okay. I believe you. Now, is there anything specific that happened recently that would cause Marinette to be more irate with you than she usually is?” Chloé glanced down at her nails, but she really didn’t know what to say. Did throwing a fit when Ladybug said she could never have the Bee Miraculous back count? Because the truth was, since Chloé had figured out the heroine’s identity, she had no idea why Ladybug had given her a chance in the first place. And she was just as confused as to how she had managed to lose that chance a few weeks later. Chloé certainly hadn’t treated Marinette any worse than she normally did in the intervening time. She had even teamed up with the girl once so they could keep Kagami away from Adrien! Ms. Bustier sighed, placed her pen down on her notebook, and leaned forward. “Chloé, in order to facilitate a restorative conversation between you and Marinette and the others, I need to prepare. I can only do that if you tell me what happened.” The blonde nodded. What could she tell her that would be useful in Ms. Bustier being prepared? “I…. figured out one of her secrets, something that is really important to her. And then I told her friends.” “They didn’t already know?” Chloé shook her head. “How did the others react?” Chloé pursed her lips in thought. How would the others react? Adrien was going to turn into a puddle of goo. Alya probably wouldn’t be much better, but she would feel guilty as hell for the whole Lila debacle. Nino was a rock, so Chloé had no idea how he would respond. But Marinette? She was going to be out of this world pissed. And for a second, Chloé hesitated. “Chloé?” “You think I took the time to talk to the plebians?” she countered hotly, too late to actually be convincing. Bustier raised an eyebrow. Chloé wilted. “Okay, fine!” she relented. “But I really don’t know. I could guess, but I didn’t stick around to see their reactions directly,” she improvised on the spot. “Why did you tell them?” She glanced down into the palms of her hands. “Because… they needed to know,” she admitted softly. “They can’t help her if they don’t know. And she…” she was drowning and Chloé worried how long it would be before Marinette was the akuma. And then where would Paris be? “Despite what she thinks, she can’t do what she does alone. She needs them. Especially Adrien.” Chloé clutched at her head with both hands. God! What was wrong with her?! Why was she even trying to help Marinette? Marinette would only be livid. She wouldn’t be grateful. She certainly wouldn’t give Chloé another chance with the Bee Miraculous. This was supposed to be for Adrien! Adrien was the one who deserved to be seen and appreciated. Maybe it was for both of them. Maybe Chloé didn’t need anything in return. She looked up to see Ms. Bustier smiling at her. “And what was this secret?” her teacher asked. Chloe balked. She knew it was silly. Ms. Bustier was going to know everything tomorrow anyway. But she was afraid Bustier would back out if she knew the full extent of what this was about. “I’d rather not say.” Her teacher’s green eyes considered her for a moment, and Chloé had to look away again. She sighed again before the educator spoke. “Thank you for telling me this bit. I need to interview the others and understand their side of the story and then we’ll get something scheduled.” Chloé jumped to her feet, shaking her head violently. “No! You absolutely can not talk to them beforehand!” Ms. Bustier was not disturbed by Chloé’s outburst. “And why not?” “Because Marinette will never ever agree to this if she knows what it’s about. Trust me. But she’s wrong. She needs this. Actually, we all do. I promise, everything is my fault. It’s not theirs.” The words fell out of her mouth unfiltered like a runaway train. “Chloé, I have rarely encountered a conflict where one side was wholly at fault. I’m sure the others have contributed.” This track wasn’t working. “I won’t participate if you talk to them beforehand,” Chloé threatened. “That’s not how this works, Chloé.” “Please!” Chloé begged. “You don’t understand. I can’t explain completely, but Marinette will not come if she knows what it’s about. I’ve already tried like four times this week! We have to blindside her.” “What is it about?” “But Ms. Bustier! This secret… it’s really…” Chloé stammered, searching for words that would not come. “It puts Marinette in a really vulnerable position. I’m not willing to tell you on the off chance that you are not able to pull off this circle. But if we do meet and I am able to actually talk to her, I think the benefit will outweigh the drawbacks of you knowing.” Ms. Bustier’s green eyed gaze pierced through her, and Chloé found it difficult not to fidget on the spot. “You’re asking me to put a lot of faith in you, Chloé,” she finally said. “I know!” Chloé conceded, bowing her head down. “And I realize I probably don’t deserve it.” “I didn’t say that,” her teacher interjected. “But I’m trying to be worthy of it. I swear! I’m trying to be better,” her gaze fell to her shoes. Two fingers on her chin gently urged her gaze up. “All you have to be, Chloé, is yourself.” Chloé’s squeezed her eyes shut, trying to suppress the sudden burn behind her eyelids. She shook her head in denial. A warm hand fell onto her shoulder and squeezed reassurance. Chloé shrugged it off. She didn’t want to admit the contact felt good. She shouldn’t need reassurances like that. She couldn’t afford the weakness. “Just to warn you, Marinette is going to be absolutely pissed. You may think you’ve seen her in self righteous must-fix-all-the-injustices-in-the-world Marinette mode, but this will take things to an entirely new level. And you probably should just let her fly off the handle. I don’t need her to be respectful. I probably don’t deserve it anyway.” Ms Bustier offered a gentle smile. “We all deserve respect, Chloé. But we can also create the space for Marinette to air her grievances and for you to be treated with respect.” Chloé appreciated Bustier’s confidence, but she also knew the teacher only knew the tip of the iceberg. “Ms. Bustier?” she asked softly. Ms Bustier looked up from her notes and gave Chloé her attentive gaze. “Yes, Chloé?” Chloé swayed from one foot to the other, her hands fidgeting at her waist. “Can I ask about the “honor privacy” norm?” Ms. Bustier nodded. “What about it?” “Are you included in that? Will you respect Marinette’s and everyone else’s privacy?” “I’m required by law to report certain things like child abuse or suicidal thoughts, but I will honor privacy in all other respects.” Chloé bit her lower lip. Where did having a secret identity that required you to constantly put yourself in harm’s way fall into that? “So like... any time a student is in danger?” she suggested. Her teacher nodded even though she was taking down notes into her notebook. Chloé cringed. Yeah, this was probably definitely something that fell into the category of something a teacher was required to report. “But…” Chloé glanced away again. “What if reporting it increased the danger they were in?” Bustier looked up at her then and frowned. “Are you in danger, Chloé? Is Marinette?” Oh, what the hell?! In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’m in danger all the time,” Chloé explained with a straight face and was pleased to see Ms. Bustier’s face frowning in growing concern. “I’m Queen Bee,” she declared. Ms Bustier’s frown transformed into an amused smile. “If you wanted that to stay private Chloé, you probably shouldn’t have announced it on live television.” “But that’s my point. I’m always in danger because people know my identity. Papillon knows, and he’s already used me to get to Ladybug before.” Her teacher softened. “Are you worried that he’s going to try again?” “No! I…” she threw her hands down in frustration. “I can’t put this into words!” “What does this have to do with Marinette?” “N-nothing.” Chloé wondered one again, why she was stalling. If her plan worked, Bustier was going to know everything by the end of day tomorrow anyway. “I was just trying to give you an example where sharing the knowledge of a student being in danger would put them more in danger.” Ms. Bustier put her hand on Chloé’s shoulder again, and this time Chloé allowed the warmth to remain. “I can appreciate the nuance of such a situation,” her teacher reassured. “I would never put a student in danger if I can help it. You must understand though, sometimes my hands are tied by legal requirements.”

Chloé nodded, figuring that was close enough. Surely, there wasn’t a specific law about teachers being mandated to reveal a superhero’s identity. There had never been enough instances of teenaged superheroes to codify that kind of requirement. Right? Ms. Bustier smiled kindly at her. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Chloé?” Chloé pursed her lips. “Not really, no,” she concluded. “May I ask you a question?” The blonde nodded her assent. “Why are you doing this now? Trying to make amends with Marinette, I mean?” Chloé fidgeted nervously. She still didn’t really know how she felt about Marinette. Or about Marinette being Ladybug. But that’s not why she was doing this anyway. “I’m doing it for Adrien,” she finally admitted. “He needs Marinette to actually see him. I don’t know what will happen to him if she doesn’t. I’m really scared for him.” “It’s not Marinette’s responsibility to save him, you know?” “Maybe not, but she’ll want to. When she has the full picture she will love him better than anyone in the whole world. And if she doesn’t, I will be there to grind her face into the ground.” “Chloé…” Ms Bustier chastised disapprovingly. Chloé held her hands up in mock surrender, but she wasn’t actually sorry. She meant it. If Marinette didn’t learn to better appreciate her partner, Chloé would definitely make certain she regretted it. … Chloé walked out of Bustier’s classroom after class feeling more optimistic than she had in the last sixteen days. Ms. Bustier had passed out slips to the five of them requesting their presence at the next day’s lunch period for a restorative circle, which meant this was actually going to happen. Maybe by end of day tomorrow she would see Adrien’s megawatt smile again for the first time in weeks. But Chloé still had one loose end to take care of before she was confident that she could push Marinette into being honest. And that loose end involved Alya. And Chloé couldn’t even delegate the task to Sabrina because that would reveal identities to a civilian, and while Chloé was all for pissing Ladybug off, she did understand the danger of too many people knowing. Not to mention, she didn’t want Sabrina in danger more than she had to be. Sabrina was able to tell her Alya’s whole schedule though. So that was helpful. Chloé left her things with Sabrina with directions to deliver her bags to her car, and left “to go to the bathroom” ten minutes before the last class was over to wait outside Césaire’s 6th period. She was lucky that apparently Marinette didn’t share the class. Alya was one of the last to leave. But when she walked out the door, Chloé immediately fell into step beside the Ladyblogger. “I need to talk to you,” Chloé began without preamble. Alya cast her a dark look. “Why would I want to talk to you?” Chloé tried not to growl. She was only half successful. “It’s about Marinette. She needs your help.” “Why should I believe you about anything regarding Marinette?” Alya snapped, readjusting her bag on her shoulder and picking up her speed, not bothering to make eye contact. Chloé matched her pace easily. “You eat up everything Rossi says about her like a child eats up candy! I thought you’d believe anything,” Chloé shot back. “This conversation is over,” Alya declared cooly, whirling away. Chloé scurried after her. “No wait! I’m... I’m sorry.” That got Alya to pause. “You’re what?” “You heard me,” the blonde growled back. Chloé wouldn’t say it again. No friggin’ way. “So, are you going to listen now?” “This has gotta be big if it got the high and mighty Chloé Bourgeois to apologize for something,” Alya reasoned even as she let her bag fall unceremoniously from her shoulder to the ground as she turned to Chloé. “Marinette needs your help. Adrien does too. But they’ll never come clean on their own and certainly not at my suggestion. I need you to come clean first.” Alya’s dark eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “Come clean about what?” “About being the Fox.” Alya stared at her, her auburn eyes as wide as the Seine. “What?!” she hissed, suddenly up in Chloé’s face. Chloé held her ground, but didn’t resist Alya getting in her space. “I can’t explain. Ladybug will kill me. But tomorrow, Ms. Bustier is going to pull the five of us together.” “Five of us?” “You, me, Nino, Adrien, and Marinette. I’m going to introduce myself as the Bee. I need you to introduce yourself as the Fox. Please! It’s for Adrien... and Marinette too.” She tacked on as an afterthought. “Please trust me as one partime hero to another. I swear, I’m trying to help.” Alya shook her head, her eyebrows furrowed together like an angry cat. “I won’t betray Ladybug’s trust.” “You’ll be helping her!” Chloé countered. “And Marinette too.” “No way, Chloé. You can’t trick me.” And with that, the would-be-journalist stomped off. Chloé watched her go. “Well, that could have gone worse.” ...

#miraculous ladybug fanfiction #chloé bourgeois #marinette dupain cheng #implied child abuse #restorative justice #redemption #hashing it out #planning #asking for help #healing from trauma #community circle #my own content

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tiredassmage · 3 years

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Character Page 𓆰 Brooke

A character page for what is, at its core, something of another au for my main, Astor, buttt... it’s basically bc one day I had a random bought of inspiration and followed through on “what if I came up with a deer-like race for XIV” and... then I spent like two hours making lore for them and listening to whitetail deer noises on YouTube. So! He’s different enough to warrant his own lil page! ^.^ I will try to cover enough of this theoretical lore that things make sense, but hopefully without going... ridiculously overboard and keeping you here for hours over a race of my own brainworms. xD

BASICS ---

Name: Brooke, technically like the water feature “brook,” but, somewhere along the line, someone thought it was spelled with an ‘e’ like the more common rendition of the name, and he did not have enough of an understanding of the written Eorzean Common Tongue to know the difference.

Age: It’s a little hazy, but approximately 28 summers by Shadowbringers

Nameday: 17th sun of the 3rd Umbral Moon

Race: Dryad

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Bisexual

Martial Status: Single(?)

OC Tags: ch: brooke

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE ---

Hair: Long, falling down about his mid-shoulders when worn loosely and dark brown. Typically worn with at least one braid, and often pulled back in some sort of fashion. Occasionally braids feathers or flowers into it.

Eyes: A pale crystal blue, almost gray. Often wide, curious, and warm.

Height: 5 fulms, 10 ilms, not accounting for a full grown set of antlers.

Build: Lithe, lean, and long in the legs - all traits rather common among his race. As a fully mature adult, Brooke generally grows in a full antler set featuring an average of 4 points that typically form a generally crescent moon-like shape. The typical adult male Dryad will grow anywhere from 4-6 points, while a female will grow 2-4.

Distinguishing Marks: Much of Brooke is rather... distinguishing, given the rarity of his people to the rest of Eorzea. They are generally a reclusive people, living deep within the woods and mountains from the land, migrating occasionally with the season and food supply, but rarely actually leaving. Given such, it wasn’t until prior to the Calamity that Brooke ventured beyond the bounds of his wooded home deep in the Shroud at the behest of his herd that he came into contact with the outside world. Given the antlers and the fluffy ears and tail, most... didn’t exactly greet him with kindness. He was odd and unlike anyone else most had seen. The Calamity has pushed their survivors from their homes and more into the light, but they’re still a relatively unknown factor. Many regarded him initially with the same judgements and mistrust afforded the beast tribes.

Outside of the physical denotations of his race, the only other marks one might occasionally find that could be helpful are the paints he still tries to find some time to don in honor of his kin and ancestors. Life as an adventurer has taken him further and further from his roots, but no further from his respect for their traditions.

PERSONAL ---

Profession: Brooke initially left his herd, sent by their leader, to act as an emissary to the nation of Gridania in the days leading up to the Calamity. While the details of the time after Cartenau are yet fuzzy to him, he had not intended to abandon his post in the Calamity’s wake. In the world that remains, however, he is unable to ascertain whether any of his herd survived. By lucky chance, he has fallen in with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, lending his strength and mixed arcane knowledge to their fight for peace.

Main Job: Brooke and his people are something of an enigma by standard definitions of magical practice. They are gifted in a wide variety of arts, and their semi-nomadic nature has brought them into contact with various remnants of ages past. In Brooke’s case, the closest standard classification may be Red Magic, as he possesses an affinity with a wide variety of skills typically associated with both White and Black Magic, though, unlike the duelists of the Red, Brooke still prefers to focus his energies through a staff or scepter than a blade.

Hobbies: Gathering is more a standard survival skill of his people than a hobby, so he would hesitate to classify his botanical knowledge and pursuits as such. Instead, he would much prefer to count his reading as his favorite one - particularly into history and prevalent folklore and tales. In his role as emissary, he sought understanding between his people and those sharing the Twelveswood with them, even if they had been doing so unwittingly. Thus, it was only natural he needed to seek an understanding of their customs as well as shed some light on his own. He finds the telling of history and belief systems fascinating, marveling at the many differences and nuances to be found within them.

Languages: Though Brooke possesses the Echo, he still struggles with languages, at times. He has steadily grasped a more firm understanding of the Eorzean Common Tongue, but it would not be wrong to say his Echo granted him a better understanding of the language and intentions of creatures, beasts, and elements than any language of man.

Residence: At times, it is still difficult to feel settled among civilization, but his efforts and work with the Scions have afforded him the security of a small residence within the protection of Gridania. At least the more seasoned adventurers aren’t so prone to gawping at his unusual appearance.

Birthplace: His herd lived somewhere deep within the Twelveswood. After the destruction reigned down by Bahamut though, he has found more malms of it unfamiliar to him than ever, and he cannot even be certain they survived - much less that their home may have.

Religion: Dryads believe in something one might call spirts, more than any gods. They revere natural elements such as wind, water, and earth and pay a deep respect to the balance of these things. Taking more than one needs and reckless destruction are considered sacrilegious to them. They host celebrations for each season, each having a representative and associated elemental spirits of focus - the closest one might find to a pantheon of gods in their beliefs. This is something he has held fast to even in the face of their many adventures.

TRAITS ---

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

PERSONALITY ---

Curious, warm, and soft-spoken, Brooke has a quiet love for life that some might find a little naïve. He’s a deeply passionate individual that does not often find a reason to hide the way he feels. He believes strongly in such things as the beauty of a star-dappled sky or a color-changing sunset. He feels strongly about preserving the ways of his people, finding a nostalgic familiarity in them as he uncovers the world beyond the wood. It has been daunting, at times.

But curiosity has kept spurring him forward. Seeing marvels like airships and linkpearls up close are strange, sometimes terrifying, but incredible experiences.

He endeavors to remain honest to himself and true to his beliefs. He does not believe in turning others away over superficial differences. If one is in need, that should be enough. Where they are from or what creed they follow should not restrict them from aid. It might make him something of an idealist, but if it is foolish to believe in and want such things, then he would gladly be a fool. He tries his best to remain willing to learn, and finds joy in understanding and sharing. He’d gladly listen to someone tell stories for hours, if it would make them happy.

ABOUT --

Born and raised with his herd in the secluded depths of the Twelveswood, Brooke thought and new little of the world beyond the wooded reaches of their herd until he was well along to becoming a young adult. In the brewing chaos of looming calamity, their leader bid him go forth to their neighbors of the wood in Gridania in an attempt to reach an understanding and mutual aid. Such levels of destruction would doom them all, regardless, and she bid them not remain idle and wait for the coming darkness.

The troubling times would provide their own draws and setbacks to opening a dialogue with the Gridanians and their Seedseers, but, ultimately, Brooke would succeed in at least opening these discussions, revealing the Dryads’ presence within Eorzea with certainty and agreeing to aid in the developing struggles against the Garlean Empire.

What, exactly, followed is, as many others have described, something of a blur. The only certainty of the matter was that it left the young Dryad stranded alone in a wholly new and twisted realm that was all just... a bit funny. Familiar in ways... Entirely not in others.

He may just have ran afoul of a little cult. Y’know. Nothing major. Definitely not a voidsent interested in aether. Definitely not his. Or... perhaps he did. And perhaps he’s quite lucky he met an adventurer not keen on letting cultists lurk about in underground tombs or let unsuspecting strangers get turned into voidsent treats. Quite lucky, that! But... all’s well that ends well, right..?

With a little to be desired for a solid sense of direction and purpose, Brooke found himself once again woven into a greater tapestry of fate than he could have ever predicted. There were, thankfully, a few... passingly familiar faces along the way, it seemed, but still little in the way of ascertaining the fate of those he had left behind, grown up with.

But there was still their hope - hope for a better future, for a way forward, the dawn of another day they could enjoy and share with their loved ones. That had always been worth fighting for, so fight for it, he would.

#ffxiv ocs #dot talk #character page #character sheet #character profile #bc i'll never remember exactly how i tagged it #and i'll try all 3 of those inevitably #ch: brooke

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xxbyimm · 4 years

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A tale as old as time - Bard the bowman x OC

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Hello dear people of Tumblr!!! I needed a break from all the work I yet have to write, because every time I look at my existing projects, my mind goes into full panic mode. So I asked myself what I wanted to do instead and just went with it. The world just doesn’t have enough Bard the bowman content, BUT I AM HERE FOR IT!

I do hope y’all enjoy! xoxo

A tale as old as Time - Bard x OC - Chapter 1: Esgaroth upon the Long Lake.

Summary: How could he never have noticed her before? Because after just one single glance at this lady and her breathtaking eyes, these bowman’s nights grow long and restless. He considers himself to be too old for infatuations like this, but yet there he is, watching her from a safe distance and craving her touch. Bard is determined to sit this one out, to wait until these unwanted feelings fade away… But we all know what happens when you’re trying to avoid someone in a small town…

Warnings: Not really. Alfrid being creepy as fuck, but that isn’t surprising??

Taglist: @soradragon @pistachiozombie @legolaslovely @tomisbaeholland @saviorsong @swoopswishsward @fizzyxcustard @deepestfirefun @ruthoakenshield @mariannetora Furthermore: @marvel-ous-hobbit @tigereyesf @aryaarathornson showed interest so I’m giving you lovelies a tag! If you don’t wish to be tagged anymore, please let me know! Or if you’re not on the list and want to be tagged: check out my lists and I’d like to hear which list you want in on!

When her father had suggested that the family could use a new start, surely he did not mean… this?

Brea’s grey eyes glanced over the market water and she watched the people bustling about, chattering with one another while examining goods. Her platinum blonde hair hung in a loose braid over her shoulders. The embroidered green dress she had chosen this morning was still a bit too thin during this time of the year, but Brea had been determined to wear it. Her mother did not approve of her daughter’s choice, nor did Mîrhel, wife of Brenion, like the fact that her daughter hadn’t planned on wearing her winter coat as well. The loud, shrieky protests still rung in Brea’s ears.

The eldest daughter of Brenion and Mîrhel shivered and drew the woolly, knitted shawl closer to her body. This place was so cold. Perhaps she should have listened to her mother anyway and brought her coat, but here she was… making her own mistakes. If anything, returning home and telling Mîrhel she was right, wasn’t an option. So for a moment, Brea faced the cold in stride and listened to the local fishermen banter about the weather conditions, their wives and other unimportant matters.

She did not mean to come across as a spoiled brat, but from the moment her father had started preaching about the grand Esgaroth upon the Long Lake, she had imagined a collision of elven and human culture, a rich town which still bore the remnants of the dwarves who had occupied the area long ago. A majestic city, built upon the ruins of Dale.

Lake-town and its’ inhabitants however, was nothing like that. It was a poor place, the houses built upon structures of wooden poles and decks. The people solely relied on their trades with the elves of Mirkwood and the dwarves in the Iron hills, that is if you didn’t count the fish the lake had to offer. Everyone seemed to settle for a simple life and not a noble, meaningful one that (at least in Brea’s opinion) would be so much more satisfying. So as she regarded the fishermen and their merry banter, Brea wondered briefly if these people were even able to think beyond the daily struggle of survival, as the living conditions here were a lot more harsh than she was used to. She pursed her lips together. Compared to her former home of Minas Tirith, she couldn’t help but find Lake-town a bit… disappointing.

It was safe to say that the constant odour of dead fish and the earthly undertones of rotting wood weren’t helping Brea’s view of Lake-town. To make matters even worse, Esgaroth was a terribly cold place. Before, father always had claimed that there was nothing a warm hearth couldn’t cure, but it seemed they never had experienced this particular clammy cold that chilled you to the bones, for not even the winters in Minas Tirith were this wet. It didn’t matter how high you stoked the fire or how well dressed you were. Everyone suffered the same cold.

So if their lives had turned so miserable during these past few weeks, why stay? Why would a family leave the relatively safe borders of Gondor and venture this far north? Why would they risk being robbed, or worse: being killed on the dangerous road towards their destiny? Mother had asked herself this question a hundred times and the answer had always been the same. There hadn’t been a choice, nor could they ever go back home. And for that, Brea was to blame.

A gust of wind travelled over the market water and Brea shivered once more. Though spring had finally set in, even on afternoons like this the weather conditions were treacherous. One could still easily catch a cold. Besides, her mother had insisted her eldest daughter should be back for teatime. She was lucky that Mîrhel had asked her to collect shoes from the cobbler anyway. Since her latest mishaps, Brea wasn’t allowed to go out without a chaperone. It didn’t matter how many times she told her parents that this was a different town, she would do things differently now… They still merely shook their heads and shooed her away.

Brea continued her way around the market water again. The cobbler’s shop lied west of the market, near the town’s gatehouse. Her mother’s instructions had been clear: Brea should inspect the shoes before handing the townsman the money that was owed. If the repair wasn’t living up to the expectations, the poor soul should be payed less. Whatever these expectations might be… She heaved a sigh and trotted over the quays towards her destination. Just before the market, she took a left turn into a small street. She only had been in this part of town once, but if she remembered it correctly the cobbler occupied a shop just further along the way. She narrowed her eyes and tried to spot the little sign to make sure she was going the right direction.

‘My lady Brea, daughter of Brenion.’ A nasty voice called just behind her. Brea whirled around and eyed the hateful man to whom this speech belonged to. The chap was of moderate height, had pitch black hair that was rather greasy and eyes that were dark and looming. Though the stubble on his cheeks did indicate that he did maintain his beard (or he wasn’t able to grow one, she wasn’t sure), he somehow had decided that sporting a unibrow was the way to attract the ladies. Surely this guy was unmarried, because if he would have had a wife, she surely would not let him creep around town looking like this. And definitely not in those dark, slimy clothing that should have been laundered weeks ago.

‘Alfrid.’ She replied while suppressing a shiver. ‘How lovely to see you again.’ ‘Oh, the pleasure is all mine.’ He ensured her with a crooked smile, showing off the yellowest teeth in Middle Earth. ‘Your presence is always a delight.’ She inclined her head, silently sending prayers to the Gods to let this man leave her alone. ‘Thank you.’ ‘So you’re out and about?’ Alfrid went on, his dark eyes piercing through hers. ‘On your own, I might add?’ ‘Our maid was busy and my mother needed someone to collect her shoes.’ Brea said. ‘I’m happy to help.’ ‘I’m sure you are. But I happen to know that your father has told the master you can’t go anywhere without a chaperone.’ The master’s deputy declared. Brea shrugged, not feeling the slightest inclination to let this nasty man stick his awful nose in her business. ‘I guess when we first moved here, my parents redeem Lake-town as less safe for young maidens like myself than our hometown of Minas Tirith. You see, you never know on which corner there might be an assailant lurking.’ Alfrid thought on it for a second, but did not seem to include himself in the category described to him. ‘There are no scoundrels in this town, I daresay, miss. Except from the occasional bargeman.’ ‘That’s a relief.’ Brea answered before turning away. ‘I think my parents must feel the same, which explains why I’m allowed to run some errands. With that being said, I must be on my way now, good sir.’ His hand grabbed her sleeve firmly, causing Brea to hiss in pain. ‘Not so hasty, miss.’ He told her. ‘The decks can be quite slippery in this part of town. I will gladly escort you.’

More slippery than the motives of this guy? Unlikely.

‘Oh, that is very kind of you, but you must have more important, pressing tasks that need tending to.’ Brea replied quickly, while gently pulling her arm away from his hold. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

She did not wait for a reply and started walking in the way of the cobbler’s shop again. The heavier footsteps behind hers told her that Alfrid was quite the persevering type. She suppressed a sigh and quickened her pace. ‘I saw your little sister today.’ Alfrid remarked. ‘Oh?’ Brea murmured, finally setting her eyes on the sign, her destination. ‘She was wandering the market with the eldest spawn of Bard.’ The master’s deputy told you. ‘I must warn you about that bargeman and his kin.’ Though Brea wasn’t interested in the slightest, she did feel inclined to ask anyway. For Jen’s sake it was better if she knew something was wrong before their parents did. ‘What about them?’ ‘They are vile people, troublemakers. No respect for the authorities, so to speak. Your parents should not allow your sister to associate with that family.’

Brea paused and turned around to face the ugly man. Her grey eyes bore into his dark ones. She knew her sister had an excellent sense of character: Jen would never associate herself with the wrong people. Unlike her big sister, who only seemed to attract the worst of humanity itself. The prove of that point was standing right before her. ‘I will talk to her.’ She finally replied rather haughtily. ‘But I am fairly sure-’ Alfrid wasn’t looking at her anymore. Brea followed his gaze over the canal.

There was a man standing on the deck on the other side. Though it seemed he was just minding his own business, arms folded and casually leaning against a wall of one of the homes, his glare was directed at the spot they stood. The man had a tall, strong build and dark hair that reached his shoulders. From such a distance she couldn’t tell the colour of his eyes, but they seemed mysteriously dark. A familiar yearning feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and Brea licked her lips.

‘Will you leave this poor woman alone, Alfrid?’ The man finally spoke in a gruff tone. ‘She clearly doesn’t want your affections.’ ‘This is the troublemaker I was telling you about, miss Brea!’ The master’s deputy spat. ‘He gives us nothing but revolts and misery!’ Brea could not hide her grin and she immediately liked this bargeman. Not only was he very easy on the eye, Alfrid seemed to hate him. Perhaps if she became acquainted with this man, that rat would leave her alone. ‘It’s nice to meet you, master Bard.’ She said, while making a curtsey. ‘I am Brea, daughter of Brenion the merchant. We’re new in town.’ ‘The pleasure is mine.’ He replied, a rueful smile adorning his face. ‘I think I have seen you at the market with your mother a few times before, but we never spoke.’ ‘And let’s keep it that way, shall we!’ Alfrid broke in and he glared nastily at Bard before grabbing Brea’s arm and dragging her along with him. Brea shot a helpless glance behind her only to discover that the bargeman was gone. She winced when the master’s deputy squeezed her wrist too hard, but the latter one didn’t seem to notice. He paced over the decks, trotting the eldest daughter of Brenion along all while mumbling to himself. ‘This beautiful young lady doesn’t need her reputation shattered by that smug, lowly piece of filth. I will tell the master what he-’ Brea groaned, this time slowly peeling his cold, clammy fingers from her wrist. Alfrid didn’t seem to notice and went on grumbling about the wrongdoings of this poor Bard fellow. She couldn’t imagine what he had done to set a character like Alfrid off, but it surely would be something ridiculous.

By the time she had freed herself from the master’s deputy’s slimy touch, they were standing before the cobbler’s shop. ‘Here we are, miss Brea.’ Alfrid made a little bow and showed her his huge, yellow teeth again. ‘I will wait outside to escort you home.’ ‘Oh, that’s not necessary.’ Brea said sweetly. ‘I will probably need to stop by the tailor anyway. You see, these shoes only go with special undergarments. My mother is quite specific about these-’ Alfrid held up his hands defensively and smirked. ‘Enough said, my lady. I don’t need to know about underclothing, especially not your mother’s. I’ll leave you here to run your- errm- lady errands.’

Exactly. She had been counting on that. You see, people like Alfrid did get nervous whenever women addressed women’s topics. Brea smiled innocently before making a little curtsey. ‘You are too kind, mister Alfrid.’ She crooned. ‘Now forgive me, for I most hurry. My mother will be worried if I don’t make it back before teatime.’ Alfrid bowed before her. ‘This is where we part ways, miss Brea. I’ll see you tomorrow, at the master’s house.’

Good Gods, she had totally forgotten about that. The master had invited father and his family over for dinner. Up until now, Brea hadn’t even thought of the possibility of Alfrid being there. Of course he would. And after being unnecessary kind to the guy, she probably had to deal with the consequences of that tomorrow. With a deep frown on her face, she watched the master’s deputy creep away over the decks. Jenessa was bound to have the best time once she discovered what her big sister had set in motion, unwillingly attracting the worst suitors of mankind.

There had been one exception to the rule. She glanced at the direction where Bard had been standing. Well… make that two.

‘Goodness girl, what took you so long!’ Her mother cried from the reading room as soon as their servant opened the front door to let Brea in. ‘I almost did send poor Catherine out to tell your dad you were missing!’

‘Don’t fret, mother.’ Brea protested loudly while handing the shoes and her shawl over to the servant. ‘The master’s deputy slowed me down, that’s all.’

There was a short silence. ‘Ah, you mean that chap… what’s his name…’ Mîrhel murmured, barely audible. ‘Alfrid.’ Brea replied as she made her way through the hall and entered the reading room. Her mom was sitting on their chaise longue, the couch in opposite of her surprisingly empty. In the table between stood a porcelain tea set on a silver platter. ‘Come here, my dear.’ She said and she patted on the spot directly next to her. ‘You tell me all about your encounter with that man, while we wait for Jenessa. Haven’t you seen her? And have you been kind to him?’ ‘Who?’ Mîrhel huffed and started to pour her daughter a cup of tea. ‘That deputy of course!’ ‘Yes, though he was a bit persistent and wouldn’t leave me alone.’ Brea said. Her mother rewarded her with a bright smile. ‘Good girl. We have to keep those people on our side, so make sure you always behave impeccably towards them.’

Brea couldn’t promise she’d do that if the guy became too friendly, but she gave her mother an assuring nod anyway. ‘I will, mother. Where’s Jen again?’ ‘Your sister’s name is still Jenessa.’ Mother scolded her eldest daughter, though with a smile. ‘She went looking for you, to make sure you’d be back for tea. Maybe she got lost, or she bumped into that Alfredo, just like you did… Goodness, nothing would have happened to her, would it?’ Brea licked her lips and for a moment she pondered the possibilities where Jen might be. Then she remembered something Alfrid had mentioned. Her heart skipped a beat.

‘Mother, I know where she might be.’ Brea said breathlessly. ‘Where?’ Mîrhel demanded. ‘Tell me at once, then we can send Catherine out and fetch her before the tea is cold. CATHERINE!’ They heard some shuffling and a loud clang in the kitchen, before poor Catherine hastened through the hall towards the Missus. She shyly prodded her head around the corner into the reading room. ‘You called, Missus?’ ‘Yes. Can you fetch Jenessa for me? She’s at-’ Mother paused and glanced at her eldest daughter. ‘Brea?’ ‘Bard the bargeman, though I’m not sure.’ ‘Who is that?’ Mîrhel demanded. ‘Do we know him?’ Brea shrugged and Catherine merely bowed before retreating. ‘I will get her at once, Missus.’ Brea took a sip of her tea and grimaced as she burned her tongue. It would take at least twenty minutes before she could drink the beverage properly. ‘Mother…’ she tried. ‘Since the tea is still boiling hot and Catherine should be preparing our meals, shall I collect Jen for you?’ ‘Are you exploiting your newly found freedom, darling?’ ‘Maybe.’ Brea said truthfully. ‘Or maybe I’m just trying to help. You know father hates it when he has to wait for dinner.’ ‘That seems like a fair remark.’ Mother pondered. ‘And to reward your thoughtfulness, I will allow you to go. But before you do, you have to make me a few promises.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ Brea beamed. ‘Anything.’ ‘You go straight to wherever your little sister is, fetch her and then come directly home.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘No funny business. No snooping around other places.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘And no flirting with young men.’ Mîrhel demanded. ‘Not even Alfredo.’ ‘You mean Alfrid?!’ Brea cried. ‘Mother! Why would I even-’ Her mother shook her head. ‘I have to make sure, Brea. You have proven yourself to be far more cunning than your father and I could ever have imagined. I don’t want you to drag our reputation down the drain once again, not even in this wretched town.’ ‘MOTHER!’ ‘Don’t use such a tone against me, young lady.’ Mîrhel rebuked. ‘Now go, before our servant-’ A strangled groan erupted from her throat when the front door fell shut. ‘There she goes, poor lass. Hurry, Brea…’

Thus Brea set out once again on the same route, but this time she passed the market place instead of venturing left. After inquiring at a tapestry stand, Brea learned that Bard lived in the northern part of the city. The merchant told her that if she turned left before the town’s hall canal and kept walking straight ahead to the outskirt of the city, she’d find the bargeman’s home.

So with those instructions in mind, Brea walked around the market water until the town’s hall and the canal that laid before it came into view. Brea halted and glanced over her surroundings before taking a left turn. The waterway that ran along the right side of this particular quay was much smaller and the various boats that were docked here made it even more narrow. In order to inspect the homes that stood directly on her left, Brea slowed her pace. The people living on the right had built small, wooden bridges allowing them pass the canal to their home safely. Brea enjoyed the various wooden carvings adorning both the homes and bridges. She was told that at some point, the water would broaden into open water and the bargeman’s home lied directly behind this small square. Furthermore, she would have to enter a few steps leading up to a blue front door, that would appear on her left and it was described to have a diamond shaped window in it.

It didn’t take her long to find the house. Brea took the flight of stairs and the door was there, but when her fist reached for the hard wood, she noticed her hand was trembling.

In fact, her whole body was. Her heart hammered in her chest and Brea was sure that the people inside this home could hear it slamming. Her breathing was shallow, like she ran all the way here like a- Oh, stop it! She gritted her teeth, mentally scolding herself for being such a lightheaded, foolish girl. What made her believe that this handsome bargeman she just got acquainted with, lived here? For all she knew, there could live two Bard’s in this town. Furthermore, if Bard turned out to be the one she though he was, he was said to have children so there probably was a wife in his life. In any case, he wouldn’t be interested in a girl like her.

And with that, she knocked firmly on the wooden door.

The first thing she noticed, were his eyes.

Bard the bargeman easily possessed the most gorgeous hazelnut coloured eyes she’d ever seen. Brea’s breath hitched as she took in the man who was standing in the door opening. He had dark, messy hair that was kept out of his face with a string of cloth at the back of his head. His fine cheekbones were distracting and though Brea usually wasn’t that fond of moustaches and soul patches, somehow this man’s carefully trimmed facial hair made him only more desirable. The greying hair at his temples betrayed the fact he must be well in his thirties.

He was wearing sturdy brown boots adorned with fur, black breeches, a light brown woollen tunic and a long, leather coat in a slightly darker shade. The woollen tunic had a low v-neckline, showing some chest hair and the grey undergarment he was wearing underneath. Her thighs clenched and Brea bit her lip. Goodness, she hoped she wasn’t showing her desires too much… How was this possible anyway? Before, there had only been one man who had made her feel like this, but she was still mourning him. How could another stir the same in her to the point she was just staring at him like he was a piece of fine meat?

Though there was no denying that in fact, he was. How rude of her…

‘Oh.’ Bard murmured as he took her in just as she had done. For a second he looked more alarmed and flustered than anything, but that expression faded quickly and was replaced with a smug smile. ‘Miss Brea.’ He greeted her. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of encountering you on my doorstep?’ ‘Just Brea is fine, master Bard.’ She replied, a little out of breath. ‘I apologize for disturbing you, but I’m looking for my sister. A little worm told me she was forming rather unsavoury relations. When I asked him what he meant, he pointed me in the direction of your home.’ Bard grinned. ‘Unsavoury relations? Why would he think that?’ ‘The real question is what you have done to make him hate you.’ Brea mused. ‘I might need your advice on that matter.’ He stepped aside and motioned for Brea to come in. ‘Ah, yes. He was quite determined this afternoon, wasn’t he?’ ‘That’s an understatement.’ She said. ‘Is he always like that?’ ‘Yes, though women in this town know him too well to let him come close like you did.’ Brea placed her hands on her hips and eyed him defiantly. ‘I’m capable of handling myself, thank you very much.’ The bargeman chuckled. ‘I didn’t say you couldn’t. But you were too polite to him today.’ Brea smiled sweetly and stepped over the threshold. Bard’s home wasn’t as big as theirs, but it was a cosy one. A grand table and two benches dominated the middle of the room. Directly on Brea’s left was a wooden staircase that led a level down. In the far left corner of the room stood a bed that could fit at least three people. At Brea’s right, stood a small kitchen where two girls were busying themselves.

‘Any tips for when I have to keep him at armlength tomorrow during dinner at the master’s home?’ she asked Bard, giving him a teasing glance. He winced. ‘Are you sure you want to enter the dragon’s lair?’ ‘I’ve heard there lives a dragon in that mountain, is that-’

‘Oh! That stupid dinner! I forgot about that!’ her sister’s voice squeaked. Brea turned on her heels and discovered her sister, Jenessa. The raven haired girl with the most beautiful mahogany toned skin erupted from the kitchen, wearing mittens. Her dark eyes were sparkling with joy. She obviously had been preparing something with the other girls before Brea came in. The two girls had to be sisters, as both of them had dark blonde hair, blue eyes and the same facial expressions.

‘Hey Bree!’ Jenessa beamed. Brea heaved a sigh. ‘Jen, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? And it’s not a stupid dinner, it’s a necessary evil.’ ‘You don’t make it sound any better, Bree.’ Her sister grinned. Brea groaned and turned to Bard. ‘I’m so sorry. Jenessa can sometimes be oblivious to social conventions and overstay her welcome-’ Bard shook his head and gave her a reassuring smile that did send a pleasant jolt through her abdomen. ‘It’s fine, really. In fact, we’re happy she’s here. My eldest daughter, Sigrid, was planning on making apple pie and she happened to come across your sister at the market.’ ‘She was lost.’ Sigrid filled in with a grin. Jenessa cried indignantly. ‘Was not!’ ‘You were!’ The youngest sister chortled. ‘You were looking rather sad.’ Brea’s little sister heaved a sigh. ‘Fine. I was lost. Happy?’ ‘We won’t tease you too much with it, promised.’ Sigrid giggled. ‘But only after we have found out if your addition to ma’s recipe is a success.’ ‘It surely smells delicious!’ The little sister proclaimed. ‘That’s Tilda.’ Bard informed Brea with a fond smile. ‘She’s my youngest.’ Sigrid gave Tilda a few plates from the rack that stood on the counter. ‘Right Tilly, can you set the table for six?’ The girl nodded and set out to work. ‘I’ll boil some water for the tea.’ Jenessa said happily. Brea watched as the girls bustled around her and Jen, accepting these strangers in their midst easily and entertaining them with their cheerful banter. She turned to Bard, who was eyeing the scene as well, an amused expression adorning his face.

‘I am so sorry my little sister bashed into your home.’ Brea whispered. ‘The trick is not to encourage her, because she will to take over your whole household.’ ‘At least she can’t be worse than Alfrid, can she?’ Bard said casually and Brea suppressed a snort.

‘What is she saying?’ Jen demanded noisily as she put the pie on the table. ‘Is she trying to be the responsible, older sister again?’ ‘That’s my job.’ Brea told her. ‘Especially when you are misbehaving.’ ‘Am I? Shall I inform master Bard about your indiscretions in Minas Tirith, Bree?’ Jen inquired with a wide grin. ‘Please don’t.’ Brea warned. ‘Or I’ll have to beg mother to trade you for another, more grateful adoptive sister.’ ‘She’s adopted?’ Bard asked with a frown. ‘Her parents were friends with mine.’ Brea explained. ‘When they died thirteen years ago, my parents took Jen in.’ ‘And she regrets that decision every day!’ Jen complained as she was guarding the kettle until it would start to boil. Behind her, Sigrid grabbed six mugs from the cupboard and a tin containing dried tea leaves. Brea crossed her arms and watched her sister with narrowed eyes. ‘Jen, please tell this poor family you are joking!’

‘Da!’ Someone ran up the stairs and a few moments later, a teenage boy with dark hair and the same dark eyes as his father came into view. ‘I finished fixing the nets.’ He stopped in his tracks and eyed the newcomer curiously. ‘Who’s this?’ ‘Brea, this is my son Bain.’ Bard said. ‘Bain, this is miss Brea, miss Jenessa’s sister.’ ‘Oh, hello.’ The boy replied, suddenly a bit nervously. He quickly turned on his heels and stumbled down the stairs again. ‘Nice to meet you!’ Brea called after him. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s up with him these days.’ Bard murmured. ‘He’ll come around.’ ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Once everything was all set, the Bardlings took their place around the table and even Jenessa settled rather quickly as if she already belonged there. Brea stood there, a bit unsure what to do, until Bard turned and sent her a smile. ‘Will you join us, miss Brea?’ he inquired gently, gesturing at the place on the other end of the table.

Brea knew that she should have said no. She should have told them that mother was waiting for her and Jen to return, but… Brea’s brain seemed to have forgotten that information. She couldn’t remember a damn thing, only the fact that those gorgeous dark eyes were pleading her to stay, offering her a place at his table. And the best thing about that, was that there was no wife in sight. So her lips had formed the words before she could even stop herself from saying it. ‘Yes, please.’

Thank you so much for reading my humble story. Feedback is always welcome. Did you like my work? Spread the love and reblog! :) And here’s my Masterlist.

#the hobbit #bard the bowman #bard the dragonslayer #bard the bargeman #bard the bowman x oc #bard the dragonslayer x oc #bard the bargeman x oc #bard x oc #bard x reader #bard x brea #a tale as old as time #the hobbit fanfic #bard the bowman fanfiction #xxbyimm writes

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nxrdist · 4 years

Text

𝕺𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝕷𝖔𝖞𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖞||TLK Fic|| FinanxOC||Four

AN: Again thanks for all the support I’ve recieved on this work so far and I’m super sorry this update is late! p.s. I won’t be linking my masterlist anymore bc it makes the post disappear from tags, but you can find it in my navi if you’re on mobile.

Taglist: @lauwrite1225, @queen-manning let me know if you wanted to be tagged for updates!

Summary: Tove chose to surrender rather than be killed, after Sigfried was defeated at Beamfleot, giving herself up to the mercy of the Saxons. Thanks to Finan’s intervention, her life is indeed spared and she is brought into Uhtred’s service. With the sting of defeat fresh on her tongue and her new life fighting for the Saxons secured; Tove is left wondering what tricks the Gods have in store for her next.

Words:3039

-----

Peace settled on that land. They trained, patrolled, and built the defenses despite the peace because Uhtred insisted the Danes would not stay quiet. Tove, as one of them, was of course inclined to agree with him. Though, Bishop Erkenwald and his priests preached that their God was with them and would smite the Heathen wherever he found them.

Bishop Erkenwald seemed to have developed a special dislike for Tove since their arrival. While he also harbored a particular distaste for Lord Uhtred, his scorn for her was different. The two Saxons at least had a manageable working relationship. The Bishop looked after the souls and finances of the city while Uhtred kept all that safe -in short, they kept their interactions brief and functional. However, when it came to Tove it seemed Erkenwald could not keep his opinions to himself. He preached louder and with more zeal about the evils of the Pagan and their fowl ways whenever she happened to be passing by.

“Ya’d think the man would grow hoarse fer all the shouting,” Finan commented.

“Or at least tired,” added Sihtric.

From their table outside the tavern it was easy to hear the vehement words of the Bishop’s latest sermon: the evils of immoral women.

“Does your God grow hoarse?” Tove asked Finan in faux curiosity.

Finan’s brow creased, puzzled by the question.

“I’m just wondering if your God goes hoarse. Because if he cannot then I suppose it makes sense the good Bishop is able to carry on,” she said with a subtle shrug. “As I’ve been reliably informed that he speaks the word of your God.”

Sihtric snorted a bit too loudly at that and Tove smirked. After a brief moment of surprise Finan burst into laughter as well.

“He does that because he knows you can hear him,” Osferth asserted, with little humor and hardly looked impressed at their childishness.

“Right. I’m sure he does, but how does he know where this...what do they call it?” Sihtric looked briefly to Tove who snickered.

“Den of inequity?”

“Yes, that’s it! Thank you Finan… this den of inequity is then?” Sihtric asked with a teasing smirk.

Osferth’s ears began to turn a delicate shade of red at that. His reaction was due to the reputation of the place for not only being a tavern, but a brothel as well as many taverns were. And the former monk knew exactly what was being implied about their dear Bishop.

“Wel-“

“Of course, he knows where it is, he tried to shut the damn place down,” said Uhtred.

He had only just appeared at their table with another round of ale for everyone present.

“You see?” Osferth said.

“Of course, I could not abide such a thing.”

“No, of course not Lord! For then who would comfort these lonely men,” Tove jested causing the men to chortle at the truth of her words.

-----

Summer in a city is different to summers in the wide country. The sewage stink of rot and the people stink of stale sweat when the sun beats down on them constantly. A city’s stench could carry on the wind for miles in summer, but when that wind turned away there was relief for the inhabitants.

It was on one such night when the wind carried away the stench that Tove sat on the wharf carving a rune. A brief cool breeze lifted her hair slightly to make it dance to its song. She hummed softly to herself. It was an easy evening and so peaceful.

Footsteps could be heard on the packed dirt, but she did not start at the intrusion on her calm though she certainly heard it. Finan stood there just a few paces away watching her. If she had turned her head, Tove would easily have recognized him as his figure was illuminated by the moonlight which reflected off the water. But she did not turn even though she could feel eyes on her. Instead she stayed focused on the carving she was fashioning from a chip of wood cut from a branch.

Finan could not deny to himself that he had grown to admire her. If he were fully honest though he would admit he had admired her from the moment she came howling toward him blade drawn and painted with the blood of enemies at Beamfleot. It was his admiration of her that had stilled his sword long enough for her to yield.

He had seen a Goddess of war, a she-devil, or perhaps one of those old Valkyries in her.

“What is that song?” Finan asked suddenly, shattering the quiet calm.

A feigned surprise swept her pale face as she turned to Finan.

“A ballad,” she said.

“Of what?” he inquired further.

He came to sit beside her on the dusty ground then stretching his legs out in front of him.

“Freya,” a small smile on her lips. “Who protects women in childbirth.”

Finan hummed in understanding before adding in jest. “Is there somethin’ we ought t’ know?”

Tove arched a delicate brow at him.

“You know I have no man Finan,” she responded contritely.

It was not for lack of interest on the men’s part. There were opportunities for her if she had wanted one. A certain Saxon who was also part of the household troops had become rather taken with her in fact. Dark haired and blue eyed, Rypere was a good fighter. They had sparred with each other on a few occasions. After one sparring match, Rypere had even taken her lightly by the hand and asked if she would take a private walk with him that evening. Tove had declined the invitation politely. It had not entirely deterred him though and Rypere’s eyes still occasionally followed her across the yard or the street.

“Aye, I do know tha’,” said Finan with good humor. “But that shouldn’ stop ya havin’ a good time.”

Tove rolled her eyes in dramatic fashion.

“It is for Gisela,” she said simply. ��She is with child again -as I’m sure you know. I pray so that Freya may watch over her as she carries the child. Gisela is a good woman.”

“She is,” he agreed.

Uhtred had spoken in hushed tones to him about Gisela during their time with Sverri. On the dark and freezing nights spent curled together in that drafty cabin they would whisper tales to each other. It distracted from the cold. Uhtred almost always spoke of the beautiful dark haired Dane -his Gisela.

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Again, Tove began to softly hum and then sing the ballad of Freya. Finan sat lazily beside her allowing the soothing tones to wash over him like a calming tide.

“You could have been a wealthy poet,” said Finan upon the song’s completion.

“Could I?” Tove asked with a light laugh.

“Indeed. Wealthy and lusted after. Kings would ‘ave showered you with gold to stay in their halls,” though his words were matter of fact there was a light tone of jest to them.

“You are a flatterer Irishman,” she snickered.

“One of those many talents you heard of lass,” he responded with a quick smirk and a wink.

Tove grinned to herself.

They had grown into an easy friendship since she joined Uhtred’s crew. All the household warriors had welcomed her as they trusted their Lord explicitly and thus Finan’s friendship was not the only one she had gained, but they were still the closest. Even more so than she and Sihtric which was in a way surprising as they shared their Danish heritage, but Tove was somewhat wary of his Saxon wife and her Christianity. In truth she was originally wary of all the Saxons at first. There were those who hated her because she was a Dane and, in all fairness, she could not begrudge them that considering what her people did to their lands. Though, the longer she stayed the less they scorned her and the less wary she became overall. The Saxons were not so bad.

She stopped carving the rune. Absently running her thumb over it clearly deep in thought. The rune was Vegvisir meaning ‘that which shows the way’ and regarded as a compass. It was a symbol terribly similar to Aegishjalmur a common protection rune of her people which she had meant to carve for Gisela. Though at some point she must have unconsciously changed her mind.

Had the Gods influenced the decision? Or had she thoughtlessly changed her own mind? It was hard to say. A matter she would ponder later that night when she lie awake chasing sleep.

Pricking her finger with the tip of her knife, Tove smeared the few drops of blood that welled over the symbol. She watched it dry. Finan, who had been looking out across the river, turned back to her then watching the ritual. Once she finished with the blessing, Tove tossed the rune in the air, caught it, and held it out to him.

He paused before taking it. His fingers brushed over her palm, lingering briefly, then he plucked it from her hand to examine it. A few times he turned it between his fingers as though fully taking it in would unlock the unfamiliar scratches meaning.

“What is it?” Finan asked finally.

“A rune,” said Tove as though it were quite obvious.

“Yes, but what’s its meanin’?” He asked, expression somewhat exasperated by her vague response.

“It is a compass of sorts,” she said. “Keep it. Something tells me the Gods intended it for you.”

His brow arched incredulously. Of course, Finan, like his Irish kin, was a Christian. Though, the Irish brand of Christianity was tangled with myths of their ancestors and many still believed the Old Gods did have power.

“They did hm?” His tone was skeptical.

“I believe they did,” Tove affirmed lightly.

“And what would I be needin’ a compass fer? Ya believe we are t’ go t’ sea?” He was teasing then.

She shook her head.

“But they tell ya t’ give it t’ me?”

“They do not. It is a feeling,” she said simply. “I am no seer.”

Finan nodded. “Perhaps it will help me find my way in battle eh?”

Tove chuckled. “We are at peace.”

He snorted. “Ya cannot convince me ya believe it will last.”

“No. It will not last,” she agreed.

And the peace was not fated to last. A week and a half later, Danes came.

-----

“Danes! Danes Lord!”

It was mid-morning and the household warriors were all in the yard engaged in a variety of training exercises when the messenger came. His arrival created a ruckus in the yard distracting the men and causing them to still their blades. Uhtred broke from his own exercises to meet the harried man in the middle of the yard. Tove glanced at Finan with a slight knowing smirk to which the Irishman snorted and gave a slight shake of his head.

“The Danes,” the messenger uttered again through labored breathing.

Uhtred crossed his arms over his chest his expression a mixture of expectant and bored. The news was no surprise; he had been certain they would come it was only a matter of time. Danes had lusted after Wessex since they first landed in Britain.

“So, they have. Where?” Uhtred demanded.

“The south- “

“South?”

That was interesting. It meant a direct attack on Wessex and that was a bold move. Alfred’s burhs fortified that land well.

“Yes Lord. And the west from Kent,” the messenger added looking a tad disgruntled at being interrupted now he had caught his breath.

“And you have word from the King?” Uhtred prompted because there was little doubt the messenger had come from Alfred’s court.

“Aye! I do Lord,” he spoke with an air of importance that no doubt irritated Uhtred as it did the others. “He wishes for you to sail and bargain with the Danes who’ve landed in Kent. The King says It is Haesten-“

“That vile piece of weasel shit,” Uhtred snarled.

“Further instruction will come within the fortnight.”

Frustrated, Uhtred waved his hand dismissively. “And a messenger has been sent to the Bishop as well?”

“I’m to go to him next Lord,” he stated.

“Get on with it then.”

The messenger gave a short bow and was gone. With the man’s departure Uhtred turned his attention back to the warriors who were still watching the interaction with interest. Some were frowning with apparent concern while others like Tove were showing small grins of anticipation. It was what they had been preparing for, but at the same time it was not. The Danes had come, but they were to negotiate not fight.

Erkenwald was not pleased by the messenger’s news and must have come straight to the training yard upon hearing because by the time they had wrapped up there he was. A gaggle of several priests trailed behind him when he entered, and his eyes went directly to Lord Uhtred who gave a mighty sigh at the sight of him. Of course, he was not surprised only annoyed to have to deal with him. Despite that, Uhtred waved the Bishop over and they retreated into the house. With the two had gone the assembled warriors started to peel off heading toward their afternoon duties.

At Finan’s suggestion the household fighters lingered. They were to patrol that afternoon and the Irishman wanted to wait to ensure Uhtred had no special directives. Thankfully, they did not have to wait long for the meeting to be over. Bishop Erkenwald and his priests exited the house not ten minutes after his arrival and Uhtred followed shortly after them. An annoyed expression adorned his face and he said nothing as he gestured towards the stable. No comment was made about their impending mission as they readied the horses and when they were done, they set off.

For a while they just rode observing the lands passively for signs of any Danes. There were none and they started to relax after a while. Though their gaze was still vigilant, they relaxed some and began to banter among themselves.

“Did you know Haesten?” Osferth asked, the question directed at Tove.

She rode to the left of Sihtric while Osferth was slightly ahead of them on the right, so he spoke over his shoulder. A little frown turned down the corners of Tove’s lips. The question was innocent and Osferth did not notice the slight discomfort it caused her.

“Of course, I knew him,” she said shifting somewhat in her saddle. “But Njal did not like him much so we did not associate with his crews frequently.”

The former monk’s expression showed surprise at her words. His impression seemed to have been that they all got along swimmingly when they were working together which could not have been further from the truth. Danes were ever quarrelsome even amongst themselves and squabbles frequently broke out. Such squabbles were exacerbated by people like Haesten who seemed to bring trouble wherever he went and the men he kept in his service were not wholly of the honorable sort.

“Our Lord hates him,” Sihtric supplied. “Haesten swore an oath to him once...but he broke it.”

Uhtred must have heard their conversation because he also turned in his saddle.

“I saved that piece of gristle’s life, he swore himself to me in thanks, and then he fled,” Uhtred spat. “He is an honorless swine.”

It was Tove’s expression that colored with surprise then.

“And you did not kill him?” She asked.

“Haven’t had the chance, but I will. Someday,” Uhtred answered.

“As you should Lord. To break an oath is a most grievous affront to the Gods,” agreed Tove.

Uhtred gave her a rueful smile but nodded his own agreement.

“We’ll cut out his lying tongue and string ‘im up from a tree Lord. Let the ravens peck out his eyes,” Finan said jovially.

“But not unless the King allows it,” Osferth said.

“Not unless the King allows it,” Uhtred echoed though his tone was starkly different than Osferth’s matter of fact one.

As the topic of conversation turned lighter time seemed to pass quickly and before anyone knew it, they were returning for the city. With the horses stabled most everyone was headed in the direction of the tavern for a few drinks before bed. Instead of following the group, Tove chose to peel off in the direction of her home and bed. She was about to round the corner when a voice called out to her.

“Where’re you goin’?” asked the speaker.

She turned to see Rypere a few paces off with a slight lopsided grin on his face. Unable to stop herself, Tove exhaled a soft sigh. It was not that she disliked Rypere. He was kind, fairly handsome, and quite close to her in age at only twenty or so. It was only that the young Dane had no current desire for romance.

“Home,” she said shortly though her tone was polite as ever.

“You’ll not come drink with us tonight? Soon there will not be much time for leisure I expect,” Rypere pointed out, his eyes flicking over her as they often did.

Tove glanced over Rypere’s shoulder at the rest of the men. Most of them were laughing raucously and telling jokes already as they walked. Sihtric and Osferth were in some debate already. Finan, who lagged a little behind the group met her gaze with a raised brow.

“I will not,” she said, quickly looking away from Finan to focus back on Rypere. “I’d like to get some rest.”

There was a moment where Rypere looked like he wanted to attempt persuading her, but just as he opened his mouth to do so he seemed to think better of it. He offered a tight smile instead and nodded.

“I hope you rest well then, Tove,” he said and then was off.

Idly she watched Rypere’s retreating back as he headed off to join the other soldiers. A thought that perhaps this time he had taken her rejection to heart flitted through her mind. Then her eyes fell again upon Finan as if somehow he had drawn them to him. A smirk played at his lips, he winked at her. Tove shook her head at the incorigable Irishman and turned for home.

#finan fic #tlk fic #the last kingdom fic #finan the agile #finan #the last kingdom #tlk #ool fic

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dicebox · 4 years

Text

Assembly (Deadlands Fic)

Asher’s Creek

Jillian Cain rode into Asher’s Creek slowly, as much for herself as for her horse. A recent encounter with a herd of undead buffalo had left her injured and drained, and much as she preferred riding the range on her own as the Almighty’s Word, sometimes she needed a roof over her head and a decent meal in her belly. Besides, Asher’s Creek was a reasonably-sized township, and maybe there was someone in town who could do some repair work on her guns. As channels for the Almighty’s power, they were well enough, but from the purely earthly standpoint, they could probably pack a bit more punch.

She approached Asher’s Creek saloon and inn, and stopped dead fifty yards or so from the building as something at the hitching post caught her eye. The ... thing was the approximate size and shape of the average mule, but it was made of metal, boxy of body, and beeping to itself in a contented sort of way. For a moment, Jillian considered whether or not this was an abomination unto the Almighty ... then decided that as long as it wasn’t eating people, she should probably leave the machine alone. Still, she tied up her horse as far away from the metal mule as the hitching post allowed, and eyed it suspiciously as she entered the saloon.

Curiosity and self-interest spurred Jillian into examining the saloon’s patrons as she walked in. Quasi-abomination or not, the metal mule outside suggested someone with a way with machinery, and guns were just a less complicated form of machinery. If she wanted someone to look her six-shooters over with an eye to improvements, she could probably do worse. She could at least take the man’s measure, see if whatever oddity of mind possessed someone to make a mechanical mule could be effectively harnessed for a one-time fix-it job.

The ‘man’, when Jillian found what she was looking for ... wasn’t. All of the men in the inn were the usual range-riders, farmers and occasional shopkeepers; most of the women were farmwives, schoolmarms and one or two ‘ladies of the evening’. But one young woman - no more than a girl, really - stood out. No one with any sense whatsoever tried to dye their hair with boot-black, but that’s what this girl had apparently done. Her clothes were too good for the riding she’d been doing, given the tatters and dirt. She was eyeing her wallet, or its contents at least, with an expression that telegraphed nerves and chagrin.

So the girl was in trouble. That made things a little easier. Jillian went to the bar and picked up a couple of mugs of beer, then made her way to the girl’s table, putting the beer down in front of the girl without a word. The girl, for her part, made a nervous squeaking noise and cut her sharp brown eyes from the mug to Jillian’s face. Jillian could almost see the girl’s mind working, mapping out possibilities and approaches ... and then, in the worst fake accent Jillian had ever heard, she spoke up: “Sooooo ... what kin Ah do ya for?”

After eyeing the girl dubiously for a moment, Jillian just said, “Don’t bother.”

The girl blinked. “Wut.”

“The accent. Don’t bother. It needs work.” While the girl was sufficiently derailed, Jillian got down to business. “That your mechanical mule outside?”

“Uh-huh.” She bit her lip and, quietly, in an accent that was pure Northern and clearly her real one, said, “That’s Muffin. Muffin is awesome.”

Jillian felt her brain trying to actively shut down at the thought of someone naming their mechanical mule the same thing as Jillian herself had named the family cat when she was nine, and took a moment to dismiss it. Then she returned to her original text. “Is that the only mechanical know-how you’ve got?”

The girl shook her head, looking proud. “I like fixing things! Also sometimes boom, when boom is required!” Her eyes landed on the butts of Jillian’s pistols and brightened with interest. “Ooh. You’ve got guns. Did you want me to fix your guns? I can do that!”

Jillian, who hadn’t seen this level of enthusiasm in a very long time and wasn’t sure how to handle it, backed off, stalling with a question: “What’s your name?”

“Um...” For someone whose mind seemed to work a little too fast for common sense, the girl took a suspiciously long time coming up with a name. “Uh ... Aloy! Aloy O’Toole. Pleased to meet you.” She held out a hand for the shaking, biting her lower lip with every appearance of nerves overlaid with high-class manners.

Jillian raised an eyebrow and eyed the self-styled Aloy before taking the offered hand. “Are you gonna stick with that? The name.”

“It’s as good a name as any.” Aloy shrugged. “I mean, it’s something people can call me. It works.”

Having retrieved her hand from the handshake, Jillian took a long drink from her mug while deciding how to proceed. Finally, she asked, “You in some kind of trouble?”

Aloy looked Jillian over for a moment, clearly doing some unfathomable calculation in her head. Eventually, she leaned close for some semblance of privacy and said, “Well ... you know ghost rock? Well, I kind of stopped some people messing with it in bad ways that involved zombie factory workers. Boom was involved. So I sort of want to keep my head down right now, okay?” There was so much more to that story; Aloy couldn’t have been more obvious about it. She also couldn’t have been more obvious about her refusal to say more at that point.

For herself, Jillian was minded to let Aloy keep the details to a minimum. She knew what she needed to; mostly, that she and this strange Northern girl with the mechanical mule and the overactive brain had some common interests. Still, there was a difference between ‘letting this strange Yankee look at her guns’ and ‘letting this strange Yankee tag along on her mission from the Lord’. While the compassionate part of her wanted to help, and a tiny part of herself she tried to ignore these days murmured something about being glad of some company other than her horse on long lonely rides across the plains, the sensible part of her - which was most of her - was still incredibly wary. They’d start with the guns, she decided. At least she could make sure the weird little Yankee had some cash in her pocket--

Then the screams started outside, and Jillian dismissed the entire thing, getting out of her chair and out the door without so much as a word to Aloy.

Jillian froze on the balcony, then groaned at the sight that greeted her. She’d thought that herd of undead buffalo had been a little smaller than the usual plains herd. Now here were the rest of them, eight in all, rampaging through town looking for something to bite. The townsfolk had managed to stay out of biting range so far, but that wouldn’t last long, and while demons couldn’t always afford to be picky, they preferred human suits to wear. Letting one of the ... well, things that had possessed the corpses of these buffalo get hold of a human being, and things would get very ugly, very fast. She grabbed for her guns without hesitation, surveying the main street for a first target.

Something nudged her in the back, and when Jillian turned to look, she saw Aloy running past, the pitter-patter of truly inappropriate shoes on balcony boards nearly unheard over the sound of the miniature stampede. She unhitched the mechanical mule, grabbed something that looked like a blunderbuss gone wrong off its back, then shouted, “Muffin! CHARGE!”

Jillian watched, dumbfounded, as the mechanical mule surged forward on its weird metal legs and rammed its head into the nearest undead buffalo, knocking it into the front wall of the local jailhouse. Aloy pointed her weird blunderbuss at another one, and while there was still a lot more shooting to be done, Jillian had to watch the trigger pulled on that thing. Not least because if it exploded in the girl’s face, something would probably have to be done for her.

The expected explosion never happened. Instead, little glass tubes along the side of the blunderbuss lit up with a faint whining noise before lightning arced from the barrel, hitting her target and reducing it to a smoking, jittering pile of spoiled buffalo meat. The grin on Aloy’s face was disturbing as she cried, jubilance personified, “THE UPGRADES WORK!”

Jillian only allowed herself time to side-eye the weird little Yankee briefly before getting her mind back on business. She’d thought she was too tired for much more of this kind of thing, but the Lord didn’t accept that kind of excuse, and the power rose up in her with the words, “BACK TO THE HELL FROM WHENCE YE CAME, ABOMINATIONS, IN THE NAME OF THE LORD!” Even as she spoke, she started shooting.

Later

Jillian and Aloy, now with the understanding that their money was no good at the Asher’s Creek Saloon, sat back in their corner, exhausted and a little battered, but breathing. Aloy spent most of the meal grumbling into her beans: “It’s gonna take weeks to get the dents out of Muffin. And a new ball peen hammer. He hates the hammer. I’m gonna have to chase him around the street for an hour.”

Jillian considered asking why she kept treating her machine like it was alive, and then decided against it. For all her quirks, Aloy was clearly pretty handy. Which brought her back to her original thought: “So do you work with ... normal guns?”

“Oh, yeah, I wanted to ask you about that!” Aloy’s eyes brightened and she looked over Jillian’s holsters in a covetous sort of way. “I mean, those are okay? But I could make them so much better - more accurate, more boom, maybe channel that ... God thing you do better, even. I’d need a couple of hours for the work and probably a day or so to let the bruises on my shoulder fade so I don’t twitch wrong and mess it up, but... Did you want me to?”

Jillian considered. Aloy talked too much, flailed too much, and was a little unsettling at the best of times. Still, she could get her shit together when she had to and that Muffin thing, however bizarre, was useful. After a long moment to consider her words, she said, “Well ... I guess you can tell how I’m not too fond of the undead and those that make them, any more than you say you are. Might be I could use a gunsmith on the regular, if they don’t mind not having a steady home. Makes it hard to find a body, being on the move all the time.”

Aloy tilted her head as she thought over what Jillian had said ... and what she left unsaid. Then she smiled bright as a sunrise on a clear day. ��I could do that.” Then she leaned out the window and called, “Did you hear that, Muffin? Adventure!”

Quietly, so as not to be heard over the delighted beeping of the mechanical mule, Jillian sighed and muttered, “What did I get myself into?”

#Deadlands #Fic #jillian cain #aloy o'toole

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chaoskirin · 5 years

Text

Title: Prince Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 2546 Summary: Many denizens of Erit go through their whole lives without seeing a harpy prince...

Content warning: Discussion of arranged marriages/discussion of non-consensual sex.

---

Eyoir remembered little about his youth, except that he was somehow important to the nest. A golden child, they called him--for his brilliant white-gold feathers, of course--a harpy prince who would sire daughters of status and sons of intrigue.

He did stand out among the other chicks, as their feathers were a much darker yellow. And although his status caused the watchers to shower him with gifts and attention, his nestmates never begrudged him. All girls, they were regularly told that if they appealed to Eyoir, they might be with him, whatever that meant. It sounded like a grand prize, so the young hens didn't complain.

Meanwhile, Eyoir had everything he wanted. Playmates, treasures, the attention of the matriarch and her matrons. When he was old enough, he received his own room, away from the girls, in a suite with the rest of the princes.

He never knew what happened to his nestmates. The older princes told him that they went out into the world--to politic, to run the aerie, to wage wars and protect their homes. Princes didn't do such things, he was told. Their job was to exist. And sometimes, one of the older hens would appear and stay in one of the princes' rooms for a while with the door closed. These occasional visitors would bring gifts for the little ones--especially Eyoir--then leave forever.

One day, he learned that his suite was called a Sylgig--a gathering of princes. When he asked what that meant, his older kin side-eyed each other with uncomfortable scowls before one finally said, "I suppose you're old enough to know."

There were two kinds of harpies, the older princes explained. The hens, who went out into the world and did things--

"What things?" Eyoir asked.

All sorts of things, it turned out. Everything, technically. They led the aerie. They brokered treaties with other aeries. They maintained diplomatic relations with the other species on the planet (called Erit, if the Oldermost Prince remembered right). They traded, they made things, they built great cities and they could fly all day if they wanted, in a sky warmed by a beautiful golden sun.

"And why are we here? Here in this Sylgig?"

It took a while for the princes to explain the differences between male and female harpies to the young fledgling, though he listened with rapt attention. They were different from each other, and the two different kinds of harpies could make eggs if they got together, which was very important. But here, in the Southbar Aerie, there were almost forty hens to every prince. And so the princes were kept safe.

One of the younger princes said something about being captive, which Eyoir didn't understand. He felt safe and comfortable and did not feel captive at all. When he said as much, the other princes looked at him as if they were very sad.

He began to cry because if everyone else was sad, he ought to be sad, too, so the Oldermost declared the conversation over.

When he reached his ninth cycle, he learned he'd be visiting a clawful of matrons from the Northbar Aerie. At first, Eyoir thought nothing of it, though he'd never left the Sylgig before. He imagined the rest of the world was much like his nest--safe, warm, though a bit boring--and felt little anxiety at the prospect of leaving it.

On the chosen day, he caught his first glimpse of the sky, and he felt fear.

He wasn't scared in the usual way; he didn't want to run and hide within the draping feathers of the older princes as he sometimes did in the face of New Things. He also didn't experience the gleeful surprise he felt when his younger peers would chase and jump out at him in play.

But this sky... it encompassed him. It stretched farther than he could see and then continued for even longer than he could imagine. Eyoir knew this to be true without asking the hens, because he felt it in his very heart. The terror of the cerulean expanse exhilarated him and left him in awe.

Then, the hens shuffled him into an enclosed car and he learned the discomfiting sense of claustrophobia.

He thought of nothing but the sky for the rest of the day. Now he understood flight and how free it must feel to soar among the white puffy things high above the ground. He asked the hens what they were, and one of them gently told him they were clouds. He asked if he could fly to them, and she told him his wings would never be strong enough. He asked how the car flew, then, if it had no wings at all, and she told him it just did, and that he should stop asking questions.

When they reached Northbar, his handlers guided him into a huge hall with high windows and sheer draperies of all colors. His own matriarch stood there, next to another important-looking hen. They both smiled at him as he approached. He asked, "can I look at the clouds again?"

"Eyoir, this is Senda, the matriarch of Northbar," his matriarch said, ignoring his question. "Do you know what that means?"

"Of course he does, Aycrest," Senda said. "And I'm very pleased."

He was paraded before a few other hens, though he didn't remember their names. They were Senda's daughters, though, and wore pretty baubles and beads, even on their wings. Eyoir asked if they could fly with all those things tangled in their feathers, and the oldest one laughed and told him of course not. But the daughters of the matriarch had no need to fly.

Other words were thrown about, like breeding and trade. Would Eyoir's golden feathers breed true? Hopefully. And if not this generation, surely in the next, as things sometimes occurred. And then if not, Aycrest's daughters would see to amending the treaty.

So it was settled. Aycrest insisted that this wouldn't happen until he was at least fourteen seasons. Eyoir tried to ask what she meant, but his hens dragged him away from the two matriarchs and back out to the car. He was too preoccupied with looking for the clouds to care much, anyway.

His ache for the sky diminished over time, though he asked about it often enough that the hens installed a window in his room. It didn't open, so he couldn't feel the cool breeze, but at least he could look out into the city and imagine how it ran. He saw strange symbols at times, on signs and occasionally on a stray bit of paper. The Oldermost told him those were letters, and that hens used them to communicate.

Each one of the other princes knew some of the sounds the letters made. In his boredom, Eyoir put them together and taught himself how to read. One of the watcher hens learned this one day as he idly sounded out the words on her care list.

The other princes warned him that the hens would be angry if they knew, but this watcher found it adorable, and brought him books to read thereafter.

As he read, he learned. Erit was bigger than he ever imagined, with dozens of landmasses called "continents" and more countries than anyone could ever really count. And so many different kinds of people lived in these places, all so unique and beautiful, that he wanted to meet every single one. He would touch their soft hair and tell them what a wonder it was!

Learning made the world less scary. He tried to teach the other princes, even the one who said they were captives so many seasons ago. Some of them showed passing interest, but they didn't understand because they couldn't read it for themselves.

So Eyoir taught them how to read.

Then they understood.

Something transpired one night, though Eyoir slept through most of it. When he woke, some of the older princes were gone, and one was quite worse for wear. His feathers were matted and broken, and dyed a strange brownish color the others called blood. Eyoir realized this prince was injured, though it took him a moment to understand as he had only read about such things.

With his knowledge, Eyoir formed bandages out of old blankets and bound his wounds. The prince, who was just barely older than Eyoir, said he helped the others escape, but he was captured.

The Oldermost was killed.

The injured prince fell asleep, so Eyoir went to stare out his window at the stars. He loved stars, though they only came out at night. Before he could read, he used to connect them like little dots and make pictures from them, only to discover that astronomers had done the same thing thousands of years prior.

When the prince awoke, he was feverish. Infection could cause the body temperature to rise and for cuts to puff out and become angry-red, and that was something Eyoir had read about, too. But the hens didn't come to help, and everyone feared the injured prince would die.

Eyoir feared the hens were letting them see this on purpose.

But he had books, some of which provided instructions to create salves and medicines out of mold. He left his food next to the heat of his window for several days, urging the growth of what he hoped would be vestrinx, all while the prince continued to deteriorate from infection.

As soon as the green-grey mold appeared, he scraped some into a bowl and begged the god of healing for her guidance. He was unacquainted with Faoliia, but he hoped she'd see him and answer his call.

"Please," he begged.

He'd mixed food and drink before, sometimes out of boredom and sometimes to create exciting new flavors. But Eyoir had never seen any of his recipes turn bright red before. And in the back of his mind, he heard her voice, like the song of an angel. It said "This time." and nothing else. He knew then that his medicine would heal the young prince.

It took time to wake him up. "Girgee," Eyoir said. "You have to drink this." The other princes sat him up as Eyoir coaxed the red draught past his lips. it took well over an hour, but the medicine slowly disappeared.

In the morning, his wounds were gone and he seemed weak, but well. Hungry, Girgee ate his own morning meal, then many of the other princes shared theirs, as well. By mid-day, he could sit up on his own.

"Eyoir," he said. "Thank you. But you must know--Faoliia appeared to me as I dreamed and told me that you belong to her now."

Eyoir already knew this, so he said "yes." It seemed a trifling price to pay to save his friend, though, so he would enter the healing god's service gladly. Unsure of how he could serve her while captive in the Sylgig, he trusted her to show him the way.

The hens reappeared a full span later. They took Eyoir's books in their rage.

Every so often, a new prince would appear within the suite, barely verbal and carefree. Eyoir hesitated to tell them the reality of their situation, but if they asked questions, he would not lie to them. He hoped one day they would never have to ask those questions again.

In time, he came to understand the treaty struck with the Northbar Aerie, so in his fourteenth season, the hens had to restrain him in order to transport him. For the first time, he felt the haze of a sedative. When he awoke, he did so at the feet of Senda's daughters.

"Are you finally awake?" she asked.

Eyoir found himself unbound, but sluggish.

The hen leaned over him, her yellow eyes meeting his with curiosity. "I am Sendiri," she said. "And we have little time."

"You will not bed me," Eyoir snarled. He struggled to get his legs beneath him, but the effort proved futile. "I will fight as I can, and you will be scarred when we are done."

"You misunderstand," Sendiri said. Her curtains fluttered; the breeze carried the pheromone scent of a prince. The Oldermost perched in the window.

"They said you were dead," Eyoir managed. Then he realized how terrible their morale was after they learned of their oldest prince's demise. A lie, designed to keep them in line.

"We must leave now," the Oldermost said.

"Can you carry him?" Sendiri asked.

"He is young enough, and my wings are strong enough. I will have help at the border."

Sendiri nodded. "Then go."

They went, under the cover of night, under the sparkling stars. The Oldermost carried him on silent feathers through Northbar, past the walls, and out over a huge expanse of black ink that could have only been the ocean. They came to roost on an island, made almost invisible by seaspray smashing against the rocks.

Others waited for them, taking Eyoir into their warm claws and guiding him to the fire, where he slept the last of the sedative away.

They had allies, Eyoir found out when he woke. He met his first banshee under the morning light, who injected a stinging cocktail into the great vein of his neck. Over the course of several hours, his feathers, his skin, and even his scales turned from bright gold to pale green.

"This will mask his scent for several days," the banshee said. "We'll be able to smuggle him across the ocean."

"Where?" the Oldermost asked.

"North, to Kyrnis."

And then the old harpy took Eyoir's face in his hands, and smiled a tearful goodbye. "Remember, you are my son, and I love you."

---

"You're still green," Ptery said, gently combing their claws through Craglin's feathers. "And your name--"

"Craglin is a hen's name," he said. "Eyoir means son of the light."

Ptery buried their face in Craglin's chest feathers, inhaling their deep cinnamon-vanilla-spice scent. They were glad for that maleness, as there was something about a prince's pheromones one couldn't find anywhere else. A comfort. A reminder of peace and serenity. "Do you think they would ever come looking for you?"

"Every aerie on peaceful terms with Southbar would know of the reward for my return," Craglin said. "It's impossible to know who to trust. But I'm safe, as long as..."

He trailed off.

Ptery didn't intrude on his thoughts until he chuckled, rolling over to play with their crest. "Ah," he said. "Maybe I'm scared for no reason."

"Maybe," Ptery agreed, but they didn't know much about the southern harpies. Craglin may very well have been in danger of being spirited away. "And Faoliia. You've been in her service..."

"Since I arrived. Her temple was my home. Maybe she intended for me to find you and set you on the right path."

His teeth gently caught Ptery's jawline; they giggled as he rolled them over. "I don't know what kind of path this is," Ptery said. "But I'm sure I like it."

Craglin pulled the covers over them both, and they enjoyed each others' bodies one last time before the sunrise.

#the bestiary #fantasy #modern fantasy #harpy #wings #monster #myth #mythology #sci-fi #mythological creature #ck's art #ck's original art #ck writes

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