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sonoftatooine · 3 years

Note

ooh can I ask about any "Sith Anakin" of your choice and Winter Soldier AU for the ask game?

Hi, thanks for the ask! :D

SITH ANAKIN

My Raised as a Sith Anakin AU is pretty much what the name suggests - instead of becoming a Jedi at the end of TPM, Yoda senses too much danger in Anakin's training and refuses to admit him into the order, and because of this he's sent back to Tatooine and snatched up by Palpatine. The AU itself is made up of a series of fics which - very loosely - follow along the lines of various events of TCW. This particular extract is from 'The Clone Trooper', which is one of the very early fics in the series, and is one of the first things I wrote for SW:

The planet was nothing but dust and storms and death, and would have been noted as little more than an uninteresting blip on a starpilot's navigation computer if not for the raging battle that had just been waged on its surface several standard hours ago. Now, all was quiet—or it would have been, if not for the frequent winds that roared endlessly across the plains, and the crackling of bright, hungry flames in the distance. But beneath it, there was no shouting of soldiers, no screams of civilians—not even the inexorable clanking march of a battalion of droids carried through the air. All was silent. All was still.

Into this silence came two figures, one organic, one droid. The first was tall, cloaked in black with a deep hood pulled low over his head and his face covered up to the eyes. The second was a B1 series battle droid, painted with stark black stripes and clutching a blaster in one hand, and a hand-held scanner in the other. Despite one's expression being hidden, and the other incapable of forming an expression in the first place, neither seemed happy to be there.

With a sigh, Vader adjusted the cloth he had tied over his nose and mouth back on board the Twilight, his airways raw and his eyes stinging. It was a rather feeble barrier against the conditions of the planet, but the best he had had on hand. Really, it had been just his luck to arrive on this Force-damned little backwater just as a ferocious dust storm was kicking up. The stuff was whirling in the air so thick it was as if a muddy shroud had settled about them, absolute and impenetrable—he could barely have seen his own hand stretched out before him even if his eyes weren't being relentlessly assaulted with grit. It wouldn't have surprised him if he completed his mission only to find his ship half-buried under it once he returned. And that was to say nothing of Bee-One and himself in the long trek across the plain ahead of them. And that, that would not do.

The wind was howling all around him like the wailing of the dead, but Vader did not need an overactive imagination to hear the echoes of the battle reverberating in the Force. So little time had passed since the desolate plain had been full of living beings, bleeding out their suffering into the atmosphere around them, saturated thick with their fear, their anger and pain and hatred. It rushed in on him like the tides at Kamino as he opened himself up to the Force, so sudden and intense that it might have bowled him over had it not been for his years of training. He winced at the sensation—the Force was always so very loud, too loud and too bright, and now it burnt as if he were filled from crown to toe with too-hot lava—and his first instinct, as always, was to recoil. He forced himself to endure, pulling and pulling at each sensation until they lit the furnace of his own fury, and he felt his power uncoil like a dragon in his chest. The dust halted in its tracks.

“Thanks!,” came Bee-One's chipper voice over the roar of the wind. His attention was no longer on the scanner, but on the dust around them. The storm raged around them as fiercely as ever, but before the dust could reach them, it was pushed away, like filings repelled from a magnet. “That's a pretty handy trick!”

“My master has taught me a great deal,” Vader replied, his voice muffled by the cloth covering his face. He tried not to think about the one time he had seen Sidious do this, on another planet, with the sands that should have kept the Outlanders at bay parting before his new owner and closing about him like a cage, the blazing wreck of Watto's shop a faint orange glow in the distance, and his mother's screams drowned out by the shrieking of the winds— “Come on, we had better get moving.”

“Roger, roger!” It was the way Bee-One always said it—ever so slightly wry for all his chirpiness—and Vader clung to the familiarity of it, pushing the memories away. This was not Tatooine. No matter how much it may remind him— This was not Tatooine.

WINTER SOLDIER AU

So, I've managed to end up with two separate Winter Soldier AUs, so hopefully this is the one you wanted! This one is based on the premise that Anakin didn't turn to the Dark Side during ROTS and manages to escape Order 66 with a pregnant Padme. Later, the whole Skywalker family is captured by the Empire and Anakin has his memory wiped by Palpatine. It features sort of ghost Padme communicating with her family through dreams and Luke and Leia as Palpatine's adopted wards. This is a little snippet of a scene between Anakin and Leia that I'm writing (just for context, Leia knows that he's her father at this point but he doesn't remember):

"Lord Vader!" she exclaimed eyes wide as her bright little Force presence flared up in surprise. He raised his eyebrows at her expectantly, refusing to show any sign of being abashed at being caught unmasked and wandering through the halls of his master's private collection in the middle of the night. The little princess may be one of his master's heirs, but she was still a child - one who should have been asleep and safely tucked away in bed hours ago.

"Your Highness," he said. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

Leia, unsurprisingly, did not have the grace to look even remotely sheepish at having been caught so flagrantly flouting her father's rules and escaping both her nanny and her guards to boot. Instead, small arms crossed in a mimicry of his own pose, she simply stared up at him, unblinking and defiant, bestowing upon him the fiercest pout she could muster.

"I couldn't sleep," she said ever so slightly petulant. "What are you doing up?"

Vader frowned down at her, unimpressed.

"Thinking."

"About what?"

"About things not for the ears of princesses who should be in bed" he retorted sternly. Apparently, the girl was no more impressed by his evasiveness as he was by her antics, but that didn't mean she was going to get the answers she wanted. The gaze he levelled her with would have been enough to make one of his officers quake in their boots had they known to recognise him without his mask, but the unruly child did not so much as twitch under his firm stare. She glared right back at him, unrepentant.

"I don't want to go to bed," she snapped. "I'm not sleepy!"

Vader sighed. Clearly the hard line was not the right approach, but really, he should have expected that. Little Princess Leia had never been one to be cowed by disapproving words.

"You will be in the morning," he explained, with a patience that he suspected would earn him a few raised eyebrows from his men had they been here. "And then your father will be cross with you for wandering about the Palace on your own."

Mentioning his master was the wrong thing to say. All of a sudden, Leia's eyes filled with tears.

"He's not my father!," she cried stamping her foot on the ground with all the force she could muster. "He's horrible and I hate him! He punishes me no matter what I do so I might as well do something to get in trouble for."

ASK ME ABOUT MY WIPS

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love-and-anarchy-au · 3 years

Text

Love & Anarchy: Chapter 27

heyy, how you doin? i’m going through a rough writer's block, so i'm pretty dismotivated :') anyways, i have nothing to say about this chapter as it just is xd. have a nice week and enjoy this chapter <3

REMEMBER THIS AU HAPPENS IN THE SAME UNIVERSE THAT THIS ONE

Find out what this AU is about here

Masterlist

Tag list: @healing-winston-pratt @honey-hippie-harper @obsidianfr3sk @nodrianbcyes @everyone-has-a-nightmare @redassassin @magykaldealings @cerenoya @cassin-the-assasin @cindersnightmare

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Words

23,222

Part 3: A man named Ace Anarchy

17 years old Ace - Age of Anarchy Year 0

“I can’t believe we’ve done this.”

“Well, I do.”

Margot hit Henry.

“When will Leroy and Honey come back?” Carrie asked, as she made tea and coffee with Bruce in the kitchen.

“I have not even the slightest idea,” replied Ace, who was reading the book James had lent him, on the couch. He didn't have much to do but wait, so he had sat down to read. However, he could tell when someone requested his attention, so he put the book aside and took the cups that Carrie and Bruce had, with his invisible hands. He distributed them throughout the room, although now they were all in the living room. Coffee for everyone except Carrie and Ace, who were drinking tea this time. He didn’t need more stimulus, but to calm down.

They were at James Roselo's apartment, waiting for Honey and Leroy to arrive with news from the city. Gatlon was a mess, succumbed to an impressive social earthquake and the biggest crisis it had ever experienced. The news channels were all cut off, given that, after the Anarchists had taken the most watched channel to announce they mayor’s assasination, other people had taken their example and started looting the buildings to the fullest extent (in addition, the regular civilians were very scared to go out, practically nobody went out to work). Every day more sirens and more police and even military were heard, but the rebels were too many and, also, they were prodigies.

They had no chance against them and their abilities.

Ace knew that.

He had always known.

That's why he was so calm, so relaxed, sitting cross-legged in the leather chair, his helmet hugged by his right arm, and his mental hands holding his cup of tea, waiting for Honey and Leroy to return from their search for news (it was the only way to know what was happening: go to the place of the possible events or where there were informants and/or witnesses of the event of interest to the Anarchists).

All but Margot and Ace (who were the only ones staying far from the riots, since powers of such magnitude were not required), were looking like a mess or with traces of foreign blood on their skins. Carrie's hair was disheveled, outside of her ponytail, and her boots were stained with brown scabs (Ace preferred not to know if it was blood or mud; his senses said it was blood but to his eyes it looked like dry mud). Henry and Bruce, meanwhile, were full of white powder that seemed to be indelible; they were tangible and living ghosts. They hadn't had a minute to shower or to clean themselves, nor did they want to, so there they were, sipping hot drinks and waiting for their Anarchists brothers to arrive.

Suddenly, the door to the apartment was thrown open, giving way to two even more tatty beings.

“Oh God,” Carrie sighed and she instantly went into the hallway looking for something.

Honey Harper and Leroy Flinn looked like soldiers who had been through the worst battles and lost them all. Honey's dress was ripped, her leg was bleeding, her hair was disheveled in a blonde aura; a hive full of buzzing bees. She was hanging on to Leroy, who didn't have much to brag about either: one of his teeth were missing (Ace could see the gap between his gasps), and his robe had been snipped to death. They were falling apart like ancient buildings under the advance of modern society.

Ace jumped up to help them and closed the door with his powers; no one could see them, otherwise they would report them and they would come looking for them (an ambush was always a disadvantage, no matter how powerful those surprised were). Henry and Margot ran from the blow of the armchairs and went in search of what Carrie had already gone looking for.

“Oh no, what happened?” Henry asked, kneeling to look at Honey.

She shot him an angry look, despite her collapse.

“Guess.”

Leroy gasped and fell to his knees to the ground, rendered like a soldier who knew he had lost the war. Ace rearranged the individual chairs to return a stretcher for the boy. He grabbed him below the knees and under the armpits (with the help of his powers, which were pulling at his clothes), and laid him on the makeshift stretcher. Leroy was breathing through his mouth, and his eyes were closed, as if reality were too much agony for him.

“They recognized us,” he replied to Henry's question. Margot groaned.

“Of course they did.”

Carrie, who had returned from looking for a first aid kit, grabbed Margot’s hands and put a bottle of ethyl alcohol between them.

“Collaborate,” she commanded, in her soft voice.

Margot grunted again and went to assist Honey, even though she was already being assisted by Bruce, who had cleaned his dusty hands to do that.

Ace leaned in to clearly see what was going on. He lifted the couch with his powers and placed it at the level of his hips, for comfort. He had no idea about laughter or medicine, but neither could they call a doctor (a civilian who was not a prodigy would want to help someone who was destroying a society that favored them, for sure) so it would be necessary to improvise.

“What shall we do?” Ace asked Bruce, who seemed to be the one who knew the most.

Bruce looked at him, depressed.

“Well… ummm… let's cut Honey’s dress in order to be able to clean and sew the wound properly.”

Ace nodded and used his imaginary hands as scissors. With an acceptable precision, he cut a rectangle of cloth that used to be yellow (now it was red and black) that covered Honey's wound on her thigh. Wasting no more time and without disgust, he used his real hands to put pressure on the wound and prevent her from bleeding even more.

That was the only thing he knew about medicine and he already had his hands stained with blood from before.

Bruce took the ethyl alcohol from Margot's hands and the cotton that Carrie had in the first aid kit. He moistened the cotton with a little bit and began to clean the wound after he asked Ace to stop putting pressure there, very careful not to hurt Honey, though it was useless, as she cursed under her breath anyway. All of them but Henry, who was assisting Leroy, gazed at the wound, only to become pale when it was partially cleared and showed all its deadly potential.

Ace might not know anything about medicine, but he knew that this wound was serious.

Bruce bit his lip.

“Sister, what happened?” Carrie asked and took her sister's hand. Honey didn't reject her (there was no point in expending effort rejecting affection while you were bleeding to death).

“I… I don't know. It happened so fast… we were going back to Leroy’s lab to pick up some stuff he needed and then we would search for some news but… they found us. They were waiting for us, they tried to arrest us, it went wrong. There weren’t only cops but also prodigies and citizens that hated us… everyone started shooting and the last thing I knew is that I had been hurt.”

Margot, who had moved away from her as soon as she saw Honey's wound and was handing Leroy an ice pack to ease her bruising, commented:

“If they know who we are, then they know where we live.”

Ace nodded.

“We’ll have to find somewhere to live.”

Henry frowned.

“Weren’t we living here?”

Ace denied, though what Henry had just said was true (they were living there, but the apartment was quite uncomfortable for seven people that were the most wanted by the goverment). He moved away from Honey since Bruce seemed to have everything under control and approached the table, to clear it in a blink of an eye; all the weapons, food dishes and other garbage went to its place. Once the table was cleared, he took a map out of his pocket. He spread it on the table; he took up all of his space. Margot left Leroy to see what the table was.

“Nice, are we renting a property? I'm sure anyone would be pleased to sell us an apartment,” she joked sarcastically. Honey laughed from her gurney, though it cost her a groan of pain.

Ace looked at Margot with a raised eyebrow.

“Now that we are an organization, we must have a place where to live and organize everything we will do, as this isn’t over. I’ve exhaustively analyzed all of Gatlon’s tall buildings and got to the conclusion that the best place for us to have our headquarters, is here.”

He pointed a finger at the point marked on the map, and showed it to the others.

Margot didn't loosen her brow.

“Gatlon City’s Cathedral? What are we, Anarchists In the Name of God?”

Henry bit back a laugh. Ace smirked.

“No, Margot my dear, we are the gods, and we deserve our own cathedral,” he replied and earned a smile from Margot. He continued presenting the arguments, “Gatlon's Cathedral is the perfect place for us to be safe: it has a bell tower higher than the buildings around, it's in downtown’s limits and the beginning of the suburbs. It’s also next to the highway that limits Gatlon. We’ll see every enemy coming and leaving, every prodigy that wants to help, and it's big enough for us to do anything we please without bothering each other.”

Henry took a notebook out of his pocket.

“You should be a real-stater, not a revolutionary.”

Laugh, Ace; showing humanity to your mates will make you earn their affection and loyalty.

He allowed himself to laugh. It sounded strange in his mouth, after having spent so much time without laughing like that.

For the others too, because they looked at him in surprise (except Margot, who was looking at him with a subtle smile).

“Do you agree?” requested Ace, seeking the approval of his peers. Henry shrugged.

“I guess. Sounds cool.”

Carrie and Bruce nodded in agreement. Margot rolled her eyes, but there was a smile on her lips.

“Let's do it,” she exclaimed.

Honey groaned when Bruce touched her wound.

“Same,” she replied. Ace approached them again.

Bruce was preparing the needle and the thread, but Ace came up with a better idea.

“Your power is to unite and separate atoms, isn't it? Of any kind?” he questioned. Bruce smiled and replied:

“Exactly.”

Ace smiled, enigmatic.

“Why don't you suture the wound with your abilities? You’d just have to unite the atoms of skin on top of the wound.”

Bruce gulped.

“I-I could try.”

Ace nodded and looked at Honey, who had her eyes closed in pain.

Bruce took a deep breath and put his hands a few inches over the wound, which was still bleeding. He closed his eyes and breathed in, trying not to spread germs. Suddenly, Honey's skin began to expand and form bridges to reach the other side of the wound. The atoms, which formed cells, united and reproduced in seconds, pulling the skin further away. The exposed flesh also began to grow, approaching the top layer of skin. Little by little, the wound was covered until only new skin remained and it seemed that nothing had happened.

Honey moaned.

“Thanks, Bruce,” she thanked him and she took Ace's hand to stand up. Carrie went to her rescue instantly, and escorted her to the bathroom to clean herself.

Ace knelt next to Leroy, who stared blankly at the ceiling.

“What did they do to you?”

Leroy looked away from his eyes.

“Not much. I was lucky in comparison to Honey.”

Ace nodded and felt Leroy's bones. They were intact, though he, too, felt his bruises throbbing, sharp and heavy.

“How do you feel about moving to the cathedral?” Ace asked him, as he handed him a glass of water and arranged the chairs so that he could sit and recline comfortably. Leroy accepted the glass and sipped from the water. The glass was left with a blood stain.

“As long as we stick together, it is as comfortable as any other place.”

Ace gave a proud, compassionate smile and gestured for Margot to hand him some cotton. Margot snorted, and threw it at him. Ace caught him with his mental hands and shot a smug expression at her.

“Cheater,” she replied and a memory was unearthed in Ace's mind. One night, a coast, a beach, three people, a soul, a jar of chips, a dispute, three skills, a complaint, a word, a being...

Ace's throat tied like a rope around his neck.

Alexandra.

She had already been dead for two years.

Seven hundred and twenty days without her laugh.

Cheater.

ALESSANDRA!

Ace blinked and slapped the memories away.

They were his fuel but he shouldn't waste it on knotted throats and burning eyes.

No.

He had to invest everything in destroying buildings, collapsing bridges, blowing up highways. All his power was made to be anarchic, to be free, to be destructive.

He was Ace Anarchy, after all.

Not Alec Artino.

Not Ace Artino.

Ace Anarchy.

The Revolutionary.

The Savior.

That he had chosen to be.

That he must be.

There was no going back.

He stood up and laced his fingers together. He walked away from Leroy's couch and walked over to the piano to sit on its stool and begin to play, as James had taught him so long ago. His lessons had been short but fruitful, as Ace remembered every note, every word, every lesson. His fingers flowed like water in a stream and the melody too, only it was a blizzard seeping into the Anarchists eardrums. Margot came closer to listen better and Ace hoped that Alexandra's spirit possessed her and claimed that this music was depressing, but the girl just closed her eyes, feeling the music throb inside her.

Ace felt it too.

And he played until the sun went down and the citizens hid in their apartments (if they had even come out).

He relaxed his hands and turned, after releasing a breath of air.

All the Anarchists were looking at him; Honey and Margot were even drinking wine from a bottle, sitting in the wooden and leather chairs. Bruce's mouth was gawking, Henry was looking at him with arched eyebrows, and Leroy and Carrie were smiling calmly. They were impressed.

Ace smiled and tried not to blush, though he never did.

Honey clapped her hands enthusiastically and tossed him the bottle of wine, knowing he would cut her off.

Sure enough, Ace cut her off and took a sip from the spout as gracefully as possible. The wine was delicious; you could taste the presence of red fruits and the years of a good vintage in its flavor. Margot arched an eyebrow, pleased.

“Cheers.”

Ace raised the bottle, as if thanking her, as if thanking them for everything.

“Cheers.”

The night had died.

And only the vestiges of it remained in the sky, a couple of stars stronger than the others.

The Anarchists were in front of Gatlon’s Cathedral, which looked like a castle with its three floors, its Gothic towers and its bell tower (the tallest). They all were wearing their Anarchist uniforms, hidden in the wreckage of the night, waiting for the first ray of light to signal to take the cathedral and make it their own. Ace and Margot were the only ones who weren't relaxed and were staring at the sky in a position that would later cause torticollis. They were impatient.

Ace lowered his head and looked at his brothers. Honey looked like nothing had happened to her and Leroy only had a couple of bruises and a missing tooth as evidence of their ambush. Bruce was a second away from falling asleep, and Ace didn't blame him, since they had been planning all night how to take the cathedral without intermediaries. Henry and Carrie were playing with the flowers that grew on the asphalt; the girl made the flowers grow and the boy melted his hand over them, causing them to burn and turn to ashes. Ace heard the contact of the lava with the plants, like a ssssss.

Margot nudged him, subtly, compared to her usual brusqueness and pointed her index finger at the sky, which bathed in light. Ace nodded and gestured for the others to follow him to the entrance to the main nave. He used his mental hands to open the huge wooden doors without smashing them, and the others went through them. Once they were all inside, he closed the gates so that only he could open it.

When he turned his gaze to his Anarchists, they all stared at the ceiling, mesmerized.

It was completely normal, of course. The ceiling was lined with Gothic arches, painted with curved and detailed patterns, generating a feeling of love and at the same time, insignificance. The ceiling was eighty feet above the ground, and it was visible from the upper corridors if you poked your head out. There were many pillars, which supported the ceiling and clung to it in such a fluid way that it seemed impossible it could have been made by a mere human.

Everything in the cathedral was superior to the usual Gatlon City architecture.

Ace continued moving forward through the main nave, while the others admired the architecture that he already knew so well, despite the years. As he toured the space surrounding him, he remembered how he felt the first time he was there, with his brother’s company. That one time, it was his brother who had guided him through the nave, who had taken his hand and led him to their front seats. That time was the first time Ace went to mass without his sister and how awe inspiring the cathedral was compared to the church in his town, he was overwhelmed.

Yet there he was, walking confidently to the chancel, as he hadn't walked since he was twelve, the last time he had gone to mass.

We weren't a super religious influence, were we?

He shook himself with a sad smile and reached the chancel, which had Mary with a colorful and impressive stained glass window behind her. Although at some point in his life (most of it, in fact) that image had given him peace and comfort, today it only rubbed him in the face as if everything had been a delusion, as he had hoped that a non-existent being would save him from dying in the streets, as it had made him naive, stupid, dependent.

However, thanks to Julieta’s stories, he had realized that he had to be the Savior.

And he would be.

He turned to look at his Anarchists, who were still in trance by the inhuman architecture of the building. Margot was the only one who had reached the chancel with him and was waiting for his instructions. Honey was praying under her breath, and Carrie was not looking at the ceiling but ahead. For their part, Henry, Bruce and Leroy looked like three children seeing art for the first time. Ace sighed and snapped his fingers a few times. They all turned their attention to him.

“Tempest, Atomic Brain, come with me. Queen Bee, Cyanide, Flower Power and Magma, please confirm that we are the only people here,” he commanded and turned right, towards the stairs by the corner of the side aisle. Bruce and Margot followed him, and Ace noticed how the others split up to inspect the cathedral.

The stairs were made out of rock, with wide and straight staircases. Ace, Margot, and Bruce ascended two at a time, as they had to be in the bell tower by the time the sun touched most of Gatlon's buildings. While Bruce stumbled a couple of times, Ace and Margot were impervious throughout the ascent, until they reached the top floor and the stairs became narrower and made of wood.

Ace was the one who reached the highest point of the cathedral first. Margot and Bruce followed.

“Wow,” Bruce exclaimed, surprised at how high they had come here in such a short time.

Ace smirked and pulled a flag out of his pocket. Bruce took it between his fingers, pressed one end against the wooden pillars of that part of the tower and closed his eyes. In a second, part of the flag was one with the pillar, and it was fluttering in the wind, black, free and with a yellow ‘A’ painted in the center. Margot smiled through her teeth and the sky thundered loudly, suddenly filled with dark clouds. Ace rang the bells, one, two, ten times, until he could see how the cathedral’s neighbors were gathering below, at his feet.

Bruce started laughing, proud and happy of their achievement, and Ace's and Margot's laughter joined his uncontrollable laughter. They had the cathedral, they had their fortress, they had their place, they were free, they were doing what no one had ever done. Everything was worth it, after all the pain and effort.

And it would be.

Number by number, Ace dialed the one for his old apartment. His finger came and went, since it was an old phone, the kind that had no buttons but a wheel with the numbers inside. He couldn't expect less from the old priests who lived there (until the Anarchists came, of course).

He finished dialing the number and waited. With his ear uncovered, he heard war cries in the distance and a thud against the wall. He didn't even flinch, since, in fact, he had had to ask his brothers to cover up for him in that fight, just for that one time. In the next one, he would take care of everything so they could rest.

If that could be called resting.

A long, prolonged (and frankly annoying) tuuuuuu was heard on the telephone line. Ace matted his helmet on the phone table with the tips of his unoccupied fingers and waited. His knuckles were turning white from squeezing the oil-black phone.

The only purpose of that call was to verify that his brother was still alive, and safe, if possible. Ace hadn't spoken to him in weeks, as between recruiting prodigies, planning destruction, and destruction itself, his everyday life had slipped through his fingers. Ace didn't remember the last time he had eaten, that he had slept, or even the last time that he had worn anything other than his black and gold uniform and his helmet. He lived by and for revolution and liberation of prodigies, nothing more, nothing less.

The tuuuuuu stopped and only silence was heard.

“Who is this?” David said, his voice shaking and visibly exhausted.

Ace sighed, mildly relieved. It was fair to say he didn’t have the best relationship with his brother, but he was still his brother, and it took a load off him to know that he was okay.

“Brother,” he murmured, against the tube.

David sighed on the other end of the line too, exasperated and tired at the same time.

“Oh Alec, was that you?” David asked him, deep disappointment in his voice. Ace's fingers tightened on the tube. He knew perfectly well what he was referring to.

“Yes, it was me, in fact,” he said, proud of himself, not intimidated by the disappointment that his brother exuded. He didn't need his approval, or anyone else's.

David sighed once more.

“Oh brother…”

Ace grunted to himself.

“Don’t be condescending on me, David. I did what I had to do,” he explained, trying to sound cold and distant. He searched for James' voice in his mind, but it was muted, so he had to cope with his own coldness. He took a deep breath and waited for his brother's response.

David also took a deep breath, before replying:

“Did you?”

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detroitbydark · 4 years

Text

Crossed Connections: Part VI

Pairing: Tech x Togruta!Reader, Wrecker/OC

Characters: Echo, Ik'aad, Tech

Warnings: None

Summary: Sometimes awkward is cute and sometimes it's just not

Previous Parts and Extended Universe can be found here

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Y/N glances over at the ARC Trooper perched carefully at the edge of the examination table. He sits stock still, skin as pale as Durosian marble. It is only the near silent whir of the drives in his right arm that let her know he’s more than a statue. Even then, the Techno Union’s wizardry with his prosthetic is so good that she doubts a human ear would pick it up.

She wants to spit every time someone mentions Wat Tambor’s name. The socket arm and it’s connections are a marvel of Techno Union know how but it rips at her heart. They’d created such a device, a prosthetic that could offer quality of life to those in need, only to use it to further progress the Separatist agenda.

“You’re quiet today” she notes leaning her hip against the counter behind her as she takes him in. Echo is pale still, unnaturally so, but his cheeks aren’t nearly as sallow or as sunken as when he’d first arrived on base. His eyes are brighter, if not guarded. He’s stopped twitching when she touches him.

Being away from Skako Minor was doing well for him but he needed time and that wasn’t something the GAR was likely to allow. She’d heard whispers of him joining a mission with Clone Force 99 very soon.

On Coruscant she’d not been immune to talk of clone rights and she was quick to agree with those who spoke out for them. It made her uncomfortable that all her work was only to prepare a newly liberated prisoner of war to be forced right back into the field. Wrecker had tried to explain that this was the life they were, quite literally, made for. The life they trained for from creation. It didn’t sit right still.

“They refer to you as Ik’aad.”

She cocks her head at the question. It’s the first thing Echo has said since arriving in her part of the bay for his daily once over. They’ve been doing this song and dance for nearly a week now. Like any good clone, the healing process was progressing remarkably quick and his injuries were already fading. Granted those were ones Y/N could see.

He was sober, quiet, speaking little most days and then without end on others, as if the words had built up during his time in stasis and they had to spill out or risk causing him to implode with the weight of them.

While he hadn’t offered her many smiles he also didn’t seem to dislike her company. She could work with that.

His observation though is curious. Of course, she knew who they were. For better or worse she’d earned more than a few looks as information about the Bad Batch had trickled through the base's ranks, and with it her name attached to the unit.

She spent more than enough time with Wrecker for a very specific set of rumors to begin circulating. The thought of the whispers she’d heard the other day in the mess made her cheeks burn. It hadn’t done much for her socially. Her new roommate seemed immune to them though and that was a comfort she was glad to take. The ARC trooper didn’t seem to mind much either, though he had his own bits of gossip that followed him.

“I suppose they do”

Y/N glances at the bleak reminders of his time under corporate control. The cold, alloy of Techno Union metal sticking out starkly against Echo’s skin.

The neural access ports, unfortunately, had been woven so tightly into the neural pathways of the Arc Troopers brain that there was no way to seperate the two. The ones that had connected his lungs and diaphragm while in stasis were no better. They were to be permanent fixtures. While Echo had joked just the day before that some of his vode would be jealous of the look she had a feeling he was not fond of the modifications.

Rex had been a frequent visitor during his first few days in the medbay, almost constant in his devotion to his vod. Surprisingly, so had some of her other charges. Hunter had stopped by a handful of times and both Wrecker and Crosshair had frequently sat with him to distract while she worked. Today was actually the first day he’d shown up for his treatment and not had an escort. The ARC Trooper had left an impression amongst the Bad Batch and only time would tell if that was a good thing or not.

Y/N moves slowly to start his vitals. 2-1B, the medical droid was kept on standby when Echo was under her care. She’d discovered early on that too much time under the droids watchful eye and its inability to take things at the troopers pace had a tendency to exacerbate the former POWs anxiety. Y/N was ok working without Too-bee’s assistance and taking a more languid pace if it made her patient comfortable.

“Do you know what it means?”

Y/N glances up at the trooper. “I’ve never thought about it really” she says, turning to gather supplies to clean and redress the few deeper lacerations the ARC trooper still had, places where there had not been enough skin to pull together to suture.

She makes a small gesture with her fingers and Echo begins peeling his shirt off. It gets hung on the edge of his prosthetic and he struggles for a moment, frustration evident before he takes a deep breath and slowly uncouples it from the alloy. He folds the black shirt neatly and places it atop his armor as Y/N finishes laying out supplies on her work table and rolls it next to his perch. Slipping on gloves, she begins peeling spent bacta patches off, holding the skin taught as she does to ease the tug on his skin. “So, are you going to leave me in suspense or are you going to tell me?”

Echo likes the way she smiles at him. It makes what she does easier. He tries not to flinch as she removes the last patch.

The engineers, the doctors, Tambor those who’d performed his modifications had looked at him like anything other than a science experiment, a tool, a profit margin. Y/N sees him as a person. She accommodates him. She’s learned quickly his ins and outs and she doesn’t push. She treats him like an individual. And she smiles. She smiles so bright and full that she lights the room, like star shine on a dark night. Her presence soothed him. She made him feel like he had choices and the power to make them.

“Baby. They call you Baby” the first time he’d heard the words slip from Wrecker’s mouth he’d done a double take. Then he’d heard it from Hunter, and finally, Crosshair. It was a term of endearment he hadn’t heard from a clone before. The way they treated her was soft, even Crosshair who was rough and callous to the other troopers, the Regs, seemed to thaw, if only slightly, for the little Togruta.

Y/N shrugs, “Hmm?” She hums plopping onto a stool and spinning around a few times before she rolls in front of him and offers him a shining smile, pearly incisiors peeking out. “That’s cute. You gonna call me baby too?” She teases.

Echo feels his cheeks heating. “Could I? Would that be... strange?”

Y/N shrugs again, “I don’t think so” she says motioning toward his bare chest. She takes a piece of bacta soaked gauze and waits for his nod before she begins cleansing the minor lacs and scrapes. Her touch is light as she moves. Echo’s eyes drift shut. Touch was still… touch was something novel and when he was given a bit of softness he was going to soak up every bit he could.

“Ik’aad” he tests the name out. He’s spoken so little Mando’a since his capture that it feels foreign on his tongue, not unpleasant, more like a long forgotten friend he needed to become reacquainted with.

When his eyes open back he’s greeted by an impish grin. “See that’s not so bad.”

He’s not sure if she is talking about the wound care or the nickname. He nods anyway as she pats the areas dry and applies fresh bacta patches, fewer than the day before.

“You know what I’ve got to do now?” She questions softly.

This he did know and he feels his shoulders tense at the thought. The metal ports implanted along his skull and back had been placed prior to going into stasis. They allowed the Techno Union access to his memory’s as well as a means to keep his respiratory system functional. The skin surrounding the ports had healed but had never had a chance to callous or grow accustomed to the push and pull that movement caused. His freedom and sudden increase in activity had caused sores to develop around the ports themselves, the skin raw and chaffing. The doctors had all been in agreement that with time the skin would toughen and the sores would heal but in the interim it left him uncomfortable and required daily tending.

Y/N- Ik’aad, he corrects mentally, rolls her stool slowly around the exam table, letting her feet flop in front of her and pull herself around. He’s tense but he can’t help the weak tug at the corner of his mouth at her antics, she looks up and catches his eye with a knowing grin.

She stands, forgetting the stool in lieu of a more upright position. “Why do you think they call me Ik’aad?” She asks conversationally, trying out the word for herself, as one hand falls to his shoulder Her movements allow him to telegraph where here next touch would land. She did it the same way each time. Top to bottom. Left to right. It bred a sense of familiarity and, on the worst days, gave him points of reference for how long it would take. In the beginning she’d talked him through each step of the process until he’d asked her to stop. Since then she’d tried to distract him. They both knew what she was doing but neither found fault in it so she continued her chit chat and he continued to listen.

Y/N begins moving a fresh piece of bacta moistened gauze around one port, cleaning the crust and debris that clung to the wound away. Echo tries to focus on her question and not the sting of the antiseptic as the gauze washes away the dried flakes of drainage.

“You’re small” he starts “like, you-could-fit-in-my-pocket-and-go-on-missions tiny”

Y/N giggles as she continues to work, “is that so?”

Echo shrugs, “you’re kind of adorable too-“

“Not you too! You sound like Wrecker.” she growls playfully, “If you start telling me you want to pinch my cheeks I swear, Echo...” she threatens without any real threat.

“Nothing like that. You’re like- like- “ he looks for a word. He knows there’s one that fits but it eludes him. “I think you just have a way about you that makes them feel...” he shrugs.

“Well if you don’t know what they’re thinking what do you think? How do I make you feel?” It’s an honest question, born of genuine curiosity. Like the clones in the Bad Batch, he kept coming back to see her when any medic, clone or civvie, could do what she was doing.

“You make me feel warm.” He says without hesitation. “For so long everything was so cold, distant and you’re-“ he snaps his fingers and Y/N startles fingers pressing into the flesh where she was beginning to work at the next row of ports. “Vod’ika” he says firmly flinching at the press.

“Translation Echo?”

“Uhh, little sibling. Sister or brother. It’s interchangeable.” He explains. A smile splits his face knowing he’s finally placed the feeling she drew out of him and what he assumed the other as well-

“Y/N?” The question is followed by a sharp knock to the wall nearest the thick curtain that separates the room from the rest of the med bay.

Echo and Y/N turn toward the familiar voice. Y/N gives him a questioning look and he nods.

“Come on in Tech? Is everything ok?” Y/N places a hand to Echo’s bare shoulder as she tosses the used gauze in a nearby bin. The clone watches curiously as Tech’s helmet, visor flipped up, flicks ever so slightly from Y/N to where her hand rested than back again.

“I- I didn’t know you were busy. Everything’s fine.” He clarifies quickly. Even modulated, his voice is just a touch higher than Echo is used to. “I just wanted to see- I just thought I’d swing by”

“We were just finishing up” she turns back to Echo and motions to his shirt. “You good to gear back up”. He pulls the blacks on silently as he watches the two.

Tech doesn’t call the medic Ik’aad. It’s the first time Echo’s noticed. He also realizes Tech is rarely around when she is. Echo watches the engineer take a step into the room and again his narrowed eyes flick back to where Echo is seated.

“What can I do for you?” She questions peeling away gloves and turning toward the sink to wash her hands. Echo notices for the first time something different in the tone of her voice, almost shy.

“Wrecker said” he hesitates “you were getting ready for your FAS cert test? I came across a study guide that might help, if you want to use it that is?” He asks holding a pocket drive between gloved fingers.

Though he’s the one supposed to be here, Echo suddenly feels as if he’s intruding on something. It’s like watching one of the shinies back in the day at 79’s approach a woman for the first time. It’s a dance with no music and Tech has two left feet.

Y/N reaches up and toys with the end of a lek as she turns around. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

Y/N is more quiet, far less verbose than Echo has become accustomed to.

“It really would be helpful. Maybe-“ she pauses. Glancing down, she seems to steal herself before her eyes travel back back up to the other clone “maybe you could help me study?”

The ARC trooper finds himself silently rooting for the other clone. She’d baited the hook and thrown it out there. The way Tech’s eyes widen behind his goggles and the near panic that flares up is not lost on Echo.

“I’m- I’m really busy actually” Tech spits out quickly.

Echo cringes as they both seem to deflate. He wonders how neither sees it in the other.

“Oh, ok. That’s- that’s really thoughtful of you.” Color flares in the togrutas cheeks “Again. I already said that didn’t I?” Her hip bumps against her tray table as she moves and she makes a small disgruntled noise as bacta splashes across her tac pants. “Kriff” she curses silently as she looks down and wipes uselessly at the spreading patch of wetness.

There’s towels on a rack along the wall and Echo watches Tech look at them but when he doesn’t move Echo does.

“Here, Ik’aad.” He grabs two and hands her one. Her face is flushed when she looks up. Embarrassed. She gives him a weak smile.

She presses the towel against the wetness soaking into her pants. “Have I told you you’re my favorite patient?”

“No. But I’m glad to hear it”

Behind him he can hear Tech shift from foot to foot. Echo had given him a chance to come to her aide and he’d dropped the ball. When he glances back he catches Tech’s narrowed eyes. Was that…? No, it couldn’t be-.

Echo can see the look in the other clones eyes and it isn’t particularly generous. He arches a brow back as Tech drops his visor.

“I’m going to leave this here for you, Y/N” Tech announces looking past Echo and setting the pocket drive down.

Y/N waves him off. Avoiding eye contact as she balls the towel up and throws it in the hamper.

“Thanks. I’m sure it’ll come in handy.” She says puffing out a frustrated breath through pursed lips. Her attention goes back to Echo.

“So now that my uniform is soaked, do you have plans for lunch?”

The ARC trooper shrugs, “I hadn’t planned anything. I’ve got to get some range time scheduled in later but I’m free for a bit.”

“Good. I’ve just gotta run by my room and change and then you can take me to the mess. You can keep telling me about how amazing I am.” She teases weakly. Her eyes widen as she looks past him and notices Tech still standing in the doorway.

“You can come too if you want but I understand if you’re busy”

He hesitates for half a second and Echo is sure he’s going to take her up on the offer. He can see it in the way he leans forward, the way his left hand clenches and unclenches that he wants to.

“Maybe another time?”

Y/N barely manages a halfhearted “yeah, sounds good” before the engineer is turning on his heels and making his escape.

“I don’t think he likes me much,” she notes quietly after he’s gone.

Taglist: @skdubbs @pastelbunny1501 @my-own-oracle @underworldqueen13 @obiorbenkenobi @adritozier @dafodddil @daniellajocelyn

#Crossed Connections #tech x reader #tech/reader #arc trooper echo #the bad batch

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imthepunchlord · 5 years

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It'd actually be interesting to see Future Alix in the Gloria AU. She's in the past but doesn't know any of the heroes well, much to their collective confusion (and Lila's ire). Instead, she tells them about the hero "Ladybug" in the future but none of them know who she is or who she's supposed to be because she doesn't exist yet. Lila would no doubt be unhappy at the implications that someone else gets the earrings. It's not until later on that Alix realizes Chelone is rather familiar...

Weird.

That was the one word that Jack would use to describe this as she turned around to the five pairs of eyes gazing upon her, all ignoring Mr Pigeon’s scream as the akuma kicked far, far away, flying right into the Seine, easily knocked out by this sudden hero. She had quite literally came out of nowhere, a portal of light, a rabbit themed boot coming first and delivered that kick right into his middle.

The old villain didn’t stand a chance against her unexpected force, and none these heroes of old expected her either, just gaping at the sight of her. When she faced them, all five gaped at her, half of them had their jaws slack, the others were tense, gazing up at her in wonder, curiosity, and tension. Jack had to take a minute from this blast from the past.

They were as she remembered them, there were some details that were different here and there; and names... what were their names? Damn its been forever.

Mitsubachi she knows. She’s been going strong since she got the bee.

There was Jinx, lacking the calculating look in her eyes, a burning fire that needed to be cooled but hasn’t reached that point yet. If Jack remembers correctly, this Jinx has yet to get into her political plot.

Then the cat and this ladybug, she faintly remembered them. And the turtle, she remembered the turtle the least, though there was something familiar about her, the look in her eyes, already in stance, her shield up and ready for trouble.

Very familiar.

“You’re not an akuma, are you?” this ladybug accused, sounding unsure as she gazed up at the rabbit hero. She didn’t respond immediately, still taking them in.

In the face of this weirdness and tension, she said the only thing she could think of when facing heroes of ten years ago. “You all are so tiny.”

The group faltered, not expecting this to be the first words from a white, black and blue rabbit themed hero, a thin looking black and white helmet on her head. The fox recovered first, scoffing loudly, “Excuse you! Ruuude! I’m clearly the tallest of the heroes. And not tiny at all.” She received a dry look from the bee and turtle

The cat responded first, turning to the fox with an irritated look. “Gloria and I are taller than you.”

Gloria. That was her name. Ironic, she wasn’t really known to be glorious.

The fox snorted. “You guys aren’t heroes.”

Before a fight could break out, the turtle stepped forward, coming to stand between the fox and cat, though Jack had a feeling it was more to stop Jinx than cat. There was a quiet stare down between them before the turtle turned to the rabbit, looking her over wearily. She asked aloud, her tone insistent, “Who are you?”

Jack found her lips twitching up. She answered, “Jackrabbit, a hero from the future.”

That earned her long stares, all of them stupefied by that claim.

“Prove it,” demanded Mitsubachi.

“A little hard to do,” Jack said, “really rather not reveal too much of your future.”

Gloria came up, smiling charmingly up at the rabbit hero, asked with a tone full of giddiness, “Surely you can tell me a little bit of mine?”

“Nope.”

The cat came up next, asking eagerly, “Ok, how about this, do Gloria and I date in the future?” His hopeful expression fell whens he told him no.

“Why are you here?” the turtle asked. “If you are from the future.” She glanced at the watch that was strapped to Jack’s belt. “Does your miraculous time travel?”

“No miraculous can time travel,” Jack said, "some can have a power to manipulate time a bit, or see all types of futures and work around what’s coming; but actual time travel? Nope. If that existed, your... oh what was his name? Hawk Moth? He’d be after that instead.”

“How did you get here then?” Mitsubachi asked.

“I’m here because of a knight. One that has a really twisted up code of chivalry, made from a really twisted up source, and while butterfly can’t time travel itself, it can manifest the power, and it did so in a knight known as Timetagger, who’s here seeking a certain pair of earrings and ring.”

All heroes glanced at each other, and it was Jinx who snapped. “Are you serious! After all this, we’re still fighting Hawk Moth!”

“I said knight, not akuma, kit.”

“So someone else will misuse the butterfly,” the turtle murmured gravely, earning a confirmed nod.

“Who?” the cat asked, earning a huff.

“If we knew, you think Monarca would still be floating around?”

“Where is this Timetagger, then?” Mitsubachi asked, always ready to get serious.

Jackrabbit shrugged. “I was hoping maybe you guys have seen him. Especially since he’s my ticket home.” And she’d really rather not be there, weary of what could be changed. She missed Sass, his easy going nature, but sharp and ready to act. And ferocity of the snake that she could let out when needed; rabbit had great speed that she enjoyed, but there was no real fight with rabbit. And Laff the goofball wasn’t for her, this was more Cottontail’s alley, and the quiet rabbit enjoyed Laff’s silly energy far more than Jack did. The kwami had a hard time focusing, and wanted to live life at whimsy, having faith that just being on the move would be enough.

Plus, she has hope that Ladybug would be able to fix the original miraculous so she could get her watch back. Letting Laff hang in her watch and in her care has left it a target for those that want to get around quick.

Jack’s not crazy about that.

One of Jack’s long ears twitched back, and she looked over to see pigeons starting to come together, ready to fight. Bringing out her trumpet, Jackrabbit blew into it, letting out a loud and chirper blast that gave the young heroes a start. The portal opened up eagerly, and pointing to it, Jack ordered, “Alright kiddos! In you go! Pigeon Man is not the priority here!”

“It’s actually Mr Pigeon,” the cat corrected.

“And we’re not kids!” Jinx snapped.

“I don’t care, toddlers, get in!”

The cat when first, complied and eager, no hesitation at all. Far different from the Chat Sith Jackrabbit knew. Mitsubachi followed next, grabbing the growling fox and dragging her behind her, jumping into the portal. All that was left was Gloria and the turtle, neither moving to jump through that portal, the former had her arms crossed and was glaring up at the rabbit hero.

“Come on,” Jackrabbit prompted.

“I’m not going to you tell me what the future’s like,” Gloria said.

The turtle didn’t say anything, frowning softly as she gazed up at Jackrabbit, looking torn and unsure.

Before Jackrabbit could respond, there was an angry shout behind them, making them all tense.

“I’m coming for you, Ladybug!”

The two heroes whipped around, seeing what had to Timetagger coming their way. Jackrabbit acted, grabbing them both and hauling them back into the portal, evading Timetagger before he could reach them. There was a whirlwind of white and all three dropped around the tense heroes that were waiting on the other side, near Notre Dame, safe in its shadow.

Chat quickly came to Gloria’s side, alarmed by her shaken expression. They went off to the side as Jinx and Mitsubachi came to stand with Chelone. On their own, Gloria whispered, tense and furious, “Timetagger shouted Ladybug. Not my name. There’s a Ladybug in the future.”

Chat’s eyes widened, sending a guarded glance at the trio. “Someone’s going to steal your miraculous.”

Someone would have to for Gloria to not exist anymore. Sending an angry look their way, she made her resolve, no one was going to replace Gloria Rossa in the future. This Ladybug will not come to be.

And with this, maybe it was time for this Turtle, Fox, and Bee to not run around anymore...

#nobodyfamousposts #ask Punchie #Gloria au #Timetagger #rabbit!Alix #Jackrabbit #kwami swap

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rhvme · 4 years

Text

asking, for a friend

Summary: Beau’s never had trouble asking for a cute stranger’s name before, but somehow the blue-haired barista at the Nestled Nook proves to be the exception.

Self-indulgent college/coffee shop AU written for Femslash February 2020. Yes, this got entirely too long. No, I don't regret it.

“Believe it or not, you could just go up and talk to her.”

Fjord, ever matter-of-fact. Ever sensible. Ever patronizing, much to Beau’s mounting irritation. He hadn’t even bothered glancing up from his laptop, still typing away without pause or care. Beau chewed at the inside of her cheek in response, her brows furrowed and fingers drumming restlessly atop the table as she tore her gaze away (yet again) from the ordering counter. She slouched in her seat, forced herself to read the textbook splayed open before her. A futile attempt, she knew. She never got any reading done.

Admittedly, reading was never the point of her being there.

Hazel’s Nook. A cozy sanctuary tucked along one urban strip of faddy juice bars, over-cramped bookstores, tourist sinkholes and three-star restaurants all vying for attention. Attention well-earned, it seemed, based on the constant hum-bustle of traffic and bodies on the move. The café sat nestled in the busiest blend of Soltryce Academy buildings and its surrounding cityscape, after all. Still, in terms of campus hangouts, the Nook usually won out.

See, students didn’t necessarily flock there for its coffee (pure, robust heaven) or the food (a homemade taste worth dying for). Nor was it the promise of free wi-fi and lively, if a bit cluttered, atmosphere. It wasn’t even the fact that the Nook stayed open well past midnight, should one need or choose to stay so long.

No. The main draw was the art. The aesthetic. Quaint yet bold, while so much of the city’s architecture stood plain and tall and boringly pragmatic. Hazel’s Nook, far more colorful than its counterparts and loaded with whimsical charm. Chalk drawings lined every inch of its brick walls, inside and out, while fluorescent marker doodles illuminated the windows. Everywhere, nothing but abstract shapes and bubble letters at play. Nothing but cartoon renderings of animals, plants and various foods in colors that seemed mismatched by design:

Bumbling bees in rosy pinks, crimson spirals in their wake. Cyan roses and jade sunflowers in bloom. Canary-bright grass swaying in a lilac breeze. Lime-colored biscuits, sapphire cookies and cake pops, silver croissants and orange sandwiches. Sparkles and stars, unicorns and birds. Some oddly snake-like weasel (ferret?), stretching its way along the molding. Similar illustrations came custom drawn on every coffee cup whenever orders were placed, each one crafted with great skill and care. All by the same barista found flitting behind the counter now.

The very same barista that had caught Beau’s eye when she first stumbled upon this place in a sleep-deprived stupor. She’d needed a triple shot strong enough to help her power through her Classics II paper, but she found herself charmed instead by this bubbly art and warm surroundings.

She hadn’t expected wanting to stay.

She hadn’t expected to be so thoroughly taken by the technicolor, sharpie explosion on her drink, her name in the barista’s fanciful scrawl.

She certainly hadn’t expected to be just as smitten by the artist in question, watching as the barista carefully decorated and delivered Beau’s drink with a dimpled grin. A cheery voice, each vowel playfully stretched out.

“Order for Beau-re-gard~”

Then, good god, those eyes.

How was Beau ever supposed to contend with that?

[ read full chapter ao3 ]

#femslash february #critical role #beauregard lionett #jester lavorre #beaujester #fic #ink #alternate universe #coffee shop au #not my favorite thing i've written but certainly one of the most fun #this got way longer than anticipated but i'm ok with that #flings self into trash where i belong lmao

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ignisosculo · 5 years

Text

hello, beautiful humans ! i’m frankie and i’m very excited to be here. of course, i’m super duper late because let’s be honest, i was a bit unprepared and then i had a very hectic day, so it’s safe to assume that i’m literally rushing to post this. please note that since i’m starting out with two muses ( pray 4 me ), i’m gonna introduce them both here, under the read more, & hopefully with enough context if anyone is interested in plotting things out and whatnot ... so this might be a tad bit longer ! also, i think it’s very important to see detective pikachu in a car seat. thank you & goodnight.

𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐈𝐍.

☾ ▹ ° ⋅ paul rudd / forty-nine / cis male ; have you had the chance to meet jonathan goldstein ? he has lived in old sprigg for most of his life, gaining a reputation for being quite charismatic, reliable, quirky & tense. this heterosexual leo can be found around dubois bakery and he works as an architect. most people tend to associate them with an artist’s desk and piles of sketches.〈 loved by frankie, 23, cst, she/her. 〉

this vampire guy right here was born and bred in old sprigg, missouri, so old sprigg isn’t just a small town for him. his family had money so he had an a-okay upbringing. parents were pretty strict, having a set of rules for john and his siblings. he’s the oldest of four; one brother & two sisters, so as you can assume, the goldsteins were a crazy, jewish ménage.

growing up, he always had a keen interest in architecture. he’d point out the many buildings whenever they traveled. little johnny’s goal was to become an architect. before that, john wanted to be an astronaut, but that’s besides the point. he went to usc and graduated with a bachelor of architecture degree.

deciding to stay in california for a few years after graduating, he found a job at a design firm. starting out as an intern wasn’t too shabby, though. he’s a talented guy and the owners of the studio noticed his talent ... after 3 years, almost a little too late. however, he couldn’t find it in his heart to say ‘no’ to becoming a part of the team.

worked as an architect for 15 years before moving back home. however, he’d left behind the opportunity to start his own design firm. prior to coming back, his long-term relationship ended and was absolutely devastated. he’s STILL as single as a missing pair of socks. tragic. [ 37 years old ] : returned despite how heartbroken he was.

he’s one of those fun uncles. he’s got a couple of nieces and nephews. the family keeps growing and growing, then there’s jonathan: single but he doesn’t mind one bit. or does he ? doesn’t believe in marriage, so give him someone to love who might believe the same thing about a piece of paper ?

living in california, he traveled twice a year to old sprigg to visit his old pals and family, so you might’ve seen him around. goodbyes kind of suck, so he isn’t one to say goodbye. whenever he had/has to leave for a while, he will say: ‘see you later’ or ‘i’ll be back’ with a peace sign, trying to avoid making a reference to the terminator movies.

not an important note/quick summary: was away from missouri for 19 years. graduated from university of southern california. intern to full-time employee. pleased as fuck. met someone and dated them for a long ass time. she ended it. came back to old sprigg. heartbroken. moved on. been home for 12 years. single af. perhaps too old to become a parent / low-key gives up. works at home. active. constantly travels due to work. a busy bee, workaholic.

personality wise: confident in communication skills, helps others feel confident if permitted, positively confident without being boastful and egotistical, lowkey lives a carpe diem personality, able to be trusted, honest & often times too straightforward but means well, creative af, quirky and witty sense of humor ( if it isn’t written out that way sometimes, i apologize beforehand because i think of witty things to say a day too late ), regardless of being charming and whatnot, he’s tense; will become anxious and nervous at random times of the day. easy-going. / more to be added.

aesthetics: an artist’s desk in a design studio ( aka home ), a shit ton of sketches in piles basically overflowing his home, planners filled to the brim with important dates regarding personal life and work, etc. / more to be added.

wanted connections: give me everything and anything. im’s are OPEN !

𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐋-𝐀𝐙𝐖𝐀́𝐑

☾ ▹ ° ⋅ inbar lavi / thirty-four / cis female ; have you had the chance to meet ayelet al-azwár ? she has lived in old sprigg for seven years, gaining a reputation for being quite ambitious, good-natured, sensitive & worrisome. this bisexual pisces can be found around the clover and she works as a veterinarian. most people tend to associate them with white coats and messy hair buns.〈 loved by frankie, 23, cst, she/her. 〉

this girl has a love and hate relationship with her name. not only is it hebrew for ‘deer, gazelle’ but her mom’s constant reminder that it ‘fits’ her makes her give up. letty is, in fact, her nickname. she’ll introduce herself as dr. al-azwár if you’re stopping by the old sprigg veterinary clinic for your furry lil friend’s check-up and whatnot.

she grew up in a jewish household in brooklyn, new york. the al-azwárs are of moroccan and polish descent, so she grew up learning hebrew and arabic, plus a few other languages. probably a linguist. honestly, she never stops learning in general. if there’s a library, then knowledge is power. was in ap classes through the school years... including college. but she wouldn’t consider herself a genius. always pressured herself to be the best. she’s a damn perfectionist.

with her parents permission, she had a job when she was 16 years of age, so had been earning money ever since — dreaming of attending college. thankfully, mom and dad were more than okay with her wanting to become a veterinarian. they supported letty in every step of the way. which came to a surprise for her but she didn’t question them at all.

earned her doctor of veterinarian medicine degree ( dvm ) when she was 23. took a gap year before attending [ name of college ]. pretty fucking proud of herself, even though there were pretty hard obstacles along the way, and she was up for any challenges. but let’s face it, life after college can be tough af with landing your dream job. especially in new york.

managing on getting her degree, she worked two part-time jobs to be able to afford rent, since she decided to move to manhattan afterwards. just 2 words: big mistake. letty isn’t the type of person to ask for help, considering she is still paying off school. it’d been 2 years until she realized that the best choice for her was to move states. well after paying her taxes and bills, and making a budget. at that point, she was on the verge of having a mental breakdown.

giving her landlord the heads up, the first thing she did was notify her parents that she was selling her studio apartment and moving back to brooklyn, and into her childhood home. asking if it was all right because she’d refuse to accept their money and advise them of their retirement plan, hoping to care for them when the time came. a little superstitious, letty knocks on wood every time.

choosing to move to old sprigg, missouri was completely random. however, she had the desires of moving to a small town. the first thing she did was buy a ticket to missouri and visited the charming town. she fell in love with old sprigg; it had / has its charm. how long did she stay ? A WEEK, and it was enough for her to make the decision.

for the past seven years, she has lived in missouri and worked as the vet at its clinic ( totally forgot to mention she lived with her parents for 2 years beforehand ) and couldn’t be happier. letty can be found hanging out at the clover with a glass of wine in hand with a book in her hand.

personality wise: has the strongest desire and determination to succeed. kind, friendly, patient. the mom friend to people she’s closet to. concerned more with the needs and wishes of others than her own. has a quick & delicate appreciation of others’ feelings, especially with animals. inclined to worry, a clinical worrier. introverted but ambivert. / more to be added.

aesthetics: white lab coats, messy hair buns, curly hair, pencil skirts, etc. / more to be added.

wanted connections: give me everything and anything. im’s are OPEN !

discord: i constantly change my username lol so please ask for it, if you prefer to plot through there; i’d happily give it to you. c:

#sprigg.intro #this took me a lil over 3 hrs #i am impressed af #according to tumblr‚ i have zero ( 0 ) posts .....#and i’m late !#it’s almost 2 am and i need sleep #but i must interact first lol

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thetunewillcome · 5 years

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[Fic] Empty and Desolate, The Air

Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley

Rating: Mature (graphic descriptions of violence)

Important Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, South Downs, Language and Communication, T.S. Eliot-Inspired

Word Count: 3871

Summary: Ever a guardian, Aziraphale kept watch. Sliver-shafts of moonlight sliced ribbons across Crowley’s face. The emptiness of it unnerved the angel. Even in slumber, his expressive face had always told stories. Syllables shifted in the corners of his mouth; sentences found themselves punctuated with the movement of an eyebrow. Now, only still silence, even in sleep. Heavenly forces decide the best way to get their once-dutiful soldier back is to slaughter his only real reason for rebellion. Their attempt leaves Crowley wounded and voiceless. Aziraphale tries his best to heal him and accept the soundlessness of this new verse of their song.

[Read on AO3] or below (hidden under the cut b/c violence)

"Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Oed' und leer das Meer."

- T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

All was silent save for the language of the garden: birdsong and the buzzing of bees.

The blessed blade slid through skin and sinew, stilling as it settled inside his ribcage. Searing pain burned in red-hot flashes across his chest. Breath caught; lung collapsed. Gritting his teeth against the gnawing heat of the metal, he squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head in a silent refusal to give them the pleasure of hearing his torment, seeing his fear. A disobedient, agonized grunt escaped his lips as the angel dragged the blade out, inch by inch, deliberately slow. Warmth blossomed across his stomach. Through slitted eyes, he watched his silver blood stain his shirt, drip from Sandalphon’s retreating hand.

Think of something, his mind pulsed. Think of something. Say something. Do something. Or else. Weakly, he lifted his knees an inch from the soil, the start of an attempt to stand. The metal shackles binding his hands behind his back scalded his wrists. A hand grabbed a fistful of his auburn hair, jerking his head up and back. Golden eyes met lilac ones.

“Come, now,” Gabriel chuckled from where he stood behind him. “You’re doubly trapped. You’re not going anywhere.” A pause as Sandalphon shifted closer and Gabriel said to him, “we need to get a move on, before we’re interrupted.”

Oh, you’ve got time, Crowley thought. Aziraphale wouldn’t be back from the shops for hours. Jaw clenched tightly, he glanced sideways at the empty patch of ground he had intended to fill with lavender that afternoon. Infuriatingly fitting that his story would end here, in the garden he had so carefully tended for nearly forty years, behind the home they had come to cherish. More so, even, than Eden, this place was their beginning; now, with one blind step across an invisible line, it would be his destruction and their end.

Gabriel spoke again to Crowley, voice full of arrogance and loathing. “You fooled us back then, I’ll give you that, but look at you now. I knew if we gave you time, let you play human in this stupid town for long enough, you’d let your guard down. We’ve had that circle sitting out here for, oh, months now – concealed from demonic sight, of course – and you walked right into it. So you will die, and Aziraphale will eventually forget why he turned away from us. He will return where he belongs and he will fight for us again, in the new war to come. In time, he won’t even remember you.” Gabriel smiled, inverted in Crowley’s field of vision.

“Never,” Crowley choked out. “He would never go back to –“ Something hot and wet pressed against his neck: the blade. Instinctively, he jerked sideways and felt the edge cut a small track in his taught skin.

Gabriel’s grip on his hair tightened. “Enough. Time to die.” His eyes fell shut, inner voice pleading with him to take action while the throbbing pain in his gut pulled his focus and slowed his thoughts. Nothing came to mind but Aziraphale: the horror that would mar his lovely face when he discovered Crowley’s body, the crumble and collapse into grief, his blue-green eyes dulled under pooled tears. Every speck of power Crowley possessed trembled uselessly just underneath his skin, detained by the shackles and the circle around him. There was nothing he could do.

A tremor hummed through the air as the blade bit into his neck. A breathy cry, foreign to his ears but coming from somewhere in him, penetrated his cotton-muffled consciousness. Nails drew droplets of blood from the palms of his clenched fists. Light was streaming in from somewhere to his right. Metal cut deeper and his voice sputtered to silence. All was blinding pain and light and quicksilver sticky warmth cascading down his chest, and then, a lightening. His hair, released. The blade, lifted.

Eyes flew open and took in the garden cast in brilliant white, a photo negative. A hallucination, perhaps, as braincells starved and withered? Or the light humans said they saw before death claimed them? Air moved around him. A flash: a lightning strike? Head heavy, he folded forward, ink spreading across the edges of his vision. One final fall, into darkness yet again.

Soft hands caught him: one cradling the back of his head, the other amplifying pain with firm pressure on his neck. A burst of short-lived strength. The circle had been broken. The restraints tumbled from his wrists. He was laid gently down in the cool embrace of fern and columbine. White curls. Bright, panicked eyes. Aziraphale, he tried to say, run. They want you back. What are you doing wasting time on me, you perfect idiot? Aziraphale, he tried to say, I love you. I’m sorry. But instead of words, a sickly, wet sound.

“Shh, don’t – Don’t try to speak.” Sweat and tears mixed on the angel’s face, and flecks of gold dotted his skin. Fingers stroked his cheek. His face was wet, too. “I know it hurts and I – I am so sorry, dear, but I have to staunch the bleeding.” More pressure. Waves of agony behind his eyes.

“They’re gone now. You’re safe. You – oh,” and Aziraphale’s tender voice broke as his eyes swept over Crowley’s chest. A hand found the gash in his stomach and pain bloomed there, too. “I know it was holy metal, but – we have to try." The angel's voice was an unsteady song, breathy and full of vibrato. "Crowley, listen, with anything you have left, you need to try, okay?” With a reassuring nod, Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Hazily, he lingered in the homecoming of Aziraphale's face before him, a sense of misplaced calm settling over his body. It wouldn’t work – Angelic blades permanently injure occult entities deep beneath their corporations’ flesh. – but he would try, for him. Crowley reached down into his core, desperately shoving pain aside, and found reserves of frantic energy. Power surged through his veins. Cells divided, mercurial blood replenishing. It wasn’t a solution, but it would buy him time, and it was the best he could do.

Aziraphale’s warm energy flowed over his neck and ribcage. The sharp stinging calmed slightly to a pulsing ache. Weak and exhausted, Crowley watched Aziraphale concentrate, beautifully in his element, until the angel’s eyes reopened and fear took back its hold on his visage. Shakily, the hand on his neck lifted. Crowley read surprise and slight relief in the angel’s eyes.

“An improvement, certainly,” he said, trying to sound calm, though his breath came shallow and quick. “Bandages, now. Ready?” A snap sounded in the distance; gauze wrapped tightly around his wounds, covering rows of stitches that had strung themselves through jagged skin. “Much better. You’ll be alright.” You’ve always been a terrible liar, he thought. Superficial patching was all their energy could do. “Let’s get you inside.”

Tenderly, Aziraphale gathered him in his arms and lifted him. Fresh pain burst forth as his body shifted. He fought to keep heavy eyelids open and caught still images of the scene: evening primroses inching open for the night; hyacinths, named for the one whose blood first created them, dripping with silver; the smudged, broken edge of a devil’s trap in the dirt; a tree trunk sprayed with golden spatter.

At the last image, his eyes opened wide, mind sharpened with worry. He ran a heavy hand over Aziraphale’s chest, earning him a concerned look. An attempt to say Yours? required breath that wouldn’t come, and so he gestured vaguely at the tree and looked up into the angel’s pale face.

“Oh, darling,” and the hold on his body tightened, “it’s not mine. Don’t worry.” Eyes fell closed. “Here, we’re almost there.” The creaky hinges of their front door. The click of the lock behind them. The ten footfalls to their bedroom. The soft give of their duvet. Aziraphale’s presence began to draw back and Crowley shot out his hand, grabbing a wrist that froze at his touch. “I’m not going anywhere, but I can’t let you–“ His voice tightened and he swallowed thickly. “I’ll clean you up, change of clothes, okay?”

A snap, but nothing happened. Aziraphale swayed on his feet, blinking. “Shit,” he whispered, then recovered his soothing tone. “Have to do it the human way, then. But…” Brows furrowed, he glanced at the bedroom door, then back down at Crowley. “Well, in a moment, when you’re settled.”

His vision darkened, then returned as he felt the familiar pressure of the angel’s body on the mattress next to him. Aziraphale moved cautiously, studying Crowley’s face as he settled down and slid fingers through rust-red hair. Lips pressed a kiss to his sweat-slick forehead.

Sleep tempted him with escape, but as his eyes closed again, he heard a panicked “You – Crowley?” and forced them back open. “You need to stay awake. It’s vitally important.” Tears tumbled down Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley tried desperately to obey, but there were shadows curling in around the edges of his eyes. More than anything, he wanted to speak, but their energy had only been enough to stop some of the bleeding, not repair deeper damage. Thank you, he would have said. Stay. I’ll return. Against his will, he slipped into sleep.

---

A sweet smell drifted into the cottage's studio on dreamy, heavy afternoon air. Perched on a stool, Crowley glared at a canvas smeared with azure hues. The paint was not behaving properly, and the whole piece was one more bad brushstroke away from spontaneous combustion when the sound of the door opening made him pause, paintbrush raised. Aziraphale entered, and the sight of him spread a grin across Crowley’s face: he was dotted from head to toe in flour.

“That’s off to a beautiful start,” the angel said, words slowing as he took notice of Crowley’s expression. “I like… What?” A glance downward. “Oh.” A sheepish smile. “I thought I’d try my hand at brioche. The book made it look simple enough, but, well, I ran into some difficulty with the mixer, and then after it all, you’re expected to have the patience to wait for the dough to rise for hours before baking it…”

Grabbing hold of his hand, Crowley tugged Aziraphale closer to him and wiped flour from his cheek with a thumb. “Couldn’t wait, could you?” he asked slyly, and guilt crossed the angel’s face. “Well, it smells delicious.” Leaning on the edge of the stool, he spread his legs wider and pulled Aziraphale forward by the hips until the space between them disappeared. “Still, I thought patience was a virtue,” he murmured as he tilted his chin up and kissed Aziraphale’s lips.

“It is.” Another kiss. “But there’s no harm in speeding things along, either, sometimes.”

There was an absurd beauty in the realization that the angel before him could drown nations, burn sinful cities to the ground, plant dreams into the minds of men that would alter the course of human history, and yet, here he was, settled in South Downs with a demon, miracling dough to rise. Crowley looked up at him as if he were the sun itself, wondering if Aziraphale had any idea of the limitlessness of his power.

As he had done countless times since the move, since the peaceful seclusion of the cottage had made it first safe to voice his ancient adoration, Crowley opened his mouth to say I love you, angel, but only heard a sickening sputter. In horrified confusion, he pulled shaking hands away from Aziraphale’s hips and touched the ruin of his throat. Where there had been blue paint on his fingertips, now, there was argent blood. When he looked up from his hands, Aziraphale had disappeared and the stool was collapsing under him and he was falling, voiceless, back into the darkness of sleep.

---

The feeling of falling jolted him awake. Gold eyes flew open and a second passed and then the pain rushed back to him all at once in a train-wreck of sensation. Teeth ground. Muscles seized. Hands dug into the duvet. Then Aziraphale’s hands were on him, warm and healing. Dark circles had formed under bloodshot blue eyes, and his skin looked frighteningly pale in the half-light of the room.

Angelic energy smoothed the edges of the pain, but it still rang through him, the equivalent of covering one’s ears against a shrill alarm. The hands withdrew and he watched Aziraphale wipe his face with a shirtsleeve. He had no idea how long he had been asleep.

“You… you’re…” Aziraphale, voice hushed and relieved, reached for words that unraveled on his tongue. "I..."

Testing his body, Crowley managed a small breath in, all that his collapsed lung would allow, but the air died silently in his throat. He raised his hand and mimed writing in mid-air.

“Oh! Um, yes, hang on,” and Aziraphale grabbed a book and pen from the nightstand. “Here,” he said as he held the pen out to Crowley, opened to a random page. “Write in the margins.”

In jagged script, Crowley scrawled two words and tipped the book so Aziraphale could read them. “Love you”

A stifled sob. “I know. And I love you. You know that. You're my world, my everything.” Aziraphale’s thumb traced his jawline and Crowley leaned ever so slightly into the touch.

"They’re after you. Go”

Shock and offense at the suggestion. “No. I won’t leave you, and you’re in no condition to be moved. Don’t be absurd.” A deep breath. “They’re not a threat anymore. Not for the time being, anyway.”

Crowley raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

For the first time in two days, Aziraphale looked away from Crowley, gaze hardening. “I’m not exactly sure what happened. It was all a blur. My only concern was you. Whatever I did to them, well, they deserved it, and I doubt they’ll be able to return. At least, not soon. But if they do, I’ll be right here” he said quietly, voice warming as he returned his focus to Crowley’s face, “and they won’t come near you again.”

"Should be dead” To clarify, he added an “I” to the left of the phrase.

Aziraphale winced and exhaled slowly. “And yet, you’re not. You’re here. Perhaps I interrupted them before… Or… I don’t know…” His voice grew high and tight. “I’m not going to question it. You can’t… because I couldn’t…”

The emotions battling on Aziraphale’s face became too much for his foggy mind to handle. Crowley looked away and noticed his stained, torn clothes. With a look of disgust, he gestured at them and the angel’s face twisted in guilt. “Sorry. Any ounce of energy that returns to me, I’ve routed right into healing you. So I can’t miracle you clean, and I didn’t want to hurt you, doing it by hand.” Not to mention he’d have to leave the room to get supplies, and he couldn’t pry himself away from Crowley’s side.

Crowley’s expression told him he was being ridiculous. “Fine, if you feel up for it, I will.” A small, weak nod. “Okay, I’ll…” Aziraphale stared at him as if worried he would disappear. “I will be right back.”

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Crowley heard Aziraphale reenter the room, felt the gentle tug of fabric being removed from under him. Like that magician’s trick, he mused, with the tablecloth and plates. Except he was already shattered into sharp pieces. Not much more damage could be done.

Wet cloth slid over skin, back and forth on silver stains. Humans have been bathing bodies just like this in parlors and in morgues since their departure from the Garden. Crowley had seen them do it, feeling like a voyeur in the face of their human grief every time. He had heard them speak to the dead: apologies, confessions, questions hovering permanently in the air without answer. Only silence from the dead, and now, from him. What power lived in language, to prove I am here. I can ask and answer. Listen. Under the reverent attention of his angel, he was lulled to sleep once more.

---

Ever a guardian, Aziraphale kept watch. Sliver-shafts of moonlight sliced ribbons across Crowley’s face. The emptiness in it unnerved the angel. Even in slumber, his expressive face had always told stories. Syllables shifted in the corners of his mouth; sentences found themselves punctuated with the movement of an eyebrow. Now, only still silence.

Crowley’s presence had always felt thunderously loud to him. Even in the early days, he would shatter Aziraphale’s peace with surprise greetings, bursting forth from a crowd or calling his name across a room. Always a retort, always a bark of laughter or a groan of discontent. Somehow, even when he listened, he listened with his whole body; Aziraphale could read volumes in the shifts of his feet and the tilt of his chin. Sharing a home allowed him to hear new sounds he hadn’t been privy to before. After a night of drinking, Crowley snored. When concentrating in quiet spaces, he hummed to himself. He shouted at sappy films and cursed at cooking mistakes and Aziraphale, who had always lived in lonesome quiet, had come to cherish every word.

Exhaustion ignited into rage. They had no right to his voice, his life. What did they even know of him? Ancient questions? Disobedient objections? He was so much more: faltering bravado, endearing temper, sibilant begging, whispered affection, unwavering love. His. He was his. And Aziraphale would do whatever needed to be done to keep him here.

Shifting into his true form that day had taken so much from him, and he had regretted it instantly upon realizing just how deeply they had injured Crowley. Angelic energy took time to rebuild once depleted, and as it sparked and replenished in his core, he drained it into Crowley’s body, emptying himself again and again. He hadn’t left the room for days, at least. Dust had settled around them on the four-poster bed.

His mind wandered, recalling memories and verses to pass the time, but when it ventured near that afternoon in the garden, he stopped it. He refused to consider what he had done to Gabriel, what it meant for him. If Crowley’s life could only be purchased with Gabriel’s, if he had incurred a debt only repayable with his own Fall, he accepted those terms without hesitation.

Every instinct in him called for prayer, but his belief in a God who listens had withered half a century ago. Still, he spoke. It was a prayer, yes, but not to Her. It started with an invocation, the one name in which he held unwavering faith. “Crowley,” he breathed, lingering on the holy sound of his name. “You’ve always been so strong. Your will becomes reality here on Earth. I’ve seen it happen. Give it a try. For me. Forgive me for not being enough to heal you on my own. Forgive me for needing you so selfishly. You can save yourself, I know it. You have the power, somewhere. This can’t be it. We’re meant to have forever.” And ever. Amen.

---

“Look like hell”

“Just the sight of you awake is lovely, my dear.”

“Not me. You”

A shaky laugh. “Haven’t exactly had the energy to keep up appearances, now. So sorry.” He had lost track of how much time he had spent lying quietly next to Crowley, watching, healing, hoping.

Crowley, propped upright now against the headboard and pillows, gave a fond smile and wrote “Standards?”

“Oh, stop,” Aziraphale chuckled as he unbuttoned Crowley’s pajama shirt.

Crowley’s physical pain was still present, but it had dulled significantly, and somehow, inconceivably, the invisible cancer of the blessed metal’s damage had ceased to spread. It should have consumed him, and yet, it hadn’t. They each had their separate theories – Aziraphale’s strength, Crowley’s willpower, the humanizing effects of isolation from above and below, the otherness of their own side – but neither would ever voice them. Neither dared to question it. And he was still far from out of the woods: he couldn’t even draw the breath required to ask for a compass.

“Focus, now.” Aziraphale placed both hands on the bandage below Crowley’s left rib and closed his eyes. Crowley did his part, meeting Aziraphale’s energy with the little of his own he had cultivated.

When they were both spent, Aziraphale leaned back, their shoulders touching. Slowly, Crowley laced their fingers together. His eyes were closed. A scar ringed round his wrist, a souvenir of captivity. The silence of the room pressed heavily on Aziraphale’s eardrums. He wished for anything to shatter it: a word, a laugh, a breath, even, just the whisper of an inhale. Nothing came.

He tried to be thankful for the silence. After all, the air could be filled with angelic fury, with the sharp hissing of fiery weapons. It could crackle with burning feathers. It could carry a death rattle to his ears, bringing with it his ending, too. The way things were headed, they still could communicate; it could have been much, much worse. Aziraphale sat, warm palm pressed against Crowley’s cold one, and attempted to accept the soundlessness of this new verse of their song.

---

Eventually, Crowley urged him away from his post.

“Eat something”

“Shower”

“I’m fine”

"Get some fresh air”

“Please eat”

An irritated eye-roll when the angel insisted he wouldn’t miracle up food for himself. “Pears are ripe on the trees. Go”

Finally, he listened, disappearing for an hour here and there but always returning, a homing pigeon carrying stories and healing hands back again to Crowley’s quiet sanctuary. One day, as he reluctantly walked down the hall, bedroom at his back, something stopped him.

Aziraphale had heard the first word ever born on a human tongue. When Adam opened his mouth and began to name the creatures of the Garden and the Heavens, a strange and lovely music formed, so different from the celestial language of angels it defied comparison. As Adam christened his wife, baptized his body – bone, flesh, rib – the young angel cherished each vibration. How precious, the melodies of the human voice. Out of that language, variations branched forth, harmonies. Eventually, Babel brought discord, baffling and beautiful. The early ages had rippled with vocal ringing, and as Aziraphale loved the humans, so he loved their languages.

But, oh, no word ever mattered more than this. Its sandpaper sound was a shipwreck, dredged out of the deep, tempest-tossed nearly past recognition, but within its hull lay golden promise. It was a name, just like the first. Its syllables rose and broke over him, shattering months of silence and leaving him shaking in its wake. “Aziraphale,” he heard. A clipped song, a single note of adoration. Spinning, he took in the impossible sight of Crowley leaning against the doorframe. Carefully, carefully, with stunned and speechless gratitude, the angel wrapped him up in trembling arms.

Notes: It's not every day that you write something, go reading some of your favorite poems looking for inspiration for a title, and find lines that almost exactly describe what you've already written. (If I've been possessed by Mr. Eliot, I have absolutely no objections.)

The title comes from “Oed’ und leer das Meer” which means “empty and desolate the sea." Eliot borrowed the line from Tristan und Isolde.

Aziraphale’s prayer is very loosely based on the Lord’s Prayer.

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jadekitty777 · 5 years

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Divine Intervention: Chapter 2

Unofficial Taiqrowweek: Day 3

This next chapter is the shortest of the four!

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,100

Ao3 Link: Chapter 2

Summary: [Afterlife AU] Qrow is a raider demon. His job is clear: Collect recently fallen souls for Hell. The more he could gather, the more power he would be granted. Easy, right?

Well, it would be, if not for a certain blond angel constantly getting in his way. Qrow was pretty sure Taiyang’s job wasn’t to keep the souls safe from him, but rather to infuriate him with his overblown righteousness and his insufferable smiles.

Eternal damnation wasn’t supposed to be this annoying.

There were a few places in his appointed domain that Qrow staked out. Hecate’s Lake was one such place. Though not well traveled, the little bowl-shaped lake never failed to take at least one life every year, so he made sure to frequent it often, especially during the warmer months. That day, he was going more out of habit than to find a potential lost soul – so he was surprised when he discovered he wasn’t alone.

Unfortunately, his guest was already quite dead.

“I thought angel wings were supposed to be white?” Though he did his best to sneer, his words lacked any of his usual abrasiveness.

Tai seemed unaffected either way, smile affixed into place. “We meet again it seems. And no,” He ruffled his wings, the sandy-yellow shade really standing out under the bright sunlight. “I thought you’d of realized by now? They match the person’s hair color. You’d look like quite the Qrow if you had some.”

“Hah.” Qrow mock-laughed. “And considering the only angel that apparently visits my realm is you, no, I hadn’t noticed.”

His chuckles were much more genuine. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Whatever.” He said, tail slashing at the ground. “What are you doing here? No one’s around to die.”

“Sometimes I just come down to visit. Enjoy the sights.” He gestured at the basin around them.

Seriously? “Wow, didn’t know Heaven was lacking so much in the aesthetic department that some grungy green water is more appealing.”

“Hey now!” Tai actually sounded a little offended. “No need to be rude. I have some fond memories of this lake.”

“Wait, hold up,” Qrow held up a hand. “You lived around here?” When the other gave an affirmative nod, he asked, “Why? There’s nothing here!”

“You’re a real city slicker, aren’t ya?” When that playful jab didn’t earn a response, the angel shrugged, looking across the lake. “The world’s changed a lot since I was around. This lake? All those broken-down towns and forgotten trails no one travels? These are places I remember in their heyday. Could even probably tell you the names of most of the people who ran the shops or went to church. It looks like a bunch of nothing to you, but for me this was home.”

Home, huh? He wondered what it was like, to be fond enough of a place to call it that.

Qrow crossed his arms, hunching in his wings. “Well that all sounds very nice. And since there’s nothing here for me, I guess I’ll leave you to your prance down memory lane.”

He started to head for his portal, hearing Tai’s faint, “If that’s what you’d like.” And had to fight down the urge to scoff. As if he’d prefer anything else.

As he bent his knees, preparing to dive into the black puddle, he couldn’t help but ask the question that had been lingering in the back of his mind since they’d started talking. “Hey uh. How’s the kid doing?”

The response he got wasn’t what he was expecting. “Would you like to see him?”

Qrow stood up stiffly, glaring. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No, I can show you. Right here.” Tai said, gesturing to the water.

His eyes darted between him and the lake, not bothering to hide his mistrust even as he dared to come closer. The angel only grinned, sitting down at the shore’s edge, patting the ground next to him. After a few hesitant moments, he took the offer, folding his legs underneath him. He peered down at the cloudy water, not sure what he was waiting for. “So what, is it a magic mirror or something?”

“Or something.” Tai parroted, unfolding his wings just slightly. He reached back, wincing as he plucked off a feather from one. He held it up high by the quill end, rolling it between his fingers. It took Qrow a moment to realize it was changing with every turn, the pale hues turning to a brilliant golden, as if the feather was sucking in the sunlight itself. Once it was bright enough that it appeared as if Tai was holding a star right in his hands, he let it go. It drifted on the wind, lopping lazily to and fro, as it slowly fell to the lakeside until it quietly touched down.

The resulting ripple burst upwards like an explosion as fire seared across the water. Qrow jerked back, cursing loudly, but an arm around his shoulders prevented him for going too far.

“It’s alright. Just look.” Tai whispered ardently in his ear. The flames dancing above the water reflected in his eyes, memorizing in how they appeared like sapphires speckled with gold.

Shivers wracked down his spine and Qrow squirmed from his grasp but didn’t withdraw further. Apprehension beat at his chest for believing in such a fool but curiosity spurred his action. Gingerly, he lent forward, peering within the ringlet of fire that emitted a warmth as soothing as a fireplace. Within its center, as clear as if from a television, he could see Oscar.

He was in a playroom of some sort. There were colorful posters on the equally colorful walls, with a few large windows with butterflies and bees stuck to the glass. Toy chests and small shelves full of books were pushed against the walls, with the center of the room mostly free space with only a few beanbags spread about and a table surrounded by small chairs for sitting. A few kids were sitting around at that table, but Oscar was on the other side of the room, draped over an orange beanbag as he listened to a young blond woman that was reading to him. It must have been quite the story, since his eyes were wide and attentive on her.

“He’s a pretty shy kid so he doesn’t like to play with the others much, but he really loves fantasy stories.” Taiyang told him. “Yang’s been reading to him every day since we took him in.”

He had a likely guess just based off of her looks, but asked anyways, “Your daughter?”

“Yeah. She and her wife come by when they can to help out.”

Qrow hummed noncommittedly, gaze drifting towards the table where the other occupants were. There were four – a young, white-haired girl in a dress rivaling a Disney princess. She seemed to be dictating to another pink and brown-haired girl how to properly hold her teacup, who seemed to be having trouble mostly because she wouldn’t put down the parasol she had resting against her shoulder. The third was a ginger haired boy whose bowler hat and fake cigar seemed more suited for a poker match. The last was another older woman – Yang’s wife he’d assume – who seemed to of gotten stuck with the role of ‘pet’ in this game, as she was sporting a pair of cat ears and had a bowl overflowing with goldfish crackers in front of her.

Tai noticed his stare and started to point them out in turn, “Weiss, Neo, Roman and Blake. Looks like they’re playing tea party. Everyone else is probably outside on the playground.”

Everyone else? Just how many brats was he looking after? “You running a daycare or something?”

“It’s more of a very large foster home. A lot of kids who die young either don’t know or don’t trust their extended family enough to live with them. It makes Heaven really scary for them.” Tai tapped the water, the picture rippling away and reforming into a playground where at least another half-dozen kids were playing tag. “But something about being around a lot of other kids in their same situation makes them feel more comfortable. That’s why we have these facilities.”

Qrow snorted in amusement as a pink-haired girl full-force tackled a blond boy. That kid was going to be tasting grass for a week. “How noble of you. So, where’s Mrs. Xiao Long?”

Another tap and this time they were in the kitchen. A very determined young boy with a streak of pink in his hair was rolling out cookie dough. Beside him, an older woman with soft silver eyes was cutting out shapes from the sheet and placing them on a shallow pan.

He whistled lowly. “What a beauty. She’s way too good for you.”

“Believe me, I know.” Tai chortled softly. “Probably why these days she goes by Miss Rose.”

The insult was already leaving his tongue before his brain caught up. “Well at least she wised up and – wait.” When it finally did, he glowered at him, certain he was pulling one under on him. “That doesn’t make sense. You couldn’t get divorced in the dark ages.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m from the 1860s.”

“Oh my god, you really are a cowboy.”

“SECOND of all,” Taiyang doggedly continued, too stubborn not to finish schooling him, “You’re right. But the vows have a very specific condition.” He looked back at the pool, watching his ex-wife help the little boy place the cookies in the oven. “‘Till death do us part. And oh, did it part us.” He waved a hand across the water, snuffing out the fire before settling back with a melancholy sigh.

Qrow shifted uncomfortably. He knew he wasn’t really skilled at handling tough, emotional conversations like this – but he was good at diverting attention from them. “Well hey, look at the bright side. Now you got all the time in the world to wrangle up a pretty little saloon girl.”

“Do I even have to wonder if you’re insinuating something?” He stifled a laugh when Qrow just wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Good. He’d take his dumb smile over that miserable look any day.

“You’re so crass.” Tai decided.

“If you ask me, it’s one of my better qualities.” He assured.

He quirked one eyebrow. “If you trust me even a little bit, you’ll believe me when I tell you that’s not true.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t then. You’re a terrible judge of character.”

“How do you figure?”

He pointed to himself. “Hanging out with me, for starters.”

“As I recall, it was your decision to stick around.” Tai reminded, looking just a little too smug.

Damn him. “Yeah well, you… you bribed me!” Qrow said, running a hand over his neck as he averted his gaze back to the lake and the vision that had once been there to entice him in the first place.

As he stared down at it though, he couldn’t help but wonder…

“Hey. I need to ask you something.”

As if sensing the sudden seriousness, Tai sat up straight. “What is it?”

“Can this thing…” Qrow paused, his self-inflicted inhibitions of how he wasn’t worthy enough to even ask for such a thing clawing their way up his throat, trying to choke him. He got the rest out in a rush, “Can you show me anyone?”

He held his breath, waiting every painstaking second for the answer.

The angel studied him, his expression unreadable, before he finally looked away. “’Fraid not. I’m only able to show you people I know.”

“Oh. Well yeah, that makes sense.” He laughed it off as if it was no big deal. He crossed his arms, turning away so he didn’t have to see the other’s piteous look when he no doubt would see right through that ruse. He shut his eyes, fingernails digging grooves into his arms as if it physical pain could outweigh the sudden one in his chest. Stupid. Stupid! Of course, it’d be like that. Why did he let himself get his hopes up like that?

He was certain the hand that landed on his shoulder was meant to comfort him, and he reached out to push it off, when Tai spoke, “Why don’t you try?”

Qrow looked back, having to blink away kaleidoscopic spots the glowing feather spiraled across his vision. Heart pounding, he reached for it, but Tai caught his wrist. He jerked his head towards him, about to snap, but hesitated as he took in the other’s worried expression. His fingers curled up, subconsciously withdrawing from the light, and he asked softly, “Is it going to hurt me?”

“I… don’t know.” He replied. “Are you willing to take the risk if it does?”

Was he? Light burns were on a level all their own. It was an injury that charred the skin black and never healed. A searing pain that never stopped and no amount of water could relieve. Did he really want to live with that for all eternity?

But what if this is your only chance? The whisper coaxed from the back of his mind.

“Yes.” Qrow resolved, reaching out over their hands with his left now – ah, all those years working to be ambidextrous for nothing – and grabbed the feather. He flinched back immediately, setting his jaw tightly as he waited for the agony to start.

…Nothing.

He looked at his hand, just to be sure, but it was just as pale white as always. A wiggle of his fingers confirmed everything was still functional too. He nodded and this time when he took the feather, he held it firmly. He looked to the angel who was gaping at him wide enough to catch the whole insect kingdom. “Okay. Stop looking so impressed and tell me what to do next – preferably before this thing rethinks its generosity.”

“Uh, oh right!” Tai’s closed his mouth. “Just think of the name of the person you want to see and drop the feather over the water. It’ll do the rest.”

Simple enough. He held it up, the name coming as easily as breathing to him because it had been the first thing on his mind every day for twenty-nine years, and let go. He watched it fall, whole body tilting forward anxiously as he waited for it to finally touch the water. He heard the other man shifting closer as well but didn’t dare look away, not wanting to miss it when it finally –

The surge of fire roaring forth had him squinting against the sudden brightness and heat. He distantly noted that unlike Taiyang’s, which had been pure and bright orange, his fire had a veil of black flickering across the top. Such a minor thing wasn’t nearly as important as the picture that formed in its center.

She looked almost the same as the last day he’d ever seen her – a little older, maybe. He’d heard rumors those in Heaven could choose their age. Still her black hair was as wild as ever and it seemed she still loved wearing black and red, though her clothes were much fancier than they could have ever hoped to afford during their lifetime. She was with someone he didn’t know at all; a woman with short, brunette hair and tattoos running down one arm. He figured it didn’t matter, whatever she was saying was making his sister laugh.

She looked… so happy.

The picture suddenly started to blur and Qrow reached for it, thinking his tainted fire was the problem – but wet droplets hitting his arm told him the fire was fine.

Beside him, Taiyang said nothing. But a golden wing draped around him, a silent comfort as he cried.

He wasn’t sure how long it took for the fire to burn out. It could have been minutes, it could have been days, and it still would never be enough. His hand fell through the water as it dissipated, as if he hoped to catch it. Another beat, and he was lurching towards Tai, about to demand another feather.

It seemed this was something easily predicted, because Tai placed a hand over his mouth before he could utter his demand. “Another day, perhaps. This takes up a lot of my energy.”

The side of him that wasn’t quite as noble didn’t care, and ran through about a half dozen scenarios on how he might be able to either convince or force the other to do as he wished. It was a very loud voice. The smaller, weaker side of him took notice of the other’s unusually pale complexion and reasoned that patience would earn him far more reward than violence. It may have been the quieter of the two, but he still obediently backed down.

Tai relaxed too, resting back on his hands and letting his wings drag along the dirt. He tipped his head, looking towards the clouds drifting by above them. “So, who was she?”

Qrow knew that question was coming. “My sister.”

“Older? Younger?”

“She’s my twin.”

“You two must have been close. What’s her name?”

His eyes narrowed. “No jokes.”

Tai placed an affronted hand on his chest as if to say ‘When do I ever joke?’.

Qrow sighed and finally grit out, “Raven.”

Tai stared. Bit his lip. Whimpered, “One joke?”

“No!!” He snapped.

“Ugggh! Fiiine!” He whined like a toddler being told to clean his room. “Take all the fun out of it why don’tcha.”

Offhandedly, he noticed that the other’s western accent was more prominent when he minced words like that. It was a shame he didn’t do it more often.

He beat down that ridiculous thought as far down as it would go.

“You know,” Tai said, inclining his head towards him. “You could have searched around, looked for other people besides her.”

Okay, that was his cue to leave before the other really started to pry. “Just didn’t want to risk it.” He lied, getting to his feet, stretching his arms and wings. “Anyways, this has been fun and all, but I better be hitting the road. Oh, sorry, I guess for you it’s ‘hit the trail’?” He rubbed his chin, reconsidering, “Nah, that ain’t right. Skedaddle? Vamoose? Get along lil’ doggy?”

The angel held up a hand before he could continue. “Just go.”

That was all the permission he needed, tipping his non-existent hat at him. “You got it, partner.” He took a few steps away, then paused when the perfect payback for the other night occurred to him. “Oh wait. Forgot something.”

Tai watched him curiously as he came back around and leant down. His lips parted, certainly about to ask.

Qrow didn’t let him, stealing his voice by kissing him right on the corner of his mouth. He backed away, taking great pleasure in the other’s shell-shocked gaze as he reached up to touch the spot. If Tai wanted to play games he’d just have to get used to the fact Qrow was better at them.

“Now we’re even.” He declared as he headed for his portal.

Just as he was about to jump, Taiyang seemed to get enough of his bearings to call, “Y’all come back now, ya hear?”

By the time he popped out the other side, Qrow was still laughing.

#qrow branwen #taiyang xiao long #Taiqrow #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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theshimmeringisles · 6 years

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WARNING: The following contains mentions of detailed violence, suicide, mental illness, drug/alcohol mention and spousal abuse. Please read at your digression.

Clìfeid Shinnan’vok (Surname taken later in life) Name Meaning: Soft Snow Son of Shinnan Nicknames: Clif, Killer, Pretty Boy (via Credomhain only) Gender: Male Age: 675 at time of death (possible suicide) Species: Kurosian Dragon Breed: Yinvaht+Urlathei Hybrid Main Element: Ice Minor Element: Fear Patron Gods: Main: Unnamed Shadow Diety Minor: Mahoura Titles: Stalker of Shadows, The Bee Keeper Relations:

Mates: Many, notably Creidmheach

Sire of Ifreann and Ciar Creid’vel

Sire of more than two dozen other children throughout Kurosia

Bio: Much about Clìfeid is unknown until he made his mark on Kurosian history by being found by the then-monarchs in their private chambers with the head of the then-Chroma’s Admiral strapped to his side. He tossed the head of the Chroma’s most decorated and seasoned warrior to the King and Queens’s feet in their personal chambers, declaring that he wished to be one of their chief assassins, and that he would still serve them until his dying breath. During his fight against the late Admiral, his throat had been deeply cut, altering his voice to a near-whisper until his dying days.

But that did not mean he could not kill, or spy. Clìfeid was enlisted in many assassination contracts following his Grounding, still fully capable of fighting against Chroma and others the Kuros pitted themselves against or had war declared on them by. After all, he had spent an undetermined part of his life training to kill the Chroma’s most powerful, and knew well how to take their lives without being noticed. For seasons Clìfeid fought bravely, serving his monarchs and his people, dispatching of many an enemy the Kuros found themselves pitted against.

But it would eventually become too much for even a seasoned killer, and for no other reason than wishing to pursue other avenues of life, Clìfeid stepped down from his position. Assumed an entirely new identity, dying his scales and feathers an entirely different hue, and stepped out into the public eye for the first time.

And was promptly bowled over by one of the stockiest, rudest Brokt teen he’d ever laid eyes on. With a crude laugh she helped him back up and barreled off on her way with a gaggle of other Brokt and students headed to the colleges. With a snarl Clìfeid went about his business, his life carrying on mostly normally from them on.

Over the course of the next few generations, Clìfeid lived as any other Kuros did. He made a name for himself as a bee keeper, being one of the few who could walk among their hives without being stung by the ferocious breed that called the Kuros’s capitol home. The honey that he gathered was well sought after, specifically by non-Kuros, who claimed that his honey had psychoactive affects and helped those with PTSD and other mental illnesses. Clìfeid felt as if his life had finally become somewhat normal.

Until the Chroma declared war on the Kuros again, and he became one of their primary war criminal targets. Forced out of retirement, Clìfeid was enlisted not as a soldier, but as a military strategist. Though many suns had passed since the peak of his activity, and many things had changed, what he had seen and could recollect during the peak of his career as a paid killer was invaluable. But Clìfeid could not remain behind the front lines for very long.

The first-born son of the Admiral who’s life Clìfeid had taken challenged Clìfeid‘s honor, and revealed his greatest shame gathered by their own spies. Clìfeid hadn’t spent all of his life until killing the Admiral training to kill; he’d been a petty thief in Bjartr Tunga, fed tales of glory days of old from one of his banished Kurosian parents. Determined to live most of his life honored by his true people, Clìfeid had traveled to War Fang, killed the Admiral in his sleep, and spun the story that would cement his honor among his people.

Furiously, Clìfeid accepted the challenge, and the fight between the Admiral’s son (who had become the Electricity Guardian for the Chroma) and the former assassin who had fought so desperately for his own honor was long and bloody. For a time the battle around them ceased, as the Kuros and Chroma watched the two rip and tear at each other furiously for hours. Even with numerous ice shards causing the Guardian incredible damage, he still fought Clìfeid; and even with his scales burnt and his vision permanently damaged from the lightening that had been shot through him, the assassin still fought.

The duel came to an end when the Guardian took hold of Clìfeid’s left wing, and ripped it from his body. With the gaping wounds bleeding freely, Clìfeid collapsed, unable to move. The Guardian stood over him, triumphant, his body humming with wild arcs of electricity that would poised to finish the job.

But they never came. Before Clìfeid’s eyes the Guardian’s head turned a full and unnatural 180 degrees, the crack of bone and sinew filling the silence that had fallen.

Standing over him was the Brokt from all those years ago, looking down at him with a feral grin. “Well,” she bellowed, more to the gathered crowd than to him, “don’t just sit about gapin’! There’s a war to be fought!”

Creidmheach Stòrach’vel Name Meaning: Believer Daughter of the Broken Nicknames: Brick, Creid Gender: Female Age: 412 at time of death (accidental: alcohol poisoning) Species: Kurosian Dragon Breed: Brokt Element: Earth Patron Gods: Main: Bruja’heim Relations:

Daughter of Stòrach Duslach’vel and Clachair Poll’vel

Distant relation of Scarmane/Ea’Gann

Dam of Ifreann and Ciar Creid’vel

Mate of Clìfeid Shinnan’vok

Bio: Daughter of the Broken, she was called.

Daughter of the Incomplete, at times.

Sometimes even called broken herself, throughout her life.

But from a young age she understood why they called her that. Looking into either one of her mothers’ eyes, she could see it. That generations before they had her, they’d been broken by their enemies. Captured by the ones who challenged the Kuros the most, and tortured for years. The one who could call sandstorms to her aid changed her name, so ruined was her spirit when she and Clachair escaped.

They were hailed as war heroes, for on their way out they tore a path through the soldiers of the glowing ones’ forces, leaving bodies in their wake from their glimmering castle all the way back to Kurosia. But though their return was celebrated, it also caused unrest among the people; the two were inseparable. They rarely left one another’s sides. For a time they called one another mjia; for a very, very long time. But then her egg appeared between their sleeping bodies one night, and they turned against one another.

This was not the Kuros way. What they’d been feeling for years was wrong, in every sense of the word; the people had seen it, but they’d been so blinded by the horrors inflicted upon them. They tried to separate from one another. Tried to seek out others to keep them company. But the pair could never truly split apart while they took brief moments to help raise Creidmheach. In those moments, Creidmheach saw just how much they hated what had happened between them.

Sometimes it was just words. Whispered so that she didn’t hear, leaving one or the other’s eyes raw and glistening with hurt. Then snarled. Then shouted. Then Clachair struck Stòrach, and from then on, it became violent. Both blamed the other for having fallen in love while trying to survive the torture they’d endured.

Until it came to a violent and bloody head with their teeth buried in each other’s throats.

With Creidmheach being witness to the entire fight.

From then on, she wasn’t the same. She was loud, cocky despite her own broken spirit, and crude. She swore that one day she would be so strong, that she’d never be so weak as her mothers. And anyone who called her broken or less than they themselves were, she’d beat into a bloody pulp.

Over the years she gained a name for herself as a Brokt to be reckoned with. But it was rare that she even briefly considered entering into mating contracts. Even if the other could match her in battle, the memories of her mothers stopped her blood cold, and usually the prospective would earn themselves a sharp blow to the head. Creidmheach didn’t have many friends, either.

Not until she saved the life of another Kuros in battle.

The fight itself had been long, and gruesome. She’d heard up close the reason why the former assassin had accepted the challenge. Watching it filled her with some foreign emotion she could not name; respect, perhaps? Admiration? No, no. Certainly not that. Whatever it was, she’d felt her body move without her will when the Chroma scum had been building up the killing blow. Took a powerful bolt of lightening right into the eye, burning it out of its socket in an instant, but the shock on the Guardian’s face had been worth it as she’d snapped his neck with her own claws.

Standing over the former assassin’s body, she’d shouted at the two crowds, which had launched the battle back into full swing while she dragged the dragon’s body to the healer’s tent.

When he’d come to, the former assassin who’d been grounded introduced himself, and asked why she’d saved him. With a shrug, she’d grinned at him, unable to answer his question. Over the next few months, Clìfeid helped her adjust to the prosthetic eye gem she was given, while she taunted him relentlessly about having become Grounded. In reality, she had a great deal of respect for him accepting his fate with such grace. According to law, he hadn’t won back his honor; she had. And though others sneered at him at times, Clìfeid did not let it affect him. His chief concern was that she was well enough within the next season.

....all so he could challenge her to a mating contract.

To her own hidden, personal horror, she accepted.

Trivia: Clìfeid

Clìfeid’s parents were second-generation Kuros, both of whom had parents that fled Kurosia due to falling in love. As such, Clìfeid has differing views than most of his brethren of love, but on retiring from assassination, adapted well into that role. (According to many of his mates, he was very generous as a partner.)

Bees (and most other insects) not stinging Clìfeid is due to his Urlathei parentage.

This is a trait he passed down to Ciar, who not only is rarely stung, but is also immune to most bites from spiders and other insects.

Clìfeid’s voice claim is Rorsach from Watchmen, but he can’t raise his voice above more than a harsh whisper after his throat is cut.

Clìfeid has very close friendships with his fellow Kuros and those he left behind in Bjartr Tunga. After he is Grounded, he takes up writing to them regularly, which is allowed as Bjartr Tunga is considered a neutral territory and a good hub of trade for the Kuros.

After Ifreann freed Titus and was banished from Kurosia, Clìfeid did something he’d never done before: sampled his own wares. He found that it did indeed induce a momentary high, and as he ate more over the next few seasons, kept building a tolerance to it.

Of his last two daughters, Clìfeid did not have a closer relationship with one or the other; he loved them and paid equal amounts of attention to them both. The two knew they were deeply loved by him, and he was unashamed to shower them with affection that others would sometimes scoff at; the girls didn’t mind, and enjoyed feeling like they meant quite a lot to their sire.

Before his grandson could hatch, Clìfeid wrote a letter to Asiirha, encouraging him to follow the path that made his heart happy rather than what he thought would gain the attention of those he looked up to. This would deeply affect Asiirha later in life when, shortly before The Fall, Ciar gave the letter to him. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him about it, as her sire’s death still pained her greatly.

Trivia: Creidmheach

Creidmheach’s mothers likely would never have entered into mjia partnership if they hadn’t been captured and kept for as long as they had. Stòrach herself often told her daughter that the only reason they became so close was that a sense of battlefield camaraderie had been warped by their captors. This kept Creidmheach from forming many close friendships with others, so fearful was she that she might end up like them.

Most Brokt are unable to undergo the painful process of having their horns carved. But not only did Creidmheach do this twice, she had it done four times.

Though her descendants are many, few of Scarmane’s blood were strong enough to endure the pain horn carving caused.

Like Clìfeid, Creidmheach found herself turning to substance abuse when her daughter brought their family shame. Already a regular drinker from adolescence, the Brokt became a fully blown alcoholic, despite Ciar trying on multiple occasions to get her mother to drop the habit.

Creidmheach’s voice claim is Fionnula Flanagan. (Example)

Creidmheach had a habit of giving those she crossed paths with on multiple occasions nicknames. Despite his scars (or perhaps because of them), Creidmheach would often call Clìfeid effeminate pet names, but ‘Pretty Boy’ was her favorite. (It was his, too.) She called her daughters ‘Tiny’ and ‘Puny’ frequently, alternating between the two.

Despite their ranks within Kurosian society, Creidmheach is quite theatrical about her daughters’ sizes and physical strength. She believes they are not truly Brokt unless they physically match her bulk. When Asiirha hatches, she looks at Ciar with wide-eyed shock, and blurts out ‘You pushed THAT chunk outta your vent?!’ Hers are the first words that Asiirha hears when he comes out of the egg.

#Clìfeid Shinnan’vok #Clìfeid #Creidmheach Stòrach’vel #Creidmheach #Kuros OC #Brokt OC #Kuros Hybrid #Urlathei-Yinvaht Hybrid #Kuros History #Chroma History

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laraiswriting · 6 years

Text

Deep Impact (FP Jones x reader)

Hey guys! This is my first time writing anything in english and I'm very nervous on posting it. This isn't my first language, so please don't be harsh on any mistakes. I'm trying my best. Also, it's the first time ever I've written smut. I hope you enjoy and love a certain serpent as much as I do :)

Summary: A one shot about seeing a certain serpent for the first time. FP gets out of jail and his first stop is the Wythe Worm where he meets a mysterious and cheeky woman who knows exactly what she wants.

Warnings: Age gap (reader is in her mid-twenties), cursing, smut

Words: 2257

This was the fourth weekend in a row where you were going to the Wythe Worm to drown your sorrows in alcohol. A lot alcohol. Beeing the oldest kid in a family, where image and prestige is everything, was never easy for you. You've been put through a lot of responsibilities and pressure from your parents and grandparents. And after you graduated school, they wanted you to go to an Ivy League College. Becoming a lawyer like your dad and your granddad...

It never counted that you wanted something else for your life. You had no choice at all. So you struggled and stumbled your way through University. But no grade or achievement had ever been enough. You had to be better, smarter, more powerful.

Every time you couldn't stand all of this anymore you turned to alcohol. Driving an hour or two to a bar where nobody knows you, sleeping in a hotel and covering the trip as 'learningtime in an inspirational new surrounding'. Surprisingly, your family bought this lie every time.

You discovered this bar full of -mostly- guys who are smoking and/or drinking and wrapped in heavy leather jackets, a month ago and decided to come back. You've always had a weakness for the 'bad guys'. Biker... Rocker... So you liked this view a lot. But you never did anything else than watching and observing. None of the men ever caught your attention. But this night promised to be different.

You sat on your typical seat at the wall and sipped on your drink when the door opened and a man you had never seen here before, walked in. And what a man he was. Tall, dark, handsome with big brown eyes, brown hair and a stubble on his face.

He was greeted with cheers and you thought you heard some 'welcome back's', too. This night was just getting interesting. Excitingly, you slipped from your stool and followed the man into the crowd.

When you were next to him you 'accidentily' stumbled against him. "Oh... I'm so sorry. Hey... stranger. I haven't seen you in here before", you started the conversation. His gaze went from your [e/c] eyes to your lips and all over your body. Which sent a shiver down your spine. You were dressed all in black and he seemed to like what he is seeing. "Same goes for you, gorgeous", he said in a low tone. "Well, I've been here for the last few weekends but I could definitely remember if I had seen you around, handsome." You winked at him. He chuckled when he heard your nickname for him and smiled down at you. "So, what about I get you another drink and you tell me, why you would've remembered me?", he asked you in a dark voice.

Saying that, the two of you went back to the bar. As you recieved your drink, you glanced over to the billiard table. "You play?", you asked, nodding to the table. "Sure. This is my bar. Of course I'm good at it." "Hmpf.", you scoffed. "Prove it."

You walked towards the table, hips and butt swinging, knowing, that he was looking. "So, what is your wager?", you asked the man whose name you still didn't know. "If I win, I want to know the most questionable thing you have ever done." His eyes went even darker and you let out a small breath. "Alright. And if I win, I want you to give me something I've never had before. Whatever it turns out to be." You looked up to him with innocent eyes, but he got the hint. "Let the game begin, sweetheart." "My name is [y/n] by the way. But I don't mind you calling me nicknames instead." You winked at him. "Pretty name for a pretty lady. I'm FP", he simply stated. "FP, huh? What's that short for?" "I'll tell you eventually if you win. So, ladys first.", he pointed at you.

You went over to the white ball, bent over and wigged a bit with your butt. "Reason one", you referred to your previous conversation. "I would remember someone paying for my drinks." FP scoffed. "Please. Don't tell me that none of my boys would've wanted to pay for your drinks.""Right. I didn't want them to. You know, I don't like everyone.", you said whilst your first two balls disappeared in wholes. "I think I need more reasons. Doesn't seem valid enough.", FP chuckled.

You smiled and surrounded the table until you stood next to him. "Reason two: I would remember your scent." "Now, this sounds more like the things I thought of.", whispered FP in your ear. You missed the white ball. "Hey!", you exclaimed. "Can't win without a little cheating, huh?" "Well, every game needs to be exciting and unpredictable, don't you think, doll?"

Little did he know, that you were leading billiard champion at your fraternity. Twenty minutes later you sank the black ball into the whole you wanted, hands in the air and shouting "HA!".

"I'm a good loser, so I'm paying my debt.", FP came closer to you as you jumed on top of the table to be on the same eye level with him. "What could I possibly give you what you've never had before", mumbled he as he stands between your legs, running his hands up and down your thighs. You sighed. "Done that before, FP. Don't waste my time." "Brave, little one. Brave. But be careful. You're playing with the devil." He intensified his grip on your thighs and closed the gap between you two. You immediately crashed your lips into his. This is what you were craving for the whole evening. No, the last few weeks. You needed a man. And FP definitely could give you what you needed.

Your hands went around his neck and you pulled his hair to get closer to him. He groaned against your mouth. This was almost enough to let you moan yourself. Suddenly, he lifted you up, hands around your ass, and started stumbling somewhere. You didn't ask any questions. Actually, you didn't care where you were going with him as long as the two of you would be alone. "This game just started to get exciting", you whispered in his ear while taking his earlobe between your teeth. FP's reaction was, that the stumbling fastened and you realized that you were going upstairs.

You didn't have sex in a bar or some kind of backroom before, but you didn't consider to tell him yet. Not even a second. You were beyond excited when FP opened a door and shut it right behind you. FP laid you down on a couch and hovered over you. He then started to kiss a trail from the corner of your lips to your neck. Little, too little tiny kisses. This started to kill you. You wanted him.

"FP... Come on. Why are you so soft?", you whined. "You're so impatient, love." After a few more soft kisses, he suddenly sinked his teeth into your flesh. Hard. "Oh god...", you cried out in a mix of pleasure and pain, arching your back. FP continued to suck on your neck, searching for your soft spot. Leaving bite and love marks and earning a flow of curses and moans from you. You dugged your fingers into the couch. Your other hand clasped into FP's hair to intensify the feeling. By the time he travelled with his one hand down your body, squeezing your breast, you were liquid under his hands.

You never felt this turned on by just neck kissing and little touching. He knew what he was doing, that was for sure. You tucked his shirt and took it over his head. When he raised his head, you could barely see his pupils anymore. His eyes were clouded with lust. And you were pretty sure, you looked the same.

He began to kiss a trail down between your breasts, to your stomach and til the beginning of your trousers. He took off your shirt and bra and started to roll your one nipple between his fingers while his tounge massaged your other nipple. You whimpered. "God, FP... fuck... do you want to kill me?" "I'm just paying my debt.", he said while breathing heavy himself.

You couldn't wait any longer. FP was such a tease. You sat up and started to unbuckle his jeans. "Stand up and take them off. Boxers, too.", you commanded. Amused and a bit surprised by your cockiness, he obeyed. You licked your lips at the view of a nacked FP. He not only kissed like a god, he looked like one, too.

You kneeled down on the floor right in front of his hard member and started stroking it. You bit your lip and looked up at FP. He was breathing hard, eyes closed and mouth opened a bit. You licked the tip of his cock and slowly closing your mouth around him. FP moaned by your touch and that gave you an extra boost of confidence. You moved your head back and forth, taking him deeper with every thrust. You felt how soaked you were and how annoying your remaining clothes felt on you. With one last thrust you let go of FP. Standing up, you impatiently got rid of your trousers. Knowing that FP was watching, you turned around and taking your panties off slowly, showing him your ass.

FP gripped your waist from behind and you could feel his hard cock against your ass. You whimpered. "Please, tell me you have condoms somewhere near.", you moaned. "Of course, baby. But we don't need them yet.", he teased. Again. You groaned. "FP... I... oh yes... oh god..." He had started to draw circles at your clit with his fingers. His mouth found its place on your neck again and with this mix of feelings and emotions you couldn't think clear anymore.

He pushed you lightly towards the couch until your feet touched it. Still with your back towards him, he comanded you to kneel down on the couch. You did as he told. You heard him going away and a ripping sound followed. You closed your eyes in excitment of what was next to come. You felt your juice running down your legs. You needed him so bad. And you didn't wanted it to be gentle. Not tonight.

All of a sudden, FP slipped two fingers inside you and groaned. "Baby... you're so wet. And so tight. This is so...", he couldn't control himself anymore. He fingered you for some time but soon replaced them with the tip of his erected member at your entrance. "No need to be gentle, handsome. I can handle it.", you encouraged him. A split second later, he entered you with one hard thrust. You could feel this mix of pain and pleasure again and started moaning again. He pounded even harder and picked up his pace. "FP... harder... Please, fuck me.", you whined.

His hands were on your hips to hold you steady while he fucked you from behind. This was definitely the best sex you had yet. And you hadn't cum yet. But you slowly felt this familiar feeling inside your stomach. And as FP, always knowing what you needed, started to rub your clit again, you couldn't stand it anymore. Your moanings got even louder and FP felt your walls tighten around him. "Oh baby girl, this is so good. You're so hot. Come, tell me how you like it.", he growled. With his name on your lips, you exploded around him. You could swear you were seeing stars. Your whole body was shaking. This orgasm was intense.

With one more thrust, FP came close behind you. As you both rode out your orgasms and tried to catch your breaths, you felt yourself relax. Something inside you got fixed. You didn't feel the anger anymore. The pressure. The strain.

FP pulled out and the both of you collapsed on the couch. He opened his arms and you cuddled, head on his chest. "Reason three", you laughed "I could remember such incredible sex." He placed a kiss on your hair. "I hope, I could give you, what you asked for. Otherwise... you have to come back.", he stated. You gave him a light kiss on the lips and sighed. "I have to go now. I have to drive back early in the morning." You both got dressed and as you walked down the stairs you suddenly felt like something was sitting on your chest.

You didn't want to leave.

FP escorted you to your cab and pulled you in for one last kiss. With his hands around your waist, leaving no space between you, and your hands in his hair, the kiss was intense but soft and gentle. "Goodbye, little one." "Goodbye, dark one." FP chuckled at this new nickname. "I'll be back next weekend.", you said while entering the cab. "I'll be here. See you." As the cab pulled of you looked behind and you saw FP looking back at you. You let out a deep sigh. What have you gotten yourself into?

#riverdale #fp jones #fp jones x reader #forsythe pendleton ii #smut #fanfic #fanfiction #reader #fp #serpents #southside serpents #riverdale serpents #imagine #riverdale imagines #fp jones imagine

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caddyxjellyby · 6 years

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Alcott Readathon 2018: An Old-Fashioned Girl (1869)

Alcott’s third or fourth depending on how you count Good Wives novel, featuring cane-shaking, a menage a trois, and America’s favorite fighting Frenchman. Polly Arrives Fanny tells Tom to pick up Polly from the station. Tom says "She'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and she'll be about right, too." Fanny says "If I was the President, I'd make a law to shut up all boys till they were grown; for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the world." I wonder what Tom means by wearing a thingumbob? A veil maybe? The naughty boy tells Polly the hack-driver is tipsy so he won’t have to sit with her. It boggles my mind that a fourteen year old would refer to herself as a “little girl.” I suppose back them children didn’t have to bend over backwards to be taken seriously. That is, if you refer to yourself as a little girl people won’t take you seriously. But if they just do it as a given you don’t bend over backwards to earn it. Polly sings for Madam Shaw, the grandmother, and they talk about how they were brought up properly unlike the Shaw siblings. Madam Shaw doesn’t approve of children calling their father Papa. What the fuck. I bet “the old man” would make her spontaneously combust. The girls see a vulgar play; Polly doesn’t understand half the jokes, and the girls on stage are dressed as jockeys, which I think means wearing trousers. Scandalous. Madam Shaw praises her innocence.

New Fashions

Apparently eyeglasses were trendy in 1869. Polly follows Fanny to school, where the girls gossip about Carrie who ran away with an Italian music teacher.

Fanny: "I like to read about such things; but it's so inconvenient to have it happen right here, because it makes it harder for us. I wish you could have heard my papa go on. He threatened to send a maid to school with me every day, as they do in New York, to be sure I come all right. Did you ever?"

Belle: "That's because it came out that Carrie used to forge excuses in her mamma's name, and go promenading with her Oreste, when they thought her safe at school. Oh, wasn't she a sly minx?"

Trix: "I think a little fun is all right; and there's no need of making a talk, if, now and then, some one does run off like Carrie. Boys do as they like; and I don't see why girls need to be kept so dreadfully close. I'd like to see anybody watching and guarding me!" GO TRIX KEEPING GIRLS THE SLIGHTEST BIT “CLOSER’ THAN BOYS IS PSYCHOLOGICALLY HARMFUL AND DISRESPECTFUL. ...I have a lot of feels about gender and child-rearing, okay? Okay. The constant ads for the Blockers movie keep bringing it to mind. (Kathryn Newton, the most recent Amy March, is in it.) The Bostonians gush over some exciting novels; Polly doesn’t know them. Polly: "My mother says a real gentleman is as polite to a little girl as to a woman; so I like Mr. Sydney best, because he was kind to me." I want that embroidered. “Polly was not a model girl by any means” Sure, Louisa. The kids say ain’t a lot. Creosote sent my mind straight to Discworld. Polly’s Troubles Polly wished the children would be kinder to grandma; but it was not for her to tell them so, although it troubled her a good deal, and she could only try to make up for it by being as dutiful and affectionate as if their grandma was her own. Awww. The fact that they name their sleds is adorable. Me, I’ve never been a person to name inanimate objects, other than occasionally referring to something as the precious. Fan reads Lady Audley’s Secret. "I shouldn't think you'd make him laugh, when he's always making you cwy," observed Maud, who had just come in. Good one, Maud. Little Things Polly is a perfect child who can do no wrong, except spend some money on bronze boots instead of presents for her family. We learn that she has a dead brother named Jimmy. They studied Latin together so she helps Tom with his. Tom falls off his new velocipede and hits his head. Polly holds it while a doctor gives him stitches. Scrapes AFTER being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after Tom's mishap, the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that grandma said she was afraid "something was going to happen to them." I kind of loathe this line of thinking? If you want children to be good, don’t insult them by not trusting them. Polly, if you’ve never had to lie to your parents then you know you have good parents, and not everybody is like you. A boy sends Fanny flowers and that’s unacceptable. “I'll send you to school in a Canadian convent,” says Mr. Shaw. Oh boy. Tom dresses up in Fanny’s outfit, then they and Maud look at Polly’s journal, which is full of sketches of the family and friends, and Polly’s thoughts on Fan. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I should love her just the same; but she isn't kind to me; and though she is always talking about politeness, I don't think it is polite to treat company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare say I am; but I shouldn't laugh at a girl's clothes because she was poor, or keep her out of the way because she didn't do just as other girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can't feel as I did; and I'd go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and I do love them dearly." Grandma Tom was reposing on the sofa with his boots in the air, absorbed in one of those delightful books in which boys are cast away on desert islands, where every known fruit, vegetable and flower is in its prime all the year round; or, lost in boundless forests, where the young heroes have thrilling adventures, kill impossible beasts, and, when the author's invention gives out, suddenly find their way home, laden with tiger skins, tame buffaloes and other pleasing trophies of their prowess. The Shaw kids find Polly up in Grandma’s room, listening to her stories. They’re like you never told us that story and Grandma’s like you never asked. "At eight o'clock on the appointed evening, several of us professed great weariness, and went to our room, leaving the rest sewing virtuously with Miss Cotton, who read Hannah More's Sacred Dramas aloud, in a way that fitted the listeners for bed as well as a dose of opium would have done.”Surprisingly snarky Grandma. "Wait for your turn, Tommy. Now, Polly, dear, what will you have?" said grandma, looking, so lively and happy, that it was very evident "reminiscing" did her good. "Let mine come last, and tell one for Tom next," said Polly, looking round, and beckoning him nearer. Oh come on now Polly. Tom wants to shoot cats? Okay. Polly asks about a glove; Grandma tells the story of Lafayette kissing the glove with his picture on it and then kissing her on the cheek to avoid that. Grandma’s Aunt was married to John Hancock, just like Abigail Alcott’s grand-aunt was married to him in real life. Also she thinks leg o’mutton sleeves are beautiful and becoming. Let’s not hold it against her. Colonel May, that’s LMA’s grandfather. Next we go even further back in history - Grandma produces a letter “written by Anne Boleyn before her marriage to Henry VIII, and now in the possession of a celebrated antiquarian.” How she acquired this letter is not explained, and it does seem to be the original letter and not a copy. Good-by [sic] We get it, Louisa, you think fancy clothes are sinful. They hold a going-away party for Polly, inviting some girls to keep Maud out of the way and Tom’s school-friends, Rumple, Sherry, and Spider. Polly and Tom open the redowa; he’s bad at keeping time to the music, like me. She doesn’t know how to dance the German so she plays with the little girls in the library. Aww, they snuck presents for her family in Polly’s trunk. Six Years Afterward "WHAT do you think Polly is going to do this winter?" exclaimed Fanny, looking up from the letter she had been eagerly reading. She’s returning to Boston to teach music. Mr. Shaw respects her for being independent. Tom says she’s pretty in a moment of foreshadowing. Madam Shaw has died. "Where did you learn so much worldly wisdom, Polly?" asked Mr. Shaw, as his wife fell back in her chair, and took out her salts, as if this discovery had been too much for her. "I learnt it here, sir," answered Polly, laughing. "I used to think patronage and things of that sort very disagreeable and not worth having, but I've got wiser, and to a certain extent I'm glad to use whatever advantages I have in my power, if they can be honestly got." What is this, the Shaws doing something good for once? Holy hell! “You must come and see my pets, Maud, for my cat and bird live together as happily as brother and sister," said Polly, turning to Maud, who devoured every word she said. "That's not saying much for them," muttered Tom, feeling that Polly ought to address more of her conversation to him. Geez, Tom, entitled much? Tom is engaged to Trix. Polly keeps bees at her country home. It must be so nice to be able to clean without the paranoia that you’re going to get mocked for doing it wrong. All hail living alone! Lessons Polly finds her drudgery a bit harder than she expected but her pupils love her. She found Fanny enduring torment under the hands of the hair-dresser, who was doing his best to spoil her hair, and distort her head with a mass of curls, braids, frizzles, and puffs; for though I discreetly refrain from any particular description, still, judging from the present fashions, I think one may venture to predict that six years hence they would be something frightful. The problem with writing books set in the future. Polly comes home one day to find her landlady, Miss Mills, sewing a dress for Jane, who also lives in the boarding-house and tried to kill herself because she couldn’t find work that paid enough for the rent. Polly goes to visit Jane. Brothers and Sisters Polly’s brother Will visits her every Sunday and they’re BFFs. Tom hates being called Carrots; I want an Anne of Green Gables crossover. Maud informs him that Polly thinks he’s handsomer than Mr. Sydney. "Don't make such a noise, my head aches dreadfully," said Fanny, fretfully. "Girls' heads always do ache," answered Tom, subsiding from a roar into a chuckle. Um, fuck you Tom. He suspects Trix of wearing makeup because she won’t let him kiss her cheek, only “an unsatisfactory peck at her lips.” That’s less satisfying than the cheek? Whatever you say, Tom. Fanny confirms it. He doesn’t approve. Will arrives to take Maud to Polly’s; LMA gets a dig in: “They were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being a "dig," and Tom a "bird," or, in plain English, one was a hard student, and the other a jolly young gentleman. Tom had rather patronized Will, who didn't like it, and showed that he didn't by refusing to borrow money of him, or accept any of his invitations to join the clubs and societies to which Tom belonged. So Shaw let Milton alone, and he got on very well in his own way, doggedly sticking to his books, and resisting all temptations but those of certain libraries, athletic games, and such inexpensive pleasures as were within his means; for this benighted youth had not yet discovered that college nowadays is a place in which to "sky-lark," not to study.” We'll see more of that when we get to Jo’s Boys. Polly talks better than other girls who are coquettes. Seriously. Jesus Christ. Maud has “a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public” and “a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company.” Huh. Needles and Tongues Fanny’s sewing circle meets at the Shaw house. Polly listens to them gossip. “Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.' s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion.” That’s pretty funny. Polly and Trix butt heads over giving charity. “[Trix] felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever.” I am not entirely unsympathetic to Trix. Polly tells them about Jane and they’re very moved and resolve to hire her for sewing. Forbidden Fruit Polly, Fanny, and Tom go to the opera. Polly buys new gloves for the occasion and their dog chews them up and she’s like serves me right for buying something I didn’t need. Her new bonnet survives, though, and Tom mentions how becoming it is. "Dress that girl up, and she'd be a raving, tearing beauty," he whispers to Maud, and Polly overhears. A bit of sarcastic fourth wall breaking: I deeply regret being obliged to shock the eyes and ears of such of my readers as have a prejudice in favor of pure English by expressions like the above, but, having rashly undertaken to write a little story about Young America, for Young America, I feel bound to depict my honored patrons as faithfully as my limited powers permit. Otherwise, I must expect the crushing criticism, "Well, I dare say it's all very prim and proper, but it isn't a bit like us," and never hope to arrive at the distinction of finding the covers of "An Old-Fashioned Girl" the dirtiest in the library. Polly wears her hair down, holy shit. Maud comments on what a lovely bride she would be, Tom refers to her as “Mrs. Sydney,” and Fan goes to the carriage “in an usually lofty manner.” Love triangle ahoy. And who should appear at the opera but Arthur Sydney? Polly, on her reaction to heartbreak: "That's not my way either," she said decidedly. "I'd try to outlive it, and if I could n't, I'd try to be the better for it. Disappointment needn't make a woman a fool." Sounds like Rosamund. We are reminded that French novels are evil, and Polly calls Tom a modern Beau Brummel. The Sunny Side Fanny and Tom discuss Polly/Sydney. Tom thinks being a fine lady wouldn’t suit her; Fanny disagrees. Tom realizes his sister likes Sydney and says nothing about it. Polly introduces Fanny to her friends Becky and Bess, two artists who live together. Becky is sculpting “the coming woman” and needs to put a symbol in her hands. Fanny suggests a queen’s sceptre, Polly a man’s helping hand, and Bess a child. Becky turns those down. Kate, an accidentally successful author, suggests a ballot-box. They have a lunch of sardines, oranges, crackers, and cheese, on mismatched plates which one 1860s reviewer found too unfeminine to be realistic. We learn that "Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her." Kate wants to put Polly in a book. Very funny.

Nipped in the Bud Polly inner monologues about how she can’t love Arthur Sydney as a wife should, so she ought to tell him before he proposes. Particularly since he and Fan would suit each other. She changes her route home so as to avoid meeting him, then he sees her coming home from Fanny’s one day and they talk. He says that Fanny hasn’t improved with her years and Polly defends her friend. “She puts on that dashing air before people to hide her real self. But I know her better; and I assure you that she does improve; she tries to mend her faults, though she won't own it, and will surprise you someday, by the amount of heart and sense and goodness she has got." Breakers Ahead Tom gets expelled for knocking down the Chapel watchmen. At least he didn’t need that degree for a job. And Mr. Shaw’s business has failed, and Tom has acquired a significant amount of debt. Oh no. Polly comforts him and then Fanny, who doesn’t actually need much comforting, being glad for the distraction from her unrequited love. Indian cake . . . is that cornbread? A Dress Parade The big house was given up as soon as possible and the little house taken; being made comfortable with the furniture Madam left there when she went to live with her son. The old-fashioned things had been let with the house, and now seemed almost like a gift from Grandma, doubly precious in these troublous times. At the auction, several persons tried to show the family that, though they had lost their fortune, friends still remained, for one bid in Fanny's piano, and sent it to her; another secured certain luxurious articles for Mrs. Shaw's comfort; and a third saved such of Mr. Shaw's books as he valued most, for he had kept his word and given up everything, with the most punctilious integrity. Maud enjoys herself learning to housewife. Polly gives Fanny advice on freshening her wardrobe, such as turning her grey suit. Fanny used to give Maud her old dresses for tableaux. Polly’s story is based on real life. From LMA’s ”Recollections of My Childhood”: People wondered at our frolics, but enjoyed them; and droll stories are still told of the adventures of those days. Mr. Emerson and Margaret Fuller were visiting my parents one afternoon; and the conversation having turned to the ever-interesting subject of education, Miss Fuller said,-- "Well, Mr. Alcott, you have been able to carry out your methods in your own family, and I should like to see your model children." She did in a few moments,--for as the guests stood on the doorsteps a wild uproar approached, and round the corner of the house came a wheelbarrow holding baby May arrayed as a queen; I was the horse, bitted and bridled, and driven by my elder sister Anna, while Lizzie played dog and barked as loud as her gentle voice permitted. All were shouting, and wild with fun, which, however, came to a sudden end as we espied the stately group before us, for my foot tripped, and down we all went in a laughing heap, while my mother put a climax to the joke by saying with a dramatic wave of the hand,-- "Here are the model children, Miss Fuller!" Playing Grandmother Tom has a harder time than his sisters. He’s too bad at business to help his father so he hangs out with Mrs. Shaw. "I'd cut away to Australia if it wasn't for mother; anything, anywhere to get out of the way of people who know me. I never can right myself here, with all the fellows watching, and laying wagers whether I sink or swim. Hang Greek and Latin! wish I'd learned a trade, and had something to fall back upon. Haven't a blessed thing now, but decent French and my fists.” Oh my gosh I think Tom’s a millennial. Polly teaches Maud how to make raisin cake for Tom’s birthday. He receives two letters: one from Trix dumping him, and one from Arthur Sydney saying that’s he’s paid Tom’s debts. Tom, unwilling to owe him, decides to go West, young man, like Polly’s brother Ned. The Woman Who Did Not Dare POLLY wrote enthusiastically, Ned answered satisfactorily, and after much corresponding, talking, and planning, it was decided that Tom should go West. Never mind what the business was; it suffices to say that it was a good beginning for a young man like Tom, who, having been born and bred in the most conservative class of the most conceited city in New England, needed just the healthy, hearty, social influences of the West to widen his views and make a man of him. Polly goes home for the summer, Maud to the shore with Belle, and Fan stays home. I’m pretty sure Polly lives in Concord. Does she know the Marches? She returns to Boston in the fall and Fanny says have you been sick? No, it’s love. Polly gives vague answers and Fan replies that she thinks Sydney is starting to like her. She shows Polly a photo Tom sent and Polly’s face makes her go Aha. Winter passes, and in May Fan and Sydney get engaged. Tom’s Success "Come, Philander, let us be a marching, Every one his true love a searching," would be the most appropriate motto for this chapter, because, intimidated by the threats, denunciations, and complaints showered upon me in consequence of taking the liberty to end a certain story as I liked, I now yield to the amiable desire of giving satisfaction, and, at the risk of outraging all the unities, intend to pair off everybody I can lay my hands on. Tom comes home and tells Polly he loves her. "Now, Tom, how could I know you loved me when you went away and never said a word?" she began, in a tenderly reproachful tone, thinking of the hard year she had spent. "And how could I have the courage to say a word, when I had nothing on the face of the earth to offer you but my worthless self?" answered Tom, warmly. "That was all I wanted!" whispered Polly, in a tone which caused him to feel that the race of angels was not entirely extinct. I suppose if I liked Tom more the romance might work for me but I don’t and it doesn’t. Neither pairing seems to happen naturally, the narrative forces them together. Will marries Jane and Maud remains a spinster, “[keeping] house for her father in the most delightful manner.” The End and I’m glad of it! Next is Little Men.

#an old fashioned girl #louisa may alcott #alcott readathon 2018

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the-ill-informed-bystander · 7 years

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The Restless Soul

“Good evening, Father.” The young lad’s breath turned to into wisps of clouds and mingled with the tendrils of smoke rising from the burning coals resting peacefully in a steel brazier to his right.

Father Gascoigne looked up at the night sky and studied the moon.

“By now it’s the witching hour, soldier.” He replied. “Unfortunately for you, it’s well into the morning.”

The soldier smiled. “Why is it unfortunate for me? If we are attacked, well I’m already armed and armoured. I feel sorry for that lot.” He waved a hand at the open doorway behind him. When the creatures of the night come to slaughter them they’ll be too comfortable to fight back, I almost feel sorry for them.”

Gascoigne chuckled. “A soldier with wit! What’s your name lad?”

“Garen.” He replied.

The priest raised his rusted iron lantern and dipped a thin splinter of food into the flames. “Well Garen, make sure you don’t lose that wit when the Corpse-men come for us all.”

“I can’t make that promise just yet.” Garen frowned as Gascoigne lit the candle in the lantern. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing up so late?”

“Same as you lad, watching.”

“You don’t need to do that Father.” The watchman replied. “We have men posted all over this monastery.”

“Oh I’m sure you boys are doing a fine job guarding those asleep right now, but my duty is to those who are awake.” The priest reached into his robes and produced a sewn up bladder. “Here, have a drink. Hopefully it will keep you from freezing in your boots.”

Garen took a few gulps and immediately regretted drinking the liquor so quickly.

“The bee is such a devoted follower.” The priest said as he took the bladder back. “Their devotion to their work is almost Christian at times, so maybe that’s why we Church men don’t feel too guilty enjoying the fruits of their labours.”

“That’s mighty potent mead, father.” The now red faced Garen replied.

“Aye, I do believe that was our intention.” Gascoigne laughed. “I’m afraid this is where I leave you Garen, try not to grow bitter as you grow into that uniform.”

Garen smiled again. “I’ll try, Father. Until next we meet.”

The priest nodded a goodbye and walked through the old wooden doorway. The monastery was older than living memory. Generations before had dragged lumber, brick and mortar to the peak of a hill that overlooked the surrounding country for miles in all directions. The relief created refuge from the endless bogs and mires, bringing travellers from all around. What was once a small, yet imposing, chapel slowly transformed into a community that hugged the now fortified monastery. The old chapel remained, however, and for the night it was home to the Duke and his warriors. Fresh from the day’s battle.

Father Gascoigne carefully stepped over the sleeping soldiers. Men of warfare, of power and destruction, slept now where he had matched many men and women. The contradiction seemed peculiar, the potential for new life was made here so often, but right now it was filled with the potential to end life.

It was dark inside the chapel. Outside the moon and stars gave just enough light to see by, inside however there was no such grace. The light of the candle seemed to bounce off every object in the long chapel. As Father Gascoigne walked down the aisle he saw men and women asleep on benches, curled up on the floor and huddled together in groups. He spied the unmistakable matt of dark brown hair that could only have belonged to Henry Mortimer, the formidable Duke. Some called him the Brown Bear, a nickname he earned very young when his hair came in thick and fast and he grew a full head taller than men twice his age. People flocked to him like moths to a flame, yet like the moth those who served under him lived their lives flirting with death. More than a few of his former soldiers were buried a few yards from where he slept now. Gascoigne had seen to many of their burials himself.

A flash of light caught his eye. From behind the altar and the head of the hall orange light danced around. Curiosity overcame deep thought and the Priest wandered over to discover its origin.

A man was sitting on the floor with his back to the altar. Through the fingers that poked through the holes in his leather gloves he was continuously and delicately weaving a coin that blazed with a beautiful flame.

“Quite the trick.” The Priest said in a hushed voice.

The soldier caught the coin between his index and middle finger and put out the fire. “It’s no trick.” He replied. “Graveyards are full of middling swordsmen, so any man wishing to stay alive must work at his craft. I’m not much of a swordsmen, but that same principle applies to me nonetheless.”

Father Gascoigne coked his head. “Forgive me, but you are practicing?”

The soldier shifted slightly. He was dressed differently to the others. He wore a thick leather jacket, but beneath it he wore simple woollen clothes. Loose, shaggy brown hair obscured half of his face from the Priest’s view, but he saw the man’s rough stubble covering his chin.

“Any fool can start a fire.” He said. “The skill lies in controlling it. Hold out your hand.” Gascoigne obliged him and the man placed the coin in his hand. It was as cool as the night air. “I burn the air around the coin, but keep the metal at the same temperature. Likewise the flames do not touch my fingers. It takes intense concentration, and all the while the coin is constantly moving.”

“A fire, and yet nothing burns!” Gascoigne was impressed.

The man lowered his head once again. “Life is full of such paradoxes.”

“And there it is.” The Priest lowered his lantern to the floor and sat down, crossing his legs.

“There what is?” the man asked in an annoyed tone.

“You’re a lost Soul.” The Priest replied. “Forgive me, but lost Souls happen to be a speciality of mine. So tell me soldier, what is keeping you from sleeping with your friends?”

The man flashed half a smile. “You have courage no doubt, to cut straight to the heart of a conflicted Pyromancer.”

“Can only men of blood and steel be brave?” The Priest asked.

The man was silent for a while. Father Gascoigne knew that he wanted to speak. He had spoken with a thousand men like him before. Men who were torn apart by some unseen Daemon of the mind and he believed that in every case, including this one, could be solved by laying their Soul naked to the world, if only for a few moments.

“I used to hunt monsters.” He said and last, and the Priest knew exactly what manner of beast haunted him. “I was good at it. Really good. But now, all the monsters seem to be gone. A useful man like myself can always find work in the world though and I drifted from one contract to another. Soon I found myself fighting a new breed of monster entirely. At least I told myself they must be monsters, since after all I was hunting them just as easily as the Daemons of old.” The man paused and took a moment to think. “But they weren’t monsters. You see, it is not in the nature of Daemon to choose to be evil. They simply are what they are. A Daemon is no more evil than a wolf that kills to eat. It’s just what wolves do. Men, though…” The thought seemed to flutter away in his breath.

“A man chooses.” The Priest finished.

“And how many evil men are there in the world?” The man raised his upturned palms upwards. “Men are not slaves to nature, they choose to be who they are. For years I told myself that the people I killed must be evil, a convenient lie to settle my conscience. A contradiction to the laws of our world of course. I have killed so many people that I lost count decades ago. The longer I stay in this business, the more powerful I get. But I am not a Pure man, not a good man. I’m just a man, as corruptible as anyone else. So I wonder, how do I stop myself from becoming a monster? What does God have to say about that question? I can imagine He was pretty clear about His views in the Ten Commandments.”

“What does it matter?” The Priest said, scratching his chin. “You do not believe in God.”

“How did you deduce that?” The man replied.

“Because you are talking to me like any other man. There is a lack of reservation in your tone that I deeply miss sometimes. People think of me as a man above simple humanity. The reality is quite different I assure you. I’m no Saint, no matter what I wear.” Father Gascoigne fondled the simple silver cross that hung delicately from around his neck. “There is a question on your tongue, sir, ask it and I shall answer.”

“All of those men, all of those women. They gave me medals and showered me with praises. Does killing them in the name of one Lord or another make me a hero, or a monster?”

The Priest studied what he could see of the man’s face. “I’m afraid to say that the answer to your question is yet another question. But it’s an easy one. Do you feel like a monster?”

The man was silent as a tombstone for a long time then. The Priest maintained his gaze, hoping to peer through his flesh and see what pained him from the inside. Answers were never easy in life, or at least not the right ones. He might take a few seconds to reply, or he might well be waiting there until the sun rose. It made no matter to him. Father Gascoigne had seen three Dukes come and go in his life. Time had never been his enemy.

Slowly, the man began to raise his head just a fraction. “No.” he whispered, gentle as a breath of wind.

He turned his head and looked directly at the Priest for the first time. His hair fell away from his face revealing a set of eyes that struck Father Gascoigne like a blow to the head. One brilliant blue eye and one startling green eye bore into the Priest’s skull as he whispered:

“I’m not a monster. But I’ve worked for a few.”

#story #short story #soldier #priest #fiction #fantasy #writing project #series

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bestillandremember · 5 years

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It’s been almost three months since I left England and came back to Phoenix. I don’t think I’ve been able to process much. I essentially had to hit the ground running with my life in Arizona, which wasn’t a bad thing. I was looking forward to making changes, and creating a healthy environment for me here at home. Then I got home, and I coasted. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and going over the significant moments before, during, and after England.

Before England, I was at the mercy of some pretty severe emotional extremes. My highs and lows would be peaks and valleys I could never predict or control. I could look at my life objectively, and see that I had everything I needed. I have a great family, a small group of close supportive, loving friends, a house with two incredible roommates, a job that I see growth in, a stupid cute dog, a reliable car. The list could go on. I knew what I have to be grateful for, yet I always felt like I was walking along the edge.

Arriving at Capernwray, I was finally able to experience a glimpse of what I think my heart was always searching for. Surrounded by like-minded people, all healing and seeking the Lord earnestly and honestly, in a place pretty close to heaven on earth for me. I don’t think I can really sum up my experience there, but I’ve chosen a few.

1. There’s an area called the loop, which is basically a mile and a half walk around the property. Capernwray, on all sides, is surrounded by green hills lined with sheep, cows, and the occasional horse. It’s removed from the world, a narrow one lane road leads to and away from it. Walking that circle provided some of the deepest peace I’ve ever felt. It was like seeing the world as God intended it, and on top of that, it was like He was telling me He was there. He got me here, a place He knew would speak to me on a level that would bring me closer to Him. With the sun shining, the wind enveloping me, and some of the most vibrant colors and smells every where I looked- He met me there.

2. I met a few women there- Alex, Kelly, Melissa, Selina, Helen, and Sue who were exactly what my heart needed while I was processing the things in my life. They helped me seeing myself differently. They helped me name my pain. Identify the abuse in my past, and release some of the self-blame I was harboring. They listened, they laughed, they invested, and they prayed for me. And over me. Every night. Something that hammered away at me, because it made me uncomfortable but it was something I desperately needed. These women helped me see outside myself, and look at the world around me more closely. But more on them later.

3. I learned that there’s room for opinion when it comes to religion, but there’s only room for relationship when it comes to God. I don’t have to listen to everyone that is 50+ years or older and take their word as law. Their race is not my race, their experience is not my experience. I can ask questions and I can voice my beliefs without fear, even if they differ from the teachers I respect as people. Or students I value as peers. My only responsibility is to myself and my Creator, and I owe it to Him to pursue answers on my own, not accept their words as His.

4. One of the speakers, probably the most unlikely teachers I would connect with, prayed over me. He asked me a lot of questions before. Heard my history and my painful past. He shared a word: Trust, and then shared an image. He told me I reminded him of a Pillsbury pastry can that you peel the label off and it pops open. That I was just waiting for someone to peel my label back so I can be myself openly. Then he prayed for me, and the words he said disappeared the minute he took my hand. His hands were huge, soft, and warm. And I know it’s crazy…but for a split second, I felt like it was my Heavenly Father holding my hand. It was quick, and faded fast, but I felt like He tried to make physical contact in a way he knew I needed.

To go back to #2- the absolute best part of Capernwray was the people. There were 100+ people that I can genuinely say impacted my life individually in some way, big or small. There were a few that I want to highlight individually and share with anyone that wants to get to know them too.

Alex- THIS GIRL. She’s adorably Irish, and has to be one of the most welcoming personalities I’ve met in a long time. People are drawn to how genuine and accepting she is, and I truly believe it is going to make her an exceptional doctor. Yeah, she’s 27 and a doctor. Needless to say, this girl is smart, capable, loving, compassionate, and a listener. I watched this girl listen to not only her two roommates, who occasionally literally talked her into a slumber, but make time for just about everyone in addition to driving many of us around. Patience incarnate, that’s Alex. I felt almost instantly comfortable being myself and sharing things with her in a confidence she often wordlessly established.

Kelly- Talk about a big heart. Kelly has a desire to know people and be known. It took ten weeks to fully understand the depths of just how much this girl cares about people, but by the end of school, I had a gained a bosom sister. For weeks, we talked, shared, laughed, cried, pizza’d, bonded over Jane Austen, and attended church together. This girl offered a genuine vulnerability I haven’t seen in a long time, in an effort to love me better every time. It wasn’t easy, but that’s what made it so real, she put everything she had into sharing herself with others as honestly as she could, even if it was painful. She did the same with her relationship with the Lord. Because that’s who she is, she wants to learn so she can love. She was brave. She was honest. She was genuine. She’s Kelly! And that’s just scratching the surface.

Melissa- BUMBLE BEE. Actually, she is more like a butterfly, full of life and joy. I still remember when she asked to sit next to me on the bus on our first Saturday trip, and I was fully prepared to put headphones in and zone out. Soon enough, we were talking about home, how her and her husband met, our family lives and exchanging sister stories. Then we spent all day together in Keswick, and I was officially sold on Mel. She wanted to get ice cream and take pictures, and it became clear that she love to live life to the fullest and she wanted to include as many people as she could in that. So began a beautiful and honest friendship. She is a trusted friend, and earned my confidence more quickly than almost anyone I’ve met. She’s an active listener, and provides sage and sound advice. Her faith is one I want to emulate, it’s open and engaged. It’s one of the first things you learn about her, and I respect that. That and her snack drawer ;)

Selina- This girl is a German firecracker. She has a laugh that is contagious, and loves to learn about other people and cultures. She would provide daily entertainment on her interpretations of English words, and she was always up for snacks and chats. She loved to pray and discuss important things, but she was big on fun. She loves her grandma, and has a heart for those who are non-believers. She’s got strong opinions that are rooted in an even more powerful faith. Women’s pastoral care is her passion, and she constantly wants to learn and grow so she can help others do the same. She wants to help others heal, and find God in their own story and lives, and I greatly respected the sweet soul she shared with people. And I loved having an excuse to sing Miss New Booty from across the campus, let’s be honest here.

Helen- This friendship is one I never could have expected. Helen is a highly accomplished woman from Manchester that has been a social worker for years. She and her service dog Venice we our neighbors. Helen has cerebral palsy, with a story and perspective on life that humbled mine daily. Over the weeks, we talked in great detail about our lives before and after Jesus. The every day struggles we had. If anyone helped me process my pain the most, it was Helen. Even without knowing full details, she could see it, identify it, and looked me straight in the eye and said “It’s not your fault”. No prompting. This woman could see into people’s souls with an honesty that rivaled almost everyone I know. She was truthful, even if it came off blunt and brutal, it was in love and care that she offered her wisdom. She had a unique view of the world, and refused to play the victim or let anyone claim ignorance. She has an educator’s heart, and advocates for those she cares about. She was my safe space, someone I didn’t feel like I had to share every nitty gritty detail with to find peace.

Sue- This woman followed my journey since the very beginning. I had no clue as I was trying to get to Capernwray, that I had a woman like this campaigning for me. She was the registrar when I very first applied, years ago, and woman I stayed in contact with as I struggled to get there. Every roadblock I faced, she prayed, and then everything suddenly lined up. When I got to Capernwray, I had no doubt it was because of Sue. I was there to attend her final Spring school after decades of serving the students that came through its big wooden doors. Sue is a servant, it’s the best word to describe her. She is a force, with an incredible sense of humor and a heart this is 100% dedicated to others. She loves being a source for the female students and staff to come and drink tea, talk Jesus, and find safety in her office as we discussed some of the hardest things to voice. Doubt. Sadness. Confusion. Broken hearts and shattered plans. This woman had a direct connection to the Big Man upstairs, I swear. Every girl to pass through her doors felt seen, heard, and known with zero expectation. Which is a gift I can’t begin to explain.

I also want to talk about my family group for a second. Capernwray strung this group of people together that, although it was random, could not have been accidental. Our leaders Dino, Christian, and Sabine quickly became friends and mentors. Kelly, Alex, and I ended up in the same group with Daniel (Brazil), Jun (South Korea), Maddie (Canada), Jess (US), and Julie (France). These guys truly became siblings by the end of our 10 weeks. Daniel was the fiercely protective and thoughtful brother, with a wisdom beyond his years. Jun, while a bit of mystery, provided endless entertainment and a story I wanted to hear more about. Maddie and I bonded over Marvel comics and End Game, and her sense of humor was something I was constantly envious of. Jess…what a special girl. She had a connection to the Lord and a maturity that I have been searching for my entire life. Julie had a beauty about her, hard to describe but felt by everyone and even heard in her words (she once prayed for me and described me as a flower waiting to bloom, nearly brought me to tears).

Capernwray gave me family all over the world. It showed me that everyone is broken. That everyone doubts. That everyone is just trying the best version of themselves in a world trying it’s best to knock us down and lie to us about who that is. The craziest thing is that it’s nothing new. The Bible is riddled with stories of people the Lord chose and picked up out of the rubble of their lives and built a legacy that would display His glory for thousands of years. It was the first time I read the Bible and saw a chronological story. I was enraptured in a way I never had been before. I saw flaws and drama in the story of Moses, wanted to defend Joshua and his incredible leadership that followed, and laughed at how sassy Jesus was.

One of the biggest steps I took at Capernwray was letting it become the place where I could say I was, in fact, in an abusive relationship that I let isolate me and continue to hurt me long after I took back control. I stopped minimizing the effect it had on me, so I could move past it. I stopped hiding it, so I could let others in and learned I wasn’t the only one. I identified a vicious cycle I had been drowning in for years. Most importantly, I started to heal.

I knew Caperwray wasn’t going to be the glue that brought everything in my life back together. I knew I wouldn’t find every answer there. However I got closer to the Lord than I ever have been in my entire life there. I lived in ministry for as long as I could remember, but it took seeing God through international eyes to discover my story wasn’t special. I had an army of people who knew the same pain, confusion, and doubt I did and together we discovered the community He intended for His people. No perfection, pretenses, or deception. Honest, vulnerable exposure to the truth of the Bible and our calling.

For that, I am forever grateful. However, it did make it hard to go back. I wanted to make changes and set boundaries. I wanted to cut out toxicity and cling to prosperity. While I did a lot of that, it’s a lot easier said than done. I got home, dove into work and found routine again. That consistency left me feeling a numbness I didn’t expect. I wasn’t feeling the extreme highs and lows, but I also lost the urgency, the vitality that emotion brought. I don’t really know what it all means, but I know I’m not where I want to be, and that makes me sad. I want to change that, I just need the spark I had in England. I’m rededicating the dormant parts of myself to find it again.

To everyone reading this from Capernwray, know that if you’re not mentioned- you’re incredibly special. From day one running around London with Cieran, Jake, Ben, and Hayley. To talks at dinner with Lindsay and coffee dates with Maggie. To my sweet soul sisters from Arizona, Elizabeth and Maggie. To the beauty I saw in friendships between Jo and Samara, Izzy and Jess, Grace and Kerri and Chad. Julia W and her sweet heart and creativity. Travis, his genuine spirit and shared emotional trauma during End Game and much needed Office references. Carson and Jonny dealing with Mel and I on trips. Dimona and Katharina and their constant patience and affection they showed everyone equally. Julia and Naomi, the lovliest and smiliest twins you’ll ever meet. I can go ON AND ON PEOPLE. I love you all. If you ever need affirmation that you MATTER, come find me. I’ll tell you how much you meant to me in those ten weeks, and still do.

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lianordin · 5 years

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Playdate’s tiny handheld with a crank is big on charm

It’s a hilariously silly, yet strangely compelling proposition. So much so, that within 24 hours of its announcement on May 22nd, over 70,000 people signed up to be on the waitlist for Playdate (Today, there are over 110,000). In the weeks and months since then, more than 8,000 developers have also registered their interest in making content for the unique device.

Designed in collaboration with Teenage Engineering, a design group known mostly for its portable synthesizers, the Playdate had morphed from a Game & Watch homage into a unique gaming console that lived between worlds. “We didn’t want it to be too cool, but we didn’t want it to be too goofy,” said Cabel Sasser, Panic’s co-founder. The same goes for the device’s intriguing retro-yet-modern appeal. The Playdate’s black-and-white screen might scream old-school, but the device itself is outfitted with a modern ARM-compatible processor from STMicroelectronics, WiFi, Bluetooth, 2GB of flash storage, 16MB of RAM, and a rechargeable battery. The Playdate is definitely not just some Gameboy clone.

“There’s a real sweet spot in the middle of all of it that’s really challenging to calibrate,” Sasser said. This is especially the case for a relatively small company which has zero experience in making its own hardware. Sasser and his cohorts had to learn, through extensive trial and error, to figure all of it out for the better part of seven years, while running a software company at the same time.

Now, the company is finally ready to share it with the world. This weekend, at PAX West, the company will be showing off the Playdate to the public for the very first time. There will be many samples for people to play with. It will be, in essence, the product’s first real-world stress test. The team at Panic is, understandably, nervous about it.

“Yes, I’m a little scared,” joked Greg Maletic, Panic’s Director of Special Projects who’s also the project lead for Playdate. “Like gosh, is this going to last 32 hours of cranking? We’re definitely looking to make sure it does.”

But Maletic showed no qualms in letting me play around with a late prototype of the hardware when I visited Panic’s offices earlier this month. It’s smaller than I expected. At roughly 3-inches square, the Playdate has the feel of a novelty calculator that was barely larger than a stack of Post-it notes. It’s certainly smaller (and lighter! It’s only 86 grams) than any other gaming handheld I’ve ever held. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

Yet, despite the initial skepticism, a smile spread across my face the more I played around with it. It’s a charming little device, with its tiny 2.7-inch black and white display and its marigold yellow finish. Next to that aforementioned display is a tiny menu button and a speaker, while the USB-C port and a headphone jack are underneath. Sure, the Playdate is small, but after playing around with it for a while, I didn’t mind its size at all. The D-pad felt clicky enough, as did the A and B buttons on the right. It handled perfectly fine in my hands.

Of course, I was especially keen to try out the crank. By default, it comes in a closed position, with the metal part of the crank resting on the Playdate’s right side. To access it, I flipped it open, pulling the bottom part of the crank upwards 180 degrees to reveal a small rotating yellow handle. Then, I was free to rotate the crank backward or forward as much as I wanted, similar to how you would reel in or out a fishing rod. It was pretty fun to rotate through the Playdate’s menu simply by spinning the crank around.

As for how it feels, well, that depended on which prototype I was allowed to play with. In one model, it ground a little as I spun it around. In another, it felt a lot smoother. At one point while I was playing with one particular model, Maletic noticed that the crank continued to spin even after I let go of it, which he said should not happen. Obviously, the movement and motion of the crank still needs some finetuning.

But what surprised me the most about the Playdate was its black and white display. It’s not at all like the e-ink screen you’d find on your Kindle. Instead, it’s a Sharp Memory LCD, which is surprisingly crisp and clear, with a high pixel density that looks great even under bright sunlight. It’s a display that’s not used a lot in consumer electronics, with the exception of early Pebble watches. In a bit of trivia, Sasser said to me he heard from someone at Sharp that it’s also common in coffee makers in Japanese 7-Elevens.

Perhaps one of the reasons it’s rarely used is that it’s surprisingly expensive, partly because it’s not mass-produced in a way a lot of other electronic screens are. “It’s ludicrous, actually,” Sasser said. “We could’ve used an OLED screen, full color, and it would’ve been cheaper than this. I think that’s a hard thing for people to grasp.”

“But there’s also some really unique properties of the screen that we hope to take advantage of,” he continued. “One is that it can hold an image with very low power… we have dreams of when your Playdate is sleeping on your desk, it shows a clock or other cool things.” “If we’re going to try to sell this thing in a universe where, you know, we all have the latest gadgets with the high-res screens, it made sense for us to do something a little bit different,” Sasser said. “If it just felt like a different version of your phone, it wouldn’t be that interesting.”

The real test, of course, was to actually play a game on it. I played Crankin’s Time Travel Adventure, which was designed by Keita Takahashi, the man behind Katamari Damacy. As you might expect from Takahashi’s history, the game is, well, a little wacky.

The premise here is that you’re a character named Crankin, and you’re late to your first date with Crankette. You then have to run to meet her, but you inevitably end up late and she’s not too pleased. The game then pushes you to the next day and you start over, but now there are obstacles and enemies, such as flying butterflies, blocking your path, and you need to avoid them or you’ll fail your objective. The obstacles become more difficult with each subsequent level.

The only controller in this game is the Playdate’s crank, which is used to control the flow of time. Spin it forward, and time moves forward; spin it backward, and Crankin goes backward too. The trick, however, is that those aforementioned obstacles exist outside the flow of time, and you need to position Crankin in the right spot to avoid those enemies. If at some point Crankin bends down to smell flowers, for example, you need to make sure he does so exactly when bees fly overhead.

At first, it seems like a relatively easy game, but the difficulty ramps up considerably, with precision timing becoming increasingly important as time goes on. Let’s just say that I didn’t make it past level five. The only real complaint I had is that I thought the text on the screen was far too small to read, which Maletic admitted is an issue they’re currently working on.

Speaking of games, that’s another area that sets the Playdate apart. Included with the cost of the device ($149) is a season’s worth of games; one delivered every Monday for the duration of 12 weeks. Aside from Takahashi, Panic has signed up other indie designers such as Zach Gage and Shaun Inman to participate in its inaugural season. You’ll eventually be able to sideload other games too, but Panic liked the idea of you getting a new game every week as a surprise.

“For a long time, we were thinking it would be cool to play a season’s worth of black and white games, and then maybe at the end, you can like unscrew the back and there’s like a tiny color screen,” laughed Sasser, admitting in the end that it was a crazy idea. The season of games concept, however, was a lot more achievable.

Unfortunately, Panic isn’t ready to talk about battery life, as the Playdate isn’t close enough to production just yet. For now, it’s just hoping to show people how it looks and works, and events like PAX West are one way to do that. Right now, pre-orders are slated for later this year, with the product expected to ship in early 2020. If you’re interested in ordering one yourself, you can go to Playdate’s website to get on a mailing list so you’ll be one of the first to know when it’s for sale.

All products recommended by Engadget are selected by our editorial team, independent of our parent company. Some of our stories include affiliate links. If you buy something through one of these links, we may earn an affiliate commission.

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thefosterspoilers · 7 years

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‘The Fosters’ Boss Peter Paige on Callie’s Season 5 Shift and the ‘Edgier’ Freeform

During the first four seasons of “The Fosters”, the ABC Family-turned-Freeform drama garnered much praise from organizations like GLAAD and the Television Critics Association for its inclusive take on the modern American family.

When “The Fosters” debuted, matriarchs (Sherri Saum and Teri Polo) were already raising three teenagers when a troubled juvenile in the foster care system crossed their path. They quickly embraced her and her younger brother, blending their family further. Building the show on this ensemble backdrop allowed executive producers Peter Paige and Bradley Bredeweg to explore what was affecting today’s gay couples raising kids — as well as those kids individually. Early on in the show’s run, the focus was on love triangles, friendship falling outs, and the loss of virginity, as well as the adoption process and a legal battle over a he said/she said rape case.

Just a year later, however, the network entered a re-branding phase, looking for edgier content to solidify the attention of the younger demographic. “The Fosters” helped the newly named Freeform make noise, as the show shined a light on deeper topics that included marriage rights, transitioning, and the justice system.

Variety spoke with Paige about the evolution of “The Fosters,” striking the balance of serious issue storytelling, and what’s to come with the new age of Freeform.

Variety: First, let’s look back over the history of “The Fosters.” Were there any stories you wanted to do early in the run that you couldn’t crack, either because you didn’t feel ready just yet or because the network’s messaging at the time didn’t allow for it?

Peter Paige: Back in the day we had the Jude [Hayden Byerly] and Connor [Gavin MacIntosh] kiss coming in season one. [It was going to be at] the end of season one, but we said, “Let’s earn this a little bit more. Let’s let them get a little bit older”– those kinds of things. And there are always those considerations, but now there are really no stories that the network isn’t up for. With the regime change at the network and with the kids getting older and having more independence, it certainly opened up new avenues into additional story. [But] what’s been really fun in the new regime is that we’ve been able to be edgier and talk a little more frankly about the reality of the teen experience. We were always doing that to some degree, but it opened it up enough to [allow] us to get into the nitty gritty of what it is to be a teenager at this moment in time.

V: Prostitution is an example of what it’s like to be a very specific kind of teenager. How did you come to the decision to bring the show into that dark world?

PP: We’re trying to look really frankly at stuff that’s really happening in the world, and [executive producer] Joanna Johnson went to a seminar from the police department on human trafficking, and she came back and was devastated, and we all started talking about what she had learned. We ended up bringing a couple of women who work in the human trafficking department in Los Angeles into the room, and as soon as we started hearing those stories we knew it was something we wanted to explore. So, we came at it from several different ways and constructed this long game where both Callie [Maia Mitchell] and Stef [Polo] were connected to that world in different ways.

V: The fifth season premiere picks up in the moments after the fourth season ends, with Callie thinking she’s about to go to jail and posing as another girl from the group home Girls United to meet with a pimp — basically sacrificing herself for that girl. It follows in her usual pattern of doing good for others despite the consequences to herself, but how far can you take that, and what do you think it will take for something within her to shift and start valuing herself?

PP: It is a challenge. We can’t just constantly find Callie in worse and worse and worse situations, but it is in her nature that when there is someone in need, other than her, she will come to their aid or defense– even to her own detriment. And the question of this season for Callie is “What if you stopped that? What if you applied that kind of thinking to yourself instead? Who would you be?”

Stef and Lena [Saum] have been telling her that since the pilot. [She’s] not disposable. But it’s a combination of undervaluing her own life [and] her own well-being and a very strong, very powerful sense of justice. That’s a dangerous remedy. So to some degree it’s a shift that Callie has to make in herself.

V: Is there another character who can help her with that, or is that something she has to figure out on her own?

PP: Stef and Lena [Saum] have been telling her that since the pilot. [She’s] not disposable. But it’s a combination of undervaluing her own life [and] her own well-being and a very strong, very powerful sense of justice. That’s a dangerous remedy. So to some degree it’s a shift that Callie has to make in herself.

V: Speaking of Stef and Lena, where will this season find them?

PP: Stef, as we know from the end of the finale, is in crisis mode trying to save Callie [when we pick back up with her in the season premiere], and Lena is in a fight at the school [to keep the school from turning Charter] that’s as much affecting her life as it is the kids. But they’re [also] engaged in their continuing struggle, which is to nurture their relationship, to parent these five very different kids, and to find their own fulfillment in life. They have challenges coming on every front, and this season we slap another challenge on the moms when Lena’s family comes back to town. Life is big and messy and hard, and getting older is hard, and having parents who are getting older is hard, and it’s all in there.

V: Having kids who are fighting is hard, too, which brings up Brandon [David Lambert] and Jesus [Noah Centineo]. Last seen, Jesus thought his brother was the father of his girlfriend’s baby. How soon will that come to a head, and what are the ramifications going forward?

PP: They reach a pressure point in the premiere, and it’s going to be a great big problem. The tricky thing is, they kind of engage everyone in the family, to some degree, and nobody’s really right or wrong. Jesus is justifiably upset on not being clued into something huge that does impact his life, and Brandon was really trying to do the right thing, but Jesus has a TBI [traumatic brain injury], so his coping skills are diminished. As you’ll see in the premiere, that creates a very challenging circumstance for the brothers and for the family.

V: How do you strike the balance between those heavier stories and more everyday teenage — or even family — issues to tackle, and what is your plan for the tone this season?

PP: The amazing thing about television is it’s never perfect and you’re always learning. It’s like, “OK, next week we’ve got to remember X!” And then you remember X but you forgot Y. But of course that’s the thing about this mess called life, especially in a family like this — this giant, constructed, messy, full of love family — all of the colors of the rainbow are there. There are people having good days [and] there people having bad days. When one kid is winning the spelling bee, another is getting in a van with a pimp. There’s always a way for us to layer in some other lighter, kinder, gentler stuff. And the foundation of the show is the unconditional love, so there’s always hope somewhere in our stories, no matter how bleak they get. The end of the premiere posits a very pointed question about Callie in particular but a little bit sets the stage for a return to family and the more pedestrian questions about what it is to be a teenager and to grow up, as well.

#The Fosters #Fosters #The Fosters Interview #Fosters Interview #Season 5 #Peter Paige #Peter Paige Interview #Jude Jacob #Connor #Jonnor #Callie Jacob #Stef Foster #Lena Adams #Brandon Foster #Jesus Foster #Variety

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