#he is calculating his hazard pay as we speak | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nillegible · 4 years

Text

Mo Xuanyu notices someone following him on his way back to Mo manor one night. It's not a villager, they wouldn't walk so lightly. Mo Xuanyu would hazard a guess that it's not a cultivator, either, heaven knows they would have attacked him hours ago for harassing and frightening the villagers as he has been. Curious, he melts into the shadows.

"Ghost of the Yiling Patriarch?" asks a soft voice, closer than Mo Xuanyu had expected.

It's a familiar voice; and when he looks to where it came from he sees a young man he’d met often at Koi tower, crying to his broth Jin Guangyao, not knowing exactly how cruel his San-ge truly was.

"Sect Leader Nie," says Mo Xuanyu, approaching Nie Huaisang where he stands in the patchwork darkness beneath a tree.

Nie Huaisang stares for a long moment, then says, "Mo Xuanyu."

"Expecting the Yiling Patriarch?" asks Mo Xuanyu, not without some bitterness. It's all that his father had wanted out of him as well, he had ignored him in favor of Xue Yang who barely even tried to understand the Yiling Patriarch's incredible mind. Xue Yang had been more interested in re-animation and puppetry than the magic, the theory, and that was just pitiful.

But that kept him safe, and where was Mo Xuanyu now? Back with his mother’s brutish family, barely clinging to his sanity, and amusing himself by pretending to be the ghost of a demonic cultivator more than a decade gone.

"I could have used Wei-xiong's help, yes," says Nie Huaisang simply. It makes Mo Xuanyu look closer. Nie Huaisang is drawn, and pale, but he stands straighter than he ever has at Koi Tower. Some instinct tells him that this man, here, is dangerous. Mo Xuanyu, the 'mad village fool' understands.

Perhaps Nie Huaisang is no more a weak fool than he is. Hidden depths, Sect Leader Nie.

It's because of the way Nie Huaisang says Wei-xiong with more respect than anyone Mo Xuanyu has ever heard, it's because Mo Xuanyu has seen Nie Huaisang's beloved brother's head locked away like a curiosity among Jin Guangyao's other war prizes, it is because Mo Xuanyu is sick and tired of the world and wants to burn it all down, that he says, "I've studied some of his work. Would I do?"

[read on Ao3, or click below to read on tumblr]

Sect Leader Nie accepts his offer, tells him that he’ll get in touch, but does not explain himself or what he wants. He is really really good at giving non-answers, at batting those pretty eyes of his and pouting (he carries a fan. Every quirk of his lips that isn’t hidden is calculated, is intended to be seen).

He also keeps his promise and visits again in the dead of night, nearly a week later. He brings with him notes on different sorts of monsters. Some are generic and some are intriguing. None of them seem like the sort of thing that would require the help of the Yiling Patriarch, but Mo Xuanyu talks him through the techniques and banishment methods that would be required for each class of monsters or demons.

It feels like an assessment. He wonders what happens if he passes.

Just a few years ago Mo Xuanyu wouldn’t have noticed the details, but he’s been thinking about Jin Guangyao a lot, recently, and he’s worked out enough of how he had been played to see someone else using similar techniques.

Why hasn’t Jin Guangyao realized that you’re dangerous? he should ask, but instead he tells Nie Huaisang about the time WWX had written about redirecting yao into helping in a fight against a demon, and how he seemed never to have revisited that idea again.

“That would be dangerous,” says Nie Huaisang.

Mo Xuanyu smiles at him, “He was the Yiling Patriarch, I don’t think he minded.”

“No. Wei-xiong was never afraid of danger,” Nie Huaisang agrees. That again. “Thank you for the advice, Young Master Mo. Shall we meet here next week?”

“Isn’t this a little far out of your way, Sect Leader Nie?” asks Mo Xuanyu.

“Ah, for help of the sort that Young Master Mo can provide, it is not a bother.”

“Have the peerless Gusu Lan stopped supporting other sects in need? That Sect Leader Nie would cross Gusu to approach this humble one for help…” It’s a good lead in, Nie Huaisang can laugh it off or tell him what he really wants.

Then another thought strikes him, so he giggles, “Or can it be that Sect Leader Nie has need of a cutsleeve whore with no options, and thought to try his luck?” Mo Xuanyu bats his lashes, desperately missing the little fineries he’d grown used to at Koi Tower. He probably looks a mess and can’t quite pull it off, now.

Nie Huaisang’s eyes widen, round with surprise, “Ah, Young Master Mo, that’s not it! It really isn’t, I have. I have a specific problem but it will be a source of great shame if it comes out that Nie Sect couldn’t solve it without depending on Lan sect or Jin sect… they already do so much for my Sect.”

The bitterness is barely perceptible, but it is there. He wonders if Jin Guangyao is the reason for the distrust between GusuLan and QingheNie, too. It gives him a flicker of hope, “If I could be of more use to Sect Leader Nie in Qinghe I would be willing to–”

“No!” says Nie Huaisang. “We can’t show that we’ve met.”

Oh. “Is this because I said – I don’t actually want to sleep with you, Sect Leader, I’m not really an animal, whatever my brother has said.” Of course he hadn’t pulled off charmingly flirtatious, what had he been thinking? If he’d been prettied up it could have been enough to fluster Nie Huaisang, now he’d probably just been disgusted at the thought.

“I do not think that of you, Young Master Mo. But Jin Guangyao cannot know that we’ve met. I’m sorry that I cannot take you with me. But I can use your help. May I please meet with you a week from now?” asks Nie Huaisang.

It sounds more genuine this time.

It’s still a no. “My cousin beats me. I’m fed once a day, alongside the donkey, I sleep in the stables. Sect Leader Nie… please.”

“Mo Xuanyu, I –” he looks up into Nie Huaisang’s face, and sees only pity. No surprise or horror.

“But you knew that didn’t you?” asks Mo Xuanyu softly, and sees the truth in Nie Huaisang’s face. Of course he knew. Of course he’d come in the night to get what he needs from him, but not help him in return. Maybe he’ll give Mo Xuanyu a pouch of coins in the end. Coins that no-one in the village would take from him, would accuse him of stealing from his aunt and cousin. And once Mo Ziyuan heard, he’d be beaten for it and never see the money again.

Get lost, then, Mo Xuanyu should say, because he is tired of being used and cast away. But he truly has nothing, and another visit… someone to talk to who at least speaks to him like he’s human… Mo Xuanyu has so little that he can’t turn down even scraps like this.

“I will see Sect Leader Nie next week,” Mo Xuanyu says. “You can bring me the notes for the real problem. If I cannot solve it, I’ll tell you that, I won’t con you with some fake ritual.” He makes to leave, but Nie Huaisang stops him.

“Is there something else I could do for you?” asks Nie Huaisang. “I can pay you, in cash or weapons – I heard that your sword was taken from you before you left.”

“Sweet buns,” he says, before he can think it through. His stomach speaking before his pride could stop him. He prays that it sounded sarcastic and not desperate.

“What?” asks Nie Huaisang.

“Go away, Sect Leaser Nie,” he says. Mo Xuanyu isn’t going to repeat himself, isn’t going to beg for sweet buns, of all things.

A hand grasps his shoulder and Mo Xuanyu recoils, pushing him away so fast that he unbalances himself, stumbling and falling heavily to the ground. It sends a shock to his still healing ribs, making him gasp for a moment before he can regain his breath and look up at Nie Huaisang, who has his hands out, open to show he mans no harm.

“Mo-gongzi, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you, I didn’t think.” He’s rummaging in his sleeve and Mo Xuanyu wonders if now is when he should run away to save his own life.

Maybe if he cared about his own life, he would.

Instead he just watches, until Nie Huaisang pulls a small paper parcel from his sleeve. He kneels down, and offers it to Mo Xuanyu.

He opens the paper, to find three sweet buns inside. They’re still warm. He takes one and returns the others, and takes a bite. He’s finished, it and resisting licking his dirty fingers to chase down the last of the sweetness – he hadn’t had anything sweet since the local temple gave out sticky buns during the last festival. The priests had turned him away – disgusting, aberrant, abomination, but some of the boys had made a game of tossing buns at him, and they’d tasted wonderful after he scraped the dust off.

“Keep them,” says Nie Huaisang, pushing the package back towards him. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just startled that you asked for the one thing I had up my sleeve.” The smile is hesitant and drops off quickly. He just looks sad. Tired.

“Thank you,” Mo Xuanyu whispers, because he still has manners. He’s not going to cry over just two sweet buns, but his eyes sting as if he might. “Is this about…” he swallows the words back. Don’t be stupid, A-Yu, but Nie Huaisang doesn’t look angry. “This is about Chifeng Zun, isn’t it?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” asks Nie Huaisang voice sharper.

“His head,” says Mo Xuanyu, and can’t hold the tears back. “His head is at Koi Tower. Why do you think I’m here? Why do you think that I… for a bun. Jin Guangyao tried to kill me because I found out and. Three buns.” He laughs while he cries. He’d never realized how cheap he would become. I am so sorry, Mother.

A pale green handkerchief is produced from the same sleeve, and Nie Huaisang holds it out to him. “I will speak to you next week, Mo-gongzi. I’ll bring you food. I’ll help. It’s late, I need to go now. But trust me, please.” When Mo Xuanyu doesn’t move to take it from him, Nie Huaisang takes his free hand and presses it into it. “Good bye, Mo-gongzi,” he says, and this time he gets up and walks away.

Mo Xuanyu doesn’t move until the footsteps are long gone. He traces the delicate embroidery on the handkerchief. Pine trees in deep greens, a stream nestled within it.

It’s too beautiful to cry on, so he wipes his face on his sleeve instead. Shortly before dawn he gets up and brushes some of the dirt from his robes, and rushes back to the manor. He needs to start on his chores or he’ll be in for a worse beating than usual.

In the light of day it feels surreal.

Was that really Sect Leader Nie?

Was that someone that Brother sent to see what I am up to? To see what I'd do?

If that was Jin Gunagyao, then Mo Xuanyu wouldn’t have long left to live. Not if he's leaking secrets the way he is.

(He wishes he'd come himself, that he'd have a chance to defend himself, a chance to live. But. He has never played fair, and wouldn't start now.)

Mo Xuanyu would give nearly anything to kill his brother first.

Three days later, Madam Mo hires a new kitchen-girl. She has friendly eyes and a green ribbon in her hair.

That night when Mo Xuanyu heads to the stables to sleep with the donkey, he finds a blanket, a portion of the food that his cousins and aunt had been served, and a small pot of medicine.

There is dinner every night after, he sees the new kitchen-servant sneak it out at dusk. She's terribly good at sneaking, and Mo Xuanyu is grateful to have food again. He's been eating stale vegetables and uncooked grain with the donkey for months.

Four night later, there's a person waiting for him siting cross legged on the floor of the stable, lit by a small lantern. Mo Xuanyu's dinner waits for him beside him on the hay.

"Now will you tell me what you really need?" asks Mo Xuanyu, lifting the lid off the bowl. Soup, still steaming hot. He'd found the talismans carved into the bowl to keep it that way yesterday.

"I was wondering," says Nie Huaisang. "Can Mo-gongzi play the flute?"

#mo xuanyu #nie huaisang #mdzs #mxy #nhs #au: canon divergence #the soul summoning array doesn't exist #tw: canonical abuse

170 notes · View notes

ardeawritten · 3 years

Text

The uniform fit, badly. How did these people put up with a synthetic cloth in a humid cave under a sweltering desert? I should get hazard pay for this. And the vest wasn’t much better. He adjusted the shoulder and side straps so it fit correctly and wouldn’t ride up. Most of the guards were wearing them wrong, too tight or floppy loose.

Speaking of his new coworkers… He eyed the lineup in the locker room; these people were his enemy, technically, but they were such a mix of glad-to-be-retired cops, military washouts, desert locals and spotty kids he couldn’t bring himself to take them too seriously.

Some jobs, the security locker room was the most dangerous place. Everyone looking over their own shoulder and testing each other’s stories, the official measuring contest of the marksmanship rankings and and the unofficial contests-in and out of uniform, on and off the clock-where a man out of place would get himself caught with a word. You served in Iraq? Which company? You know So-and-So? No? That’s strange, he led that company. Tell me your name again? You said you were with the Blue Group at that R&D place in Alabama? My cousin works there. Funny he never mentioned you.

But all these guys wanted to know was his thoughts on the two local competing doughnut chains, if he was going to be a real challenger in the Black Mesa Security Fitness Contest, and if he wanted to bid on a page in the department charity calendar.

He preferred the place on 2ND & Cactus Street that sold a pink frosted doughnut with caramel bacon sprinkles; he would place within the upper 25% in the fitness contest, respectable but unsurprising; he’d politely support the charity calendar but would not be appearing in its pages, thanks.

But Jorge’s been September for ten years and he just retired and none of the guys here want to follow that act. Come on man, we need a fresh face!

No.

Not for the most heart-tugging charity project on the planet would his face be appearing in a printed publication. Being in the employee database was bad enough. Every entry a liability, calculated against his future worth as an independent contractor.

He’d worked hard to cultivate lifelong anonymity. If all went as planned, he’d serve out his time in the blue plastic suit and Black Mesa would never know he was here.

Maybe one of these mall cops would remember him as some guy named Johnson from southern Wisconsin, used to work security for a dairy cooperative until he developed an allergy to cows. Yeah, I get a breakout every time I get licked by a cow now. Had to come all the way out here to escape em!

But not likely.

Spies weren’t supposed to be memorable.

#can I write fanfic for my own OCs from my own fanfic #Stray Physicists is being annoying right now so I'm drabbling don't mind me #does johnson live or die #has the author decided yet #physics of the crowbar

6 notes · View notes

taste-thewaste · 4 years

Text

Potential-Madderton fic

Title: Potential Ship: Madderton Word count: ~4800 CW: Fluff, angst, mutual pining, misunderstanding sort of steering the plot lol Summary: Richard and Taron decide to take the next step and go out on their first date...but it’s a disaster. After, they don’t know where they stand with each other. A/N: This fic is a labor of love lol. Someone prompted me from a list of winter prompts that I reblogged forever ago, “our first date goes horribly so i don’t know why i say yes to a second date, and now, we’re stuck at the diner until the snow slows down and i'm having fun” and I’ve been working on this for a long time. This is the longest fic that I think I’ve written! It’s full of fluff and angst and gratuitous writing, so beware lol. Thank you for reading :)

--------

They’re sharing a pint in a tiny pub, and Taron’s just been stopped by the third person timidly asking for his photo. His eyes light up as he enthusiastically smiles for a selfie, his arm wrapped tight around the girl who owns the phone he’s staring into, and then he gives her a quick hug as she jets off back to her group of friends. Richard’s no stranger to being recognized-it’s happened twice to him tonight, as well-and it’s just a hazard of going out. Taron returns to the table and smiles sheepishly at Richard.

“Sorry, Rich. It’s not always my favorite thing, but I’m still...grateful, you know? These people enjoy seeing me, my work, and just...I can’t believe this is my life sometimes.” Taron casts his eyes down, his cheeks pink from the beer and the heat of the tiny space and from his own brazen vulnerability. Richard just tilts his head, a slow smile spreading on his face.

“Can I take you out to dinner Friday night?” Richard blurts, and then his own cheeks are pink and matching Taron’s.

They’ve spent weeks in this place of non-definition, this gray area of relationship, not acknowledging the ways in which things have changed. They spend their evenings together, in pubs, in the cinema, in each other’s living rooms, and things are, functionally, very similar to the way they’ve always been. Except that now Rich’s knee brushes against Taron’s when they sit on the sofa, and neither of them move; Taron’s eyes linger on Richard’s just the slightest beat longer than they used to; once, in a fit of daring fueled by a few beers, Richard had pulled Taron close to him in a tight hug, buried his face in the sweet spot on T’s neck, kissed it just gently.

No, they haven’t acknowledged these small moments of intimacy, not until now, and Richard has made a firm, calculated leap into reality.

“Dinner?” Taron asks, softly, and Richard nods.

“I...like you,” Richard says, his words trailing off into almost a whisper. It is raw, and vulnerable, and he is filled with fear as soon as the words leave his mouth. Taron is silent for a moment, and in those moments are everything Richard’s worried about since he came to the conclusion that he wanted to ask T out. He feels like a bloody teenager, like he’s covered in pimples and misread the signs; in those few silent moments, he rethinks everything he’s been thinking about this man. He pictures Taron recoiling in revulsion, accusing Richard of being mad, storming out of the pub. He thinks of all of the many ways he could have misread these last few weeks. He admits, to himself, that things were not clear in the slightest.

“I-I mean, if you’d like to get dinner, that is, no pressure. It could be like tonight, just picking up some food, a beer, whatever, it doesn’t have to be anything serious…it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Now he’s stuttering like a teenager, good Christ.

And then Taron’s hand is on his, gently, but it’s intentional and Richard looks up, allowing his eyes to meet Taron’s, and he’s calm again, because Taron is calm.

“Yes, I want to get dinner, and I do want it to mean something,” Taron says evenly, and how could he have been nervous? His face breaks out into a relieved smile, and he nods.

“Okay. Sounds good,” Richard says, and the two of them finish their beers, make plans for Friday evening, laugh at everything stupid.

-------

Friday comes around, and for all the confidence that he’d felt when accepting, Taron will never admit to anyone how nervous he is about this dinner with Richard.

He gets dressed hours early, pulling on a pair of slacks that are both comfortable and flattering, clinging to his bum in just the right way. He pairs it with a dress shirt-dark blue, it brings out his eyes-and a jacket. It’s 4:05, and Rich isn’t due to arrive until 7. Taron’s cheeks flush as he realizes just how early he is, just how nervous he is, but it’s true. He doesn’t know why, but his stomach is churning with anxiety, his hands are shaking, and the only thing he’s certain of is that if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll vomit all over his expensive shoes. He sits on the couch for a moment, willing his heart to stop pounding.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” he says to himself, his voice echoing throughout the flat. “It’s Richard.” He has nothing to be nervous about; this is his best mate, his pal, the man with the ocean-blue eyes that he can’t stop thinking about. He’s been dreaming about something like this for ages, since the first time they kissed on Rocketman, and now it’s here and he can’t stop freaking out.

He stands up from the couch and physically shakes out the nerves, flaps his arms, rolls his neck, attempts to release the tension. “I just have to chill out,” he mutters to himself.

He kills the next three hours in a variety of ways. He attempts to read three different books, setting each of them down after just a few sentences or paragraphs. He turns on the telly and flips through the channels at lightning speed, not registering anything in front of him, ignoring the blur of the sounds and colors. He shuffles through the music on his phone, changing the songs one after the other. The activity that sticks longest is the game he makes of catching popcorn in his mouth; he tosses them in the air, tilts his head back, careens wildly to let the pieces fall into his mouth.

By the time Richard arrives to pick him up, Taron is full of popcorn and feels like his eyes are spinning in his head. He’s more nervous than before, somehow, so when the knock comes at the door, he almost pukes. He frantically smoothes down his hair, takes a deep breath and opens the door.

--------

Richard decides to take Taron to the nicest restaurant he can find; he deserves that much, he deserves the world, Richard thinks. He makes a reservation and spends three days choosing what to wear. He bites his nails to the quick and when the day finally comes, he almost talks himself out of going.

I could tell him I have food poisoning. I could tell him something’s come up and I have to fly home. I could tell him...anything, I could tell him anything because what if this is a terrible idea?

The only thing that gets him into the car and across to Taron’s flat is reminding himself, calmly, insistently, that this is Taron, after all, his little Duckie, and this will all be fine. It’ll be better than fine, it’ll be brilliant.

These words simply get him into the car and over to T’s, though. They do little to quell the nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach as he drives there, the trembling in his hands as he approaches Taron’s door. Before he knocks, he takes one last big, deep breath, and reminds himself of the fact that he is absolutely certain he’s the only one who’s nervous. He’s sure that Taron is completely calm and ready for this evening. He reminds himself that everything will be just fine, better than fine. It will be wonderful.

He knocks.

--------

I don’t know that I’ve ever been nervous about something and had it turn out worse than I was imagining it, Taron thinks as he lays in bed that evening. It is 10:04 P.M. and he is laying in bed alone, the calling card of a date that didn’t go the way either party had hoped. Taron curls up into a ball and pulls the covers over his head, wishing he could stop reliving their evening, but unable to stop.

It was as though every moment of their relationship up until that point had vanished out the window. Not just the small tender moments over the last few weeks, but their entire friendship. The car ride was silent and awkward, the only sound coming from Richard fiddling with the radio stations.

Once they got to the restaurant, the awkwardness only swelled. They both behaved as if they were complete strangers who’d met on an app or through a mutual friend, strangely formal and courteous. Richard didn’t tease him about his hair or the bits of popcorn stuck in his teeth; he didn’t joke with Richard about the way he was walking as if there was a pole shoved into an uncomfortable position. They didn’t even talk about Rocketman or any of their shared experiences. They spoke politely and civilly, talked about the weather (cold); perfunctory details about their families (they were both close with their mums); their taste in music (similar).

Taron was actually grateful when the food arrived, as it gave him something to do other than stare at Richard awkwardly and smile. They both ate quickly, barely glancing at each other throughout the meal.

“Quite good,” Richard remarked once.

“Indeed,” Taron answered, swallowing thickly and taking a long drink of water.

After they’d finished eating, the waiter came back and began to describe the dessert specials, until both Taron and Richard interrupted him with a sharp, short, “No!”

Richard’s face flushed and he offered the waiter a shaky smile. “No, thank you, sir. Just the check, if you don’t mind.”

Richard had insisted on paying, despite Taron’s repeated attempts to either pay for the whole thing or toss in his own portion, and they left quickly, for a repeat of the painfully silent car ride back to Taron’s flat.

Once they’d arrived, Richard unbuckled his seat belt and started to open the door, but Taron had stopped him.

“‘S okay, Rich. Why don’t we say goodnight now?” he’d muttered. Richard had cast his eyes down and nodded. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming,” Richard had said quietly. “Have a good evening.” Taron had nodded and practically fled from the car, his heart thumping in his chest.

Now, here he is, in bed alone at an absurdly early hour, and his heart is still thumping, but from something else. They’d tried it, going out, and it hadn’t worked. That isn’t what’s upsetting him, though. Sure he’s sad that their attempts to turn their relationship into something more haven’t worked; he’s been looking forward to more. The excitement of more between he and Rich has kept him going for longer than he cares to admit, and now that he knows it won’t work between them, the letdown is hard.

But what’s really hard is the crushing feeling that something has changed between them. He’s closer to Richard than he is with almost anyone else. Rich is kind and funny and smart and the idea of losing him in any way, any capacity, as his friend, is devastating. He can’t shake the feeling that that’s what’s happened, though, and it’s too much for him to handle.

Taron burrows deeper underneath the covers and shuts his eyes.

-------

The next morning, Richard rolls over in bed and squints against the bright sunlight. The first thing he’d done after getting home was fix himself a drink, then another, and another. It’s making the early morning sun a bit harsher than usual, and it’s, blissfully, all he can focus on for a minute. Then the previous evening floods back, and he buries his face in his hands.

He’d been so stiff, so uptight, so worried that everything was going to go wrong that he’d ruined it all. He’d wanted Taron to like him so badly that he’d been unable to think of any reason why Taron would like him in the first place. He’d been unable to think of a single thing to say that hadn’t already been said, and then their night had ended obscenely early.

After a shower, choking down a late breakfast and trying not to puke, he decides to fire off a text to Taron. Bugger it, he thinks as he types it out and sends it before he can lose his nerve.

Hey. Thanks for going with me last night.

It takes twenty minutes for Taron to answer when it normally takes just a minute or two-the man is glued to his phone, always searching for cat videos and recipes-and the fact of that doesn’t escape Richard’s radar.

No problem.

Richard’s heart sinks at the reply. It is blunt, matter-of-fact, to the point. There’s no banter, no back-and-forth. He takes a deep breath and plunges forward.

Wanna grab a beer later?

This time his reply takes two hours to arrive, during which Richard has taken to pacing the floors, worrying, flipping through channels. When it finally comes in, he leaps on his phone and hates himself for being so manic.

Not today. Maybe next week.

There is no question mark at the of his sentence, he is not asking Rich if he’s free next week. He is making an excuse, deflecting from the question Rich had asked him. Rich quietly clicks his phone off and slides it onto the coffee table. His heart sinks, and tears well up in his eyes, unbidden. He sits on the couch, the low evening light just starting to filter in through the windows.

Well, he thinks, at least I know where we stand now. He has taken the best friendship he’s ever had and ruined it in one evening, or so it seems. He knows he should leave Taron alone now. Their date had gone disastrously bad, the kind of bad that you write a shitty movie about, and he knows he should just let it be and see what happens naturally.

This, of course, is something Richard simply can’t do.

He spends the evening wallowing, watching bad TV and going to bed early. When he wakes the next day, he turns his phone back on, hopefully, and waits to see if Taron has sent him any messages. Maybe he’d misinterpreted the text last night, maybe Taron had just been in a bad mood or tired. Maybe, he thought hopefully, maybe he’d even misinterpreted how bad the entire date had gone!

He waits a moment for his phone to catch up, but there are no notifications from Taron. One from his mom, another from his sister, and one from Jamie, but none from the person he really wants to talk to. His heart sinks, and he slides the phone back onto his nightstand, forgets about it for the rest of the day.

-----------

When Richard texts him the day after their disastrous date, Taron sits with it for a while, lets it roll around in his head like a marble. His first instinct is to fire something back to Rich immediately, a gushing text about how he’s sorry it was so awkward and he wants to try again and no matter what he will always want Rich as a friend.

But he stops himself. He tells himself he will wait, at least a little bit.

During those twenty minutes, Taron’s mind whirls at a million miles a minute, and by the time he finally decides to text back, he’s convinced himself that Rich had only reached out to be polite. It would be just like Rich to do that, he thinks. The man is over-the-top polite in every scenario; he thanks everyone over and over, he holds doors open for strangers, he pushes his chair in when he leaves a table. It’s something that Taron has always admired in Richard, a quality that has always made him love him even more.

But now he thinks that maybe Rich has only texted him to be polite. Maybe he’s just texting him to be nice so that their friendship doesn’t end on the sour note that had been their date last night. So when he answers, he is cordial, but there is no emotion behind it. He nearly scoffs when the text comes through and Rich pretends like he wants to hang out again; another attempt at being polite. He deflects, and their conversation ends.

After he sets his phone down, he is filled with an immense sadness, like a weight pressing down on him. He wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and hide under the covers again; disappear from the world until he feels ready to face it without Richard.

But face it without Rich he must, because the show must go on. If life has taught him anything, it’s that.

---------

For the next two weeks, they are both at a stalemate, both men wanting desperately to reach out and both being too stubborn and pig-headed to do so. Taron sits in his flat, goes over the scripts that he’s sent, stares occasionally at his phone and pretends like he’s not hoping to see Rich’s name light up. He watches telly mindlessly, flipping through the channels and trying to distract himself from Richard’s face, which pushes its way into his mind more often than not.

Richard does the same, but he also cleans like a madman; when he’s stressed, he cleans. He scrubs the bathtub, polishes the countertops, and reorganizes his entire closet. He alphabetizes his bookshelves and rearranges his pots and pans. When he’s done, his flat is practically sparkling, and he’s still thinking about Taron.

Despite the fact that they are both constantly thinking about the other, neither of them wants to be the first to text. Neither of them think there is anything to text about.

One night, though, Richard is sitting at home and he’s bored. He’s more than bored, he feels as though he will crawl out of his skin if he doesn’t get out of his flat right that very second. He’s done everything he can think of to keep himself entertained; he’s read books, he’s flipped through the channels, he’s listened to music. Nothing has kept his attention, and as such he is practically vibrating with anxiety and irritation.

So he grabs his keys and his coat and he takes off for a drive. The night is cold and clear and it smells like winter. He marvels at the blue-black sky, inky and full, the weight of the world seeming to hang just above him. His car starts up smoothly, and he rolls down the windows just a bit despite the cold, letting the sweet night air blow into the car, making him chilly.

He pretends like he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, pretends he’s just driving for the sake of getting out of the house. Maybe he’ll stop and get ice cream or a coffee or even a beer, maybe, at least that’s what he tells himself.

He’s not surprised, however, when he finds himself pulling up outside Taron’s, walking boldly to the door, and knocking. His knuckles are sharp on the door, and he feels like he’s never heard anything louder than this sound as it rings out into the night.

There’s a long moment and T doesn’t come to the door. Richard considers just leaving, hanging his head and tripping back down the sidewalk. He wrestles with his brain for another moment, and is just about to turn around and leave when he sees the doorknob turn.

And then Taron is standing there, and it’s like a punch to Richard’s gut, just seeing him. He’s wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and a tight white t-shirt, and he looks good, fuck, he looks good. His hair is fluffy and disheveled, and his face is slightly soft and puffy, his eyes blinking rapidly and confusedly in the bright porch light. He has been sleeping, Richard realizes, and he feels bad.

“Rich? What the hell are you doing here?” Taron asks, his voice still thick and husky from sleep. It’s a valid question...what the hell is he doing here?

He is unable to say anything for just a moment as he just gazes at Taron. They’re only a few feet away from each other, but it feels like miles, and the air feels electrically charged with everything that’s not being said. Richard wants to reach out and grab Taron, pull him close to his body, bury his face into the sweet spot on his neck where his skin is always the softest, tell him how much he has missed him and how he doesn’t care if they ever go on another bloody date again, he just wants him, all of him, exactly this way.

Instead, he stands just so many feet away, his arms crossed over his chest in an effort to look casual but really just making him look uncomfortable, which he is, and then he shrugs his shoulders.

“Well?” Taron asks, and his voice sounds slightly hysterical. “It’s 11:30 at night, what are you doing on my porch?”

Rich is slightly shocked at hearing how late it is; he’s been so in his own head lately that time has had almost no meaning. I missed you, he wants to say. I am here because I cannot imagine my life without you in it in some way. Because I missed the sound our voices make when they’re together. Because I missed your laugh. Because I missed being near you. He can’t say these things, though; he doesn’t know why, he just knows that he can’t. So he shrugs, struggling to maintain his nonchalance, and before he knows it he blurts out “Are you hungry?”

Taron’s eyes narrow. “You came to my house at 11:30 p.m. to ask me if I’m hungry.” The words fall out of his mouth flat, and Richard suddenly feels like the biggest fool. It is over between he and Taron, and he has been unable to accept that. He has to.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, shifting his gaze to his feet. He hears a tiny sigh escape from Taron’s mouth.

“Give me a minute,” Taron says, and Richard looks up just in time to see T disappear back inside. When he comes out five minutes later, he’s wearing worn-in jeans and a thick sweater; he tugs his front door closed, locks it, and looks at Rich. “Where to?”

----------

They end up at a shitty all-night diner, the kind you see in indie movies and read about in novels with beveled edge pages. There’s only two other people inside, a pair of weary-looking old men eating limp sandwiches. There’s one waitress, bustling around behind the counter, refilling the coffee pots and wiping everything clean, and a bell rings out as Taron and Rich push the door open. They ease into a booth, their bums sliding across the cracked, faded leather. Rich runs a finger along the edge of the table, cracked formica.

“Not exactly five-star accommodations,” Rich says with a small smile as he hands Taron a menu from the stack at the other end of the table.

“It’s fine,” Taron says, meeting Rich’s smile with one of his own and cracking his menu open.

The drive over had been silent, but the silence was not unwelcome or hostile. They were not trying to impress each other or mend any fences; they were simply together, as they’d been a thousand times before.

Now the waitress bustles over and asks them if they need a moment before ordering; she is tired, and her voice suggests she’s been here for hours. They both order coffee, nothing more, and she sets down two mugs, fills them, returns with cream and sugar.

Rich smirks as he watches Taron dump in his customary truckload of sugar, and outright laughs at the look on his face after he takes a big gulp of it.

“Stuff’s horrid,” Taron whispers, but he is smiling still. Richard takes a drink of his own and nods hastily. It tastes burnt and bitter but he’ll always be grateful to that cup of coffee, because it breaks the ice between them, gives him enough courage to speak.

“So what’ve you been up to the last couple of weeks?”

Taron stirs his coffee absent-mindedly. “Not much. You?”

“Yeah, not much.”

“I--I’m glad you came by. I’ve missed you,” Taron says. “A lot,” he adds, under his breath. A warm feeling spreads in Richard’s stomach, his heart flutters a bit.

“Why didn’t you text, or call me?” Rich asks.

“Why didn’t you text or call me?” Taron fires back, a steely glint in his eyes. It doesn’t upset Richard, it makes him smile even more. Taron has always been stubborn, and it’s one of the things Rich loves best about him. It can be infuriating at times when you’re begging him to just do something simple, but it also means that he’s stubborn about what he loves, too. If he’s being pig-headed, it means there’s still something there.

“I thought I’d buggered our date up so badly that I’d ruined everything. I didn’t want to bother you. Especially after how you answered my text the morning after,” Rich says.

“I thought you only texted me to be nice. You’re always so polite, I thought you were just doing it because you thought it was what you were supposed to do,” Taron says in the tiniest of voices, and it breaks Richard’s heart a little. He imagines Taron, sitting in his flat, thinking that his best friend, his...whatever-the-hell-they-were, was only talking to him to be polite. He impulsively reaches out and catches Taorn’s hand across the table.

“I’d never lie to you, T. I’d never do anything disingenuous to you. You mean too much to me,” Richard says earnestly, squeezing Taron’s hand. “The truth is that I’ve missed you so much these last few weeks that it actually, physically, fucking hurts. It sounds dramatic but it’s true. I wanted nothing more than to ring you a million times. I just kept replaying our disastrous fucking date over and over in my head…”

Taron laughs. “It really was brilliantly awful. What happened?”

Richard passes the mug back and forth between his hands. “I don’t know, I wanted to impress you so bad. I picked the nicest restaurant and I dressed nicely. I was just so nervous, and I wanted you to like me so badly…”

“God, Richie, I would’ve thought you knew me well enough to know that I’m impressed by you exactly the way you are,” Taron says lightly. “I mean, you’re the most talented actor I’ve ever seen. But besides that, you’re funny, and smart, and incredibly kind. You’re the kindest person I know. And the fact that I even get to know you is amazing. So, you see, you’d already done the impressing by the time we even got to the date.”

He says all this effortlessly, as though these are things he just inherently knows and has thought about for ages. He says them as those his words are just true, as if they don’t mean everything in the world to Richard. But they do.

“T, I...can we start over? With everything?” Rich’s cheeks flush with a hint of pink, and his hands are now laid, flat, on the chipped formica table. They are shaking, just a bit, from the nerves and a rush of love and the wholeness of it all. Taron reaches across and grips both of Richard’s hand in his.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Taron asks, a grin slipping onto his face, and Richard matches it eagerly.

------

They leave the diner an hour later, full of bitter coffee and a slice of apple pie that they’d shared, and Taron looks up at the sky. Snow is swirling around them in great tufts, coming down in a dizzying array of white. Richard’s car is already covered in it, and their shoes, hastily selected sneakers instead of the boots that would’ve been more helpful, slip and slide through the fine white powder. The world is still, at almost 1 a.m., as the snow cascades down around them.

“It’s beautiful,” Taron says, his voice as soft as the flakes that land in his hair. His eyes are shining with the reflection of the snow and the bright streetlamp.

Richard reaches out and pulls Taron close to him, finally nuzzles that sweet spot on T’s neck. Taron scrunches his face up and laughs a little, and the sound is like music to Rich’s ears. “Not as beautiful as you,” he whispers in Taron’s ear. Taron leans over and impulsively, madly, kisses Richard. It is insistent and present and better than anything they’ve shared together so far, somehow. It is a joining together, a reminder of why they started this in the first place, an erasure of their terrible first date. Richard smiles into it.

“Come back to my place?” Taron asks, and Richard nods. He laces their fingers together and leads Taron to the car, towards Taron’s house, towards a future together.

#Madderton #Madderton fanfiction #Taron Egerton fanfiction #Richard Madden fanfiction #my fic #sdkkfshsdf I can't believe this is finally finished #please be kind

24 notes · View notes

faintwalker · 4 years

Text

Chance and Circumstance (scene one)

Another fic snippet! There should be more later. I have big plans.

Fandom: Itsuwaribito, teen rating, warnings for graphic violence/injury descriptions. Alternate universe where Yakuma didn’t have a fortunate encounter before trying to storm the lord’s mansion. (That’s not the only thing alternate about the universe though...) Written mid-May.

Without further ado:

Chance and Circumstance, scene one:

“Come closer. You wanted to get a good look, right?”

Yakuma beckons with one hand, the other preoccupied with supporting the sword through his abdomen. Blood coats the metal and leaves it slick in his grip, turning each breath hazardous as the blade threatens to slip. There is so much pain, enough to put a white haze across his vision and cause interference with the focus he needs to keep on his objective. Through it, though, he can still feel the unusual warmth of the blood he’s losing as it runs across his skin and dribbles over his organs. The contrast of the cold metal is shocking, but so is the pain. So is this entire situation.

Yakuma feels, somehow, that he should have been prepared for this. He knew sneaking into the lord’s mansion alone was a fool’s mission, but he couldn’t just walk away from the situation. The risk of failure was one he was aware of, but he hadn’t anticipated being forced to perform some bastardized mockery of surgery upon himself. This itsuwaribito posing as a medicine man is a cruel and sadistic person.

“Don’t try to be clever,” the itsuwaribito says. “That’s not nearly wide enough, is it? Cut a bit more. I want to see what happens when your insides become visible.”

Gritting his teeth, Yakuma tries to get a firmer hold of the sword. He would be dead already, he knows, if this itsuwaribito wasn’t so fond of toying with him. The guns trained on him make that clear enough. As it is, he isn’t likely to last much longer with the way events are going. His best hope is to get the man close and launch a surprise attack against him, but his ability to perform said attack is slipping through his fingers in the form of his lifeblood.

Holding the blade with trembling arms, Yakuma slices outwards and to the side, nicking something internal but managing to mostly keep the cut to a shallower level of skin and muscle. It should look bad enough from where the itsuwaribito is standing. In all honesty, it might be more than Yakuma can afford. He lets the sword’s tip follow its path back to a resting position within him. If he pulls it out now, he will bleed to death without accomplishing anything.

“How’s that?” he asks, blood heavy on his tongue. He can feel it spilling from the corner of his mouth and see it snaking out in rivulets through the lines carved in the courtyard’s stones. Each second reveals more of the spreading pattern. Yakuma has seen a great deal of blood in his life, and he knows when too much is too much. Red has never before looked so jarring, so surreal.

Shifting his grip on the lord’s hair so that the fan presses dangerously against his neck, the itsuwaribito says, “Stop with whatever game you’re playing, boy. You know what’s expected of you.” Eyes crinkling above a twisted smile, he adds, “Finish the job.”

Yakuma feels his severed muscles shifting against each other as he breathes one breath after the next, a cycle of repetition in a countdown he isn’t tracking. Each inhale is sharp; each exhale is a slicing gasp that makes him choke in another desperate lungful. He doesn’t want to die. In this moment, Yakuma wants more than almost anything he can think of to live. He wants to remain alive long enough to see another day, walk another road, visit another town. He wants to heal another person. Heal that one other person. See Lady Kohi smile again. He won’t. Yakuma has been such a fool, rushing in headlong as he has.

“Wait!” the lord cries, shifting and twisting as he begins to struggle in his hold. “Don’t! You don’t even know me, so why? What reasoning could possibly justify you cutting yourself open for a stranger?”

(More than almost anything.)

“Quiet, you!” the itsuwaribito says, yanking the lord’s hair with unnecessary force. “The time for your regrets is past. His end is inevitable now.” Returning his focus to Yakuma, he says, “Hurry it up, or it’s his throat slit.”

From behind the fan, a line of red trails down the lord’s neck. Compared to Yakuma, it’s nothing, one drop instead of the spreading web he’s caught himself as the center of. This is a situation with only one outcome, and Yakuma made his choice when he first closed his fingers around the weapon he’d been thrown.

“If I comply,” Yakuma says, “you’ll let him go? And leave this town?”

“Sure,” says the itsuwaribito. “His usefulness has all but passed, and sickness will do away with him soon anyway. This town has hardly anything left to offer. The most valuable thing remaining is probably you.”

Yakuma nods, resigned to accepting the terms of a liar. There is no way to guarantee the lord’s life, but he has done all he can. Only one action remains to be taken, and if it is the action of a fool, then so be it. Grasping the sword is easier when he thinks of the life he is saving. The pain will be worth it. Squaring his shoulders and resolve, Yakuma lets his attachment to existence flow out with his breath.

Arms tensed in preparation, Yakuma is startled to a halt by an unfamiliar voice.

“What’s this, then?” it calls out cheerily. “Some spectacle, I suppose.”

A boy about Yakuma’s age stands in the courtyard where he hadn’t a moment before, his smile a sliver and his eyes mere slits above it. A strange wind gusts, fluttering his obi, and he tilts his chin up with a lighthearted laugh.

“Look at you, all bloody and uncool,” he says. “Did you seriously cut yourself open? What are you expecting to achieve that way?”

Legs twisted in chains and sword blade held pressed against his intestines, Yakuma’s blood coats his chin as he snarls, “Shut up! Who even are you? Lives are at risk and you think it’s fine to stand there running your mouth?”

The boy’s head turns in a slow sweep of the courtyard, presumably taking in the details of the situation he’s managed to stumble across. His smile should falter in the face of this, Yakuma thinks, but his expression remains unconcerned as he takes in the group of men masked as demons, their leader holding a fan of knives to the old lord’s throat. The masked men shift, muttering to each other as they await the call to take action. Still gripping the lord by the hair, the itsuwaribito stands with eyes narrowed in calculation.

One of the “demons” speaks, asking, “Is that it, boss? Did it work?”

Stepping around the blood-filled lines decorating the ground, the boy comes to a stop before Yakuma and turns his focus upon him and the sword in his gut. Yakuma’s skin prickles under the scrutiny, and for a moment his breath catches, the further lecturing comments dying on his tongue. He wants to hope. At the very least, he wants assurance that the lord will be safe.

“I think it did,” says the itsuwaribito. “You there, pay attention to me over here.”

The boy ignores him, dropping to a crouch by Yakuma’s side. Leaning forwards with his hands resting on his knees, the boy shifts his attention to Yakuma’s face and asks in an easy tone better suited to chatting over tea, “What would you have me do, then?”

“Help, of course!” says Yakuma.

“Help who?” the boy asks, nose scrunching in something like confusion.

“You have to ask?” says Yakuma, incredulous. His vision is turning black at the edges, everything is going cold, and this boy is plunked down in front of him watching him bleed out. “It should be obvious! They have a hostage! The lord needs to be rescued, we need to get to safety, and these thugs need to be taken down!”

In the fading background, the itsuwaribito yells, “You! Don’t talk to him, I’m the one who called you here. Listen to me if you want your reward!”

“Boss, maybe we should let it eat first,” one of the men says.

“Run!” cries the lord. “Take him and run!”

The boy ignores all of them in favor of searching for something in Yakuma’s expression. After a moment spent in silent contemplation, he asks, “That’s what you want, huh?”

Yakuma knows this boy might end up faring no better than him, but the chain trick was probably only set up once. The lord could live. He can hope for the best.

So, selfishly, Yakuma drags in the necessary air to say, “Of course!”

“Here I go, then,” the boy says, smile expanding to something gleeful and predatory. Twisting on the spot, he leaps into motion.

Yakuma blinks, and the next thing he sees is the boy punching the itsuwaribito in the face, sending him flying into a slumped heap several shaku back. The man remains where he has fallen. Dropped in surprise, the lord scrambles away as the “demons” erupt into a state of pandemonium. Some opt to charge the boy, some dither indecisively, and most run for the mansion’s gate.

No longer in their field of attention, Yakuma pulls the blade from his abdomen and sits up, hands clamped to slow the bleeding. Dizziness wasn’t much of a concern while reclined, but of course the increased elevation of his head in relation to his heart sets the world spinning. Once the disorientation lessens enough, he switches tasks to pulling at the tear in his shirt. If he can rip the fabric, he can wrap the gash tightly, and if he can do that fast enough, he might reduce the rate of blood loss enough to survive this situation and recover. The sodden fabric slips from his fingers again and again, and Yakuma resolves to keep scissors in his coat in the future he now has a chance at.

The boy is holding his own, barely winded as he knocks his opponents about. Sharp whistles ring out from by the gate, and… are those police? Yakuma thinks he is seeing police officers rounding up the attempted escapees. Somehow the entire situation has turned around.

The day may be nearly won, but Yakuma is bleeding faster than ever. He watches the efforts of fingers he can no longer feel, then watches nothing as the black finally overtakes his vision.

~ ~ ~

#don't worry he'll live #Itsuwaribito fic #Chance and Circumstance #faintwalker's works #feel free to make your guesses #as to what's up #I'd love to hear

8 notes · View notes

fanfics-await-you · 4 years

Text

I never know what to expect from him (Part 1)

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Female OC

Summary: Poe Dameron is your friend, your fellow resistance fighter, but most of all he's a goddamn pain in your ass. And yeah, maybe you're falling for him and well yes, it seems like he's falling for you too, but now REALLY isn't the time.

Tags: angst, a pair of dumbasses unnecessarily complicating things, minor ROS spoilers

notes: It’s been awhile, sorry! Yes, I just saw ROS, had to do something for POE! I have classes so idk when the next update will be lol

Inspired by: @polkanote‘s post & @andhumanslovedstories‘s post

Word Count: 1,835

masterlist

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

I never know what to expect from him. I mean, what can you expect from a man like Poe Dameron?

Consistency? Never.

Wit? Always at the worst times.

Patience? Who am I kidding.

Another explosion goes off behind us and I stumble for a moment on my injured leg. Almost instantly, an arm is around my shoulders, guiding me. I flash Poe a look but all he does is grin.

“What? You thought I was gonna leave my favourite girl?”

I shake my head at him but just keeping run as the earth continues to shake.

So maybe there is one thing that you can always count on with Poe; the one thing beneath all the layers of ego and hotheadedness and never-ending flirting that keeps me working with him.

Poe will never, ever leave a friend behind.

–

“Next time you do that, Dameron, I would appreciate a warning. Even better, next time don’t use an entire canister of blaster gel and bring down the mountain while we’re still under it!”

Poe stops his work for just a moment to flaunt his signature smile, but I roll my eyes and try to ignore the way my heart skips a beat.

“Look Kess, one day you will finally admit that I just have a natural talent for these things, and you’ll thank me for the unique honour that is working by my side. Now, stop moving while I try to patch up your le-Ow! What was that for?!”

I wind up for another punch and his hands raise in self-defence.

“It’s really funny how you can talk about my leg that was injured in an explosion and how good you are making things explode in the same sentence. I have no idea why I didn’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry, Kess.”

I lean my head back against the ship hull. “I’m sure I’ll pay you back for it.”

I don’t really hold it against him, accidents happen (this is a war, after all). Anyway, this is our thing, this repartee and back-and-forth, it’s who we are. This is what we’re famous for; well, this and blowing up a Star Destroyer with a rigged pleasure cruiser (Don’t ask, it’s a long story.)

“No Kess, I really am sorry,” Poe’s tone is serious.

I really don’t want him to feel guilty, so I shrug and try to play it off. “Don’t worry about it, what’s one new scar to a hundred old ones.”

A moment passes, then a warm hand touches my chin and gently guides it downwards. My eyes come to rest on Poe, his face uncharacteristically sober and tinged by guilt. The warmth of his fingers remain on my face and they coil tendrils of tenderness beneath my skin.

“I would never intentionally put you in harm’s way.”

“Poe, I kno-”

“Never. I was reckless today-”

“It’s fine! Wh-”

“I should’ve been more careful, you could have been seriously hurt-”

“What’s got into you?” I finally cut him off as I take his hand into mine. “Poe, stuff like this is an occupational hazard. Don’t go beating yourself up because you can’t do the precise calculations for blaster gel quantities while running from troopers. I really am sorry if you thought I was actually blaming you…I was kidding, I’m sorry.”

I grasp his hand tightly, hoping he understands. Poe shifts his hand so that our fingers become intertwined.

He takes a second before speaking, “I know, Kess. It’s just…you were right…You’re always right, you know.”

Poe smiles a little, but his mouth is still tight with tension. Without thinking, I place my free hand against his smooth and surprisingly warm cheek. Ever-so-slightly, Poe leans into it without taking his eyes from my face.

I smile as best I can despite the growing tension I feel in the air, “Of course I’m right, I’m always right: you know that. So when I say you’re not allowed to beat yourself up over this, you’re not.”

The grin finally reaches Poe’s eyes, just a little. “I know, it’s just that…”

He trails off only to take both my hands into his. Poe stares at our interwoven fingers and gently clasps them together so my palms are pressed together between his in silent prayer. We’re so close now that I can see the flashes of deep amber that hide in the depths of his brown eyes. There is something Poe wants to say, something that is weighing him down; I can see it in the nervous biting of his lip that I can’t tear my eyes away from. The tension is oppressive now and I’m about to ask to say something, anything, when he finally draws breath to speak.

“Kessandra,” he says my full name delicately, like it might break if he speaks too loudly, “I- there’s something…I- I-”

He cuts off by the loud beep signifying the end of our lightspeed journey. We both jump. The fertile green atmosphere of Ajan Kloss crystallises before us. The comms have started up again, rambling on about landing codes and permissions.

“I should,” Poe takes a deep breath, “I should bring us down.”

The moment is well and truly over. He doesn’t move for a moment, he just resumes staring down at our enfolded hands. I find that I don’t want Poe to let go; he does anyway.

As he guides us into orbit, the ghost of his touch continues to linger on my hands and a heavy feeling settles in my heart.

—-

If there’s one thing that Resistance fighters know how to do (besides kick fascist ass), it’s how to throw a damn good party. Add in the fact that one of the engineers figured out how to make moonshine out of local tree sap (it took a lot of ugly trial and error), and a good time is basically guaranteed. Also, (not that any of us would say it), knowing that any night might be your last makes letting go and having fun just that little bit easier.

The sound of a Kitonak guitar drifts on the wind and my head is warm with the buzz of liquor. Everyone is dancing and laughing, and it is a glorious sight to see. These last couple months have been tough, even tougher than usual, and it’s so good to see people just enjoying a second of peace.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Poe’s voice is barely audible over the noise of the party.

I don’t look at him but just smile to myself, “I was taking a second to enjoy the evening.”

“May I join you?”

I laugh. “Since when have you needed my permission to do something?”

“You’re right but it never hurts to ask, you know.”

Before I can respond, Poe is right by my side. He too leans up against the wall, and then bumps his arm against mine. Instead of returning the gesture, I gently rest my head against his shoulder and continue to look out upon the people dancing. A moment passes before the weight of his arm curls around my waist. I allow myself to enjoy this moment, and don’t even stop myself when my imagination begins to stir as to what this moment could be if things were different…Just an ordinary party on a ordinary night in the arms of a more than extraordinary man…

“What you thinkin’ about Kess?”

I push all the what if’s back to the pit of my stomach as I struggle to think of a lie, “Oh you know, the usual.”

Poe chuckles softly and it resonates into my side. The sound is deep and low, and causes my heart to skip a beat.

“I know you, and you are anything but ‘usual’. What’s on your mind?”

It’s probably the alcohol but I just want to tell him. I want to tell him everything. I just want to shout it all to the summer sky, that I’m thinking about you, Poe, and it seems like all I do is think about you these days! I’m falling for you, but you won’t ever look at me that way. The thought of never seeing you again is enough to make me cry. The knowledge that one day I will lose you to someone else breaks my heart. I don’t say any of this, however.

“The future. What I’ll do when this is all over.” It’s not exactly a lie but it still feels wrong.

“Have you got big plans? Intergalactic pod-racer? Smuggler? Chancellor of the New Republic?”

This time, I laugh with him and gently shake my head against Poe’s shoulder.

“Nothing as exciting as that. I think if I survive this, that will be enough for me. I’ll go find a quiet, green planet in a remote part of the system and fix up old ships. Anyway, it’s not like the Resistance is going to need a ton of pilots when there’s no more fighter jets to send out. Nah, peace’ll be enough for me, I reckon.”

It’s the truth. After years with my neck on line and waiting for countless friends who never come back home, being alive will be enough. Waking up every morning knowing that the people I care about are safe? That’ll do for me.

“That sounds like a damn good plan, Kess,” there is a touch of longing to his voice.

I hum in agreement and close my eyes. For a while, I just enjoy the music and the feeling of Poe’s arm around my waist.

“There’s no ‘if’ though, Kess. You’ve gotta survive this one.”

I laugh but don’t open my eyes. “I’m trying my absolute hardest, promise.”

His response is softly spoken, “No, you have to, Kess. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I freeze up for a second out of surprise, but Poe speaks again before I can respond.

“I mean, uh- How am I meant to figure out what to do after all this without your voice of reason to guide me?” His joking tone has returned, but it sounds forced.

Before I can think, I’m speaking, “You could just come with me.”

My eyes fly open. The words hang in the air without a response and I feel like a fool. Oh, you absolute idiot, that’s not what he meant. Motherfu-

“Yeah?”

Poe’s voice is heavy with emotion and cracks slightly under it. Confused, I turn to look Poe in the eye to find him already gazing back at me. In the name of the Maker, our faces are so close. There is something in his expression that I can’t read but it still tells in every line of his face. What…

“I could come with you?”

I want to yell out yes, of course, I’m begging you but all I do is silently nod.

I don’t understand why Poe is acting like this? Is he drunk? Has there been bad news? What-

“Because I would follow you anywhere, if you’d let me.”

Oh?

Oh.

#poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron #star wars #star wars fanfiction #poe dameron x reader #my works

42 notes · View notes

no6secretsanta · 4 years

Text

Bittersweet Awakening

TO: @happykawaiicinnamonroll FROM: @glorifiedscapegoat

Happy Holidays and an amazing New Year to you, KawaiiCinnamonroll! Here’s some post-reunion fluff for your Secret Santa gift. In the spirit of the New Year, having a nice moment between Nezumi and Shion, in which Shion is being a bit of a dumb-ass and Nezumi takes care of him, seemed appropriate.

I hope you enjoy it! <3

***

Nezumi woke to the smell of coffee beans.

He stretched out his spine with a satisfied groan. In his sleep, he’d managed to curl himself into a tight ball, long limbs wrapped around his pillow and clutching it to his chest. He unearthed his face from the plush cushion―pulling himself from the aroma of drowsy lavender fabric softener―and looked over at his sleeping companion.

Shion’s side of the bed was empty.

Nezumi bolted upright.

Panic lanced through the synapses in his brain, tension jolting through his muscles until every inch of him ached. His eyes picked through the darkness of their shared bedroom, searching the dresser tucked in the corner, the slotted solar shades revealing the still-dark morning sky, and the bedroom door left ajar.

Yellow light spilled in through the gap in the door frame, and Nezumi’s shoulders relaxed.

He dragged a hand over his face and then pushed his bangs aside. His hair was tangled, and Nezumi worked a few of them out with his fingers, wincing when he encountered a knot.

Shion’s awake. He’s here. Nezumi carded his fingers through his hair until there were no more gnarls. The primal terror spiking through his veins cooled until Nezumi felt weightless.

Four years had passed since the day Nezumi had almost lost Shion, four years since Nezumi had breezed back into Shion’s life, for good this time. Nezumi’s gut-reaction to waking without Shion at his side was anxiety and terror, but it was a bit better each time. One step at a time. We’ll get there. Someday.

Nezumi’s brow furrowed. It was strange that Shion climbing into bed hadn’t woken him. Nezumi had gone to bed around ten o’clock, leaving Shion to work on his proposal for the committee. Shion had been agonizing about it most of the day, and Nezumi had opted to give him some space to work.

Nezumi was a notoriously light sleeper. The slightest shifts on the mattress were usually enough to jar him awake. He was getting used to having Shion sleeping at his side again―no longer at his back, but in his arms, limbs tangled together in a heap.

But I didn’t wake up this time. Nezumi gnawed on his lower lip. Weird.

And then his eyes flickered to the nightstand.

The digital clock announced 03:14 AM in neon green numbers.

Nezumi’s brows shot up.

He scrambled out of bed, tossing the comforter aside. The sheets caught around his ankles, and Nezumi nearly went sprawling to the ground. He caught himself with a sharp curse and kicked the sheets onto the floor.

The cool Autumn air sent prickles across the bare skin of his legs and arms. Nezumi wore a dark gray tee shirt and boxer shorts to bed, needing no other warmth than the thick blankets and Shion pinned against him.

He grabbed the thin black robe hanging off the back of the door―a welcome-back gift from Karan―and threw it on. The hem brushed his ankles as he clutched it around his middle and bustled out into the kitchen.

Nezumi found Shion in the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards. The concern welling in the pit of his stomach like a fat serpent steadily began to uncoil.

Shion was dressed in the white button-down and slacks he’d been wearing when Nezumi went off to bed. His hair was wild, sticking up in all directions like a brilliant star. He had his back to Nezumi, his long fingers nudging aside various mugs in the cupboard. He moved quickly, a man on a mission.

Nezumi stepped into the kitchen. He pressed his weight on the squeaky floorboard―the same one he’d been irritated by on those mornings after a particularly terrible rehearsal―to announce his presence.

Shion’s shoulders shot to his ears. His hands stilled.

“You’re still awake?” Nezumi asked.

Shion looked over his shoulder. His glassy red eyes settled on Nezumi’s face, and after a few moments, comprehension flitted across his features. “Oh. Nezumi.” He lowered his arms from the cupboard, leaving the two doors open, and turned around. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“It’s three in the morning,” Nezumi said, leaving the question unanswered in the air between them. “Why are you still up?”

Shion lowered his gaze. His eyelashes dusted his cheekbones like a thick frost. He was beautiful, otherworldly in a way that made Nezumi weak-kneed every time he saw him. Even after all these years, Nezumi’s heart still skipped a beat at the thought of the young man standing before him. Even when said young man picked at Nezumi’s nerves.

“I have to finish my proposal,” Shion explained.

“Your meeting’s on Tuesday.”

“And I’m behind.” Shion turned back to the cupboard and reached inside. “I need to finish it.”

Nezumi’s eyes shifted to the coffee pot. A gentle vapor of steam drifted from the boxy black container, the eight-cup pot filled halfway with the dark, steaming liquid. The aroma of light-roast coffee beans danced beneath Nezumi’s nose. It would have been a welcomed scent at a reasonable hour.

“And so you’re brewing coffee?”

“More coffee,” Shion corrected. “This is my second pot.”

“That’s healthy.” Nezumi strode across the kitchen and yanked one of the chairs back from the little table. Its wooden legs screeched across the tile. Nezumi flopped into the chair. “You look exhausted. You sure you want to keep working?”

“I have to, Nezumi.” Shion found the mug he wanted and set it on the counter. He closed the cupboards and hurried to the fridge.

“Why didn’t you reuse your cup?” Nezumi asked.

“What?”

“Your cup,” Nezumi repeated, as if he were speaking to a child. “If this is your second pot, then you must have had another cup. Why not just reuse it?”

“Because it was―” Shion paused, and Nezumi could see the gears working in his head. Shion looked at the sink, where his previous mug must have resided. “Huh.” He pressed his lips into a thin, calculating line. “I… I don’t know.”

Nezumi exhaled through his nose. “Shion.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Shion interjected.

“Then enlighten me.”

“You’re going to say I should come to bed.”

“Give the man a prize, ladies and gentlemen.”

“I have to finish it, Nezumi.” Shion opened the fridge, took the creamer, and poured some into his mug. It was the pretty white one Nezumi had gotten for him a month ago; a watercolor image of a purple flower, not technically an aster but close enough, spread across the bottom of the mug, the green leaves twisting up the handle.

Despite the frustration prickling through him, Nezumi felt a small sliver of warmth at the sight of the mug. It had been a gift to Shion. A gift from him. Nezumi had never given anyone a gift before. It had seemed like such a small, pathetic thing at the time. And yet the moment he’d given it to Shion, those bright crimson eyes had lit up as if someone had set a fire in Shion’s core. Those lips had drawn back in a wide smile, and Shion had thrown his arms around Nezumi. “I love it! Thank you!”

It was amazing, Nezumi thought―how something so small could ground him. We’ve come so far, haven’t we? So much had changed in four years. Like tightly-coiled bugs in a garden, Shion and Nezumi had finally, finally, finally bloomed, their petals brushing against each other and their stems intertwining.

“We’re discussing the new proposal for the West District,” Shion went on. He placed the cream back in the fridge.

After Nezumi left, West Block was evacuated, the citizens ushered into the remains of No.6 with Shion taking on the role of ambassador. The Manhunt had drastically lowered the number of West Block’s citizens, and Shion’s primary focus became finding suitable housing for them. The birth of the Committee―compiled of people from West Block, Kronos, and Lost Town―opened new possibilities for plans regarding the destroyed quarters.

“Some of the Committee members want to turn it into a junkyard,” Shion went on. “Most of the buildings are ruined, and even though we’ve removed all the bodies…”

And given them proper burials, Nezumi thought. Shion had personally led the search to find the bodies buried beneath the rubble. Inukashi’s hounds had lent a hand, their reluctant owner offering their services as a favor to Shion. Shion had also found jobs for the displaced Disposers, tasking them with transferring the corpses safely and respectfully from the destruction and to a patch of land just outside the up-heaved city.

Most of the Disposers had become the Clean-Up Committee, paid a livable wage by the city for their services. Nezumi had been surprised to find so many of the Disposers he recognized trudging through the remnants of No.6 as law-abiding citizens who prided themselves on their work rather than the thugs West Block had feared.

“It’s still dangerous to keep all that rubble just laying around,” Shion said, jolting Nezumi from his reminiscing. “What if kids play there? The wall is gone, and children are curious by nature. Not to mention how hazardous it is for the environment. If we removed it, put the scrap wood to good use and salvaged the metal, we could expand the living quarters and use that land to farm. That would create job opportunities, as well as save money on imported goods.

“We could grow most of our own crops, and once we’ve managed to create a sustainable system, we can work on exporting some of our goods and bringing some money back into the city! That way we can actually pay our workers and make sure people can survive.”

Nezumi rested his head on his hands and listened. He didn’t understand the politics of the Committee as well as Shion did, but he admired the passion in Shion’s voice. That had always drawn Nezumi to Shion, he supposed. He was so dedicated to everything he set his focus on.

Shion was trying his best to make good on his promise to Elyurias, and Nezumi as well, even though it was running him ragged.

“An admirable feat,” Nezumi allowed. “But I doubt the whole ship will sink if you take a few hours to rest.”

Something flickered across Shion’s face that might have been acceptance―and then the coffee pot chimed.

“Coffee’s done,” Shion announced.

Nezumi’s shoulders dropped in defeat.

Shion picked up the pot. The dark liquid inside sloshed within. Shion’s fingers trembled on the handle as he navigated his way to his mug.

Nezumi changed his tactic. “Have you made any progress with it? When I went to bed, you were stuck on your introductory paragraph.”

Shion paused.

“Talking it out is one thing,” Nezumi went on, “but it’s translating it into political jargon that’s stressing you out, right?”

Shion shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He sighed. “I know what I want to say. But it’s just like… the longer I stare at the page, the less sense my thoughts make.” His red eyes lost focus as Shion stared down at the coffee pot in his hands. “Everything that comes to mind just doesn’t sound right.”

Nezumi felt a pang of sympathy dance through him. “Then maybe you need to take some time away from it.”

Shion gnawed on his lower lip, considering Nezumi’s suggestion. Nezumi played with the sleeve of the robe, the warmth of the kitchen seeping in through the thin fabric. It was too soon to turn the heat in their small, two-bedroom apartment on.

Shion poured some coffee into the mug, and Nezumi’s stomach dropped to his feet.

“You want any?” Shion asked.

“No,” Nezumi said with a dry smile. “I actually want to sleep.”

“Suit yourself.” Shion set the coffee pot back on the burner. He shuffled over to the table, set the mug down opposite Nezumi, and turned back to the counters. “Where’s the sugar?”

“Where it always is,” Nezumi said. As Shion meandered back toward the sink, Nezumi exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache forming. “Look, Shion. No one’s going to blame you if you take a break from it. You’ve been working on that thing all day. If you’re not thinking straight, it’s a universal sign that you need to get some sleep.”

“Found the sugar,” Shion piped up.

“You know,” Nezumi snapped, “for someone so intelligent, you can be amazingly dense.”

Shion sat down in the chair and muttered a retort.

“Didn’t catch that. Care to try again when you’re not sleep-deprived?”

Shion rolled his eyes. He tipped the small canister of sugar upside down and dumped half of it into his coffee.

Nezumi raised an eyebrow. Shion liked sugar in his coffee. Nezumi had lived with him long enough to know that. But Shion didn’t usually take that much sugar.

“You want any coffee with that?”

“Hush,” Shion said. “I need to finish this proposal, Nezumi. I need all the energy I can get.”

Shion held the mug in both hands and took a long gulp.

“Shion―,” Nezumi said.

Shion’s eyes widened. He slammed the cup onto the table and spat his mouthful of coffee back into it.

Nezumi reeled back. “What?”

Shion looked at the mug, then to the canister of sugar. Horror twisted into disbelief on his face. His scarlet eyes glistened and, to Nezumi’s utter confusion, filled with tears. Shion shoved his mug away from himself, folded his arms, and buried his face in the crook of his elbows.

“What’s wrong?” Nezumi snatched the canister of sugar up. He scanned the white label, the brand name scrawled in black and red letters, spelling out the words coarse salt rather than cane sugar.

Nezumi’s lips quirked at the corners. “Oh.”

“It’s salt,” Shion whined.

Nezumi bit back laughter as he stood and set the offending condiment back on the counter. He took Shion’s mug and dumped it into the sink.

“And that,” he said, “would be a sign from the Powers That Be that it’s time for bed.”

Shion’s voice was muffled as he said, “It’s not funny.”

It was pretty funny, but Nezumi would avoid saying so until Shion was in a better state of mind. Once Shion had calmed down, and slept an acceptable number of hours, Nezumi would tease him mercilessly.

For now, Nezumi stood behind Shion and rubbed comforting circles on his back.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Time for bed. You’re probably not making as much progress as you’d like, anyway.”

Shion grumbled.

“You have all day Monday,” Nezumi added. “You’re not going to be much help to anyone if you’re passed out on the table.”

His thumbs continued to rub shapes into Shion’s shoulder blades until Shion turned his face to the side and managed a shaky, “OK.”

Nezumi celebrated silently as he helped Shion up from the table. He clicked the coffee pot off, making a mental note to clean the bean dispenser and empty the pot when he woke up again. He placed his hands on Shion’s shoulders and guided him through the kitchen and into their shared bedroom.

“Change into your pajamas,” Nezumi instructed.

Shion eased through the darkness, toward the dresser. Nezumi kept the door open, allowing the kitchen light to illuminate the room just enough for Shion to find his way. Shion knew the bedroom like the back of his hand―but Nezumi couldn’t count on Shion’s sleep-deprived mind to remember where he kept his boxers if he couldn’t even tell salt from sugar.

Shion dropped his button-down and slacks besides the hamper. Close enough, Nezumi thought. Shion dug through the top drawer, found a black tee-shirt, and pulled it over his head. He fought with the hole before yanking it down.

Nezumi smirked. Hopefully, Shion hadn’t put it on backward. He supposed they’d find out in the morning.

“To bed with you,” Nezumi said. “It’s well past your bedtime.”

Shion’s retort barely made it past his lips. Shion slumped to the bed and flopped down on his stomach.

Nezumi shook his head. He flicked the kitchen light off, plunging the room into darkness. The faint light filtering in through the slats in the window allowed Nezumi a quick look at Shion. He’d curled into the side of the bed where Nezumi had woken up, instinctively drawn to the warmth.

Nezumi crawled onto the bed and lay beside Shion. He wrestled the blankets out from under Shion and tucked them around him.

“Comfortable?” Nezumi asked.

Shion didn’t answer.

Right to sleep, then. Nezumi couldn’t help but laugh. He eased down beside Shion, tucking their legs together. His arms slipped around Shion’s thin frame and pulled him against his chest. The neon green alarm clock announced 03:38 AM. Shion and Nezumi kept the alarm off on the weekends. Nezumi would likely doze for a few hours. If he was lucky, Shion would sleep well into the late morning. Nezumi didn’t mind spending a lazy day in bed. If it kept Shion asleep for more than a few minutes, it was worth it.

Nezumi pressed his nose into Shion’s soft, silver hair. He smelled like the geranium shampoo Karan had given them as a move-in gift. Shion worked it through his hair every other day, and Nezumi had begun to associate the scent with the beautiful young man tucked in his arms.

Nezumi exhaled, content. The warmth from Shion’s body radiated through him. Sleep began to tug at the corners of his mind. Nezumi rested his chin on Shion’s shoulder. He listened to the thump of their hearts, the echo reminding him that fate had granted them a chance to start over. A new beginning.

Nezumi had wandered the world to find himself―and his journey had brought him right back to Shion.

He pressed a long, lingering kiss to Shion’s shoulder. The deep breathing from his sleeping companion soothed him, erased the tension in his shoulders and chased away the nightmares. In the warmth of their shared bedroom, Nezumi closed his eyes, breathed the same air as the boy he loved, and fell asleep.

#glorifiedscapegoat #happykawaiicinnamonroll #no6 #no 6 #no.6 #no. 6 #submission

22 notes · View notes

survivorparr · 5 years

Text

the sun and her moon, part 6/8 (all you wanna do)

aka, In Which we Journey North

Ex Wives/No Way | DLUH | Heart of Stone | Haus of Holbein| Get Down

.....

Aragon rubbed her hand vigorously up and down her right bicep to dull the sharp pain.

“What the heck, Kitty??”

“Punch buggy, no punch backs!”

Aragon let out a sharp gust of air as she flicked her eyes towards the ceiling of the van, then retrained them on the green hillside whizzing by outside the window.

Behind her, Anna and Parr were deeply engaged in an argument about whether John Dowland or Hans Gerle had been the better lutenist. The air was filled with a faint, sweet melody coming from Jane, humming in the driver’s seat.

And folded in upon herself in the back seat, eyes aimed at the window but certainly not paying attention to the scenery, was Anne. The events of last night danced in her mind’s eye:

“Are you alright, Cath?”

“Yes - no - I don’t know. Yes, I’m fine”.

“‘I don’t know’ isn’t yes. Tell me what you’re thinking”.

She had taken one of Cathy’s small, warm hands in hers. There was no sound except the pounding of her own heart. Then:

“I just... think I need a minute to think”.

“God Cath, I’m so sorry, I just assumed - in the bar - I thought there’d been a moment and I -“

Cath squeezed her hand hard. “There was. There was a moment. And... I want there to be more moments, a lot more. It’s just... I’ve never... been with a woman before”. Her eyes shone and she seemed to be wrestling with her own mind in order to get the words out. Anne suddenly felt the absence of Cath’s hand in hers as she retreated onto her bed.

“I’m so sorry, Anne. It’s just that you mean the world to me, and if I can’t manage to come to terms with... feeling this way about you, and something goes poorly, I just don’t know what I’d-”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, okay? Promise. Go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning”.

“Actually... could you stay a minute?”

Anne’s chest had tightened, but then she’d seen how small Catherine looked, how vulnerable. She’d crawled onto the bed and molded Cath into her empty spaces, running her fingers through her thick curls.

Thick curls that were now covering the back of a head sitting as far away from her as possible. Not a word was spoken between them all through breakfast, or all through the long drive to Leeds. Anne supposed perhaps Cathy was just nervous to be returning close to home for the first time since they’d come back, but she’d been chattering nervously to the other queens all morning (she and Anna were now debating the merits of the hurdy-gurdy as an instrument, for Christ’s sake). Anne turned up the volume of her headphones to drown it all out, hoping this would have some effect on the heaviness in her heart.

The whirring of the greenery and buildings outside came to a sudden slow, and then finally, a stop. Anne pulled out an earbud to get an idea of what was going on.

“...completely sure? It’s really no trouble, Parr, we can drive you out to York”.

“That’s alright, Jane, the train will be fine. If you lot come with me, I’ll just chicken out and turn us back around”.

“If you’re definitely sure, then. Good luck with your grandmother!”

Anne’s eyes widened. Grandmother... She suddenly remembered how last week, in the middle of French Film Friday, Cath had paused Amelie to ask whether Anne thought anyone else from past times might’ve been brought back to life. “We’d better hope not, otherwise, we might get run off the stage by a country band made up of Prince Albert’s five daughters,” she’d joked.

Stupid. She mentally slapped herself on the wrist. Some kind of friend you are.

Thoughts bubbled up in Anne’s mind more quickly than she could process them - I’ll go with her, I’ll apologize, I’ll—

By the time she was on her feet, Catherine’s blue sweater had disappeared into the crowd outside the train station.

...

Cath tightly gripped the crumpled sheet of lined yellow paper as she walked. She glanced again at the words printed in her own flowery scrawl: 456 Ravensworth St, York. They had not changed since the last time she’d looked (which had been about 54 seconds ago). She knew she had about a minute and a half to compose herself. God, why was she so nervous to meet a woman she’d never even known?

She supposed that was what made it so strange, though. Most girls didn’t get to come back from the dead and meet their long-lost grandmothers who had also supposedly come back from the dead. She felt her ribcage rise as she drew in cold air through her lips. Ravensworth Street. There was no turning back now.

She surveyed the houses on the right side of the street, attempting to estimate which one would be 456. Her eyes fell upon beautiful brick buildings, perfectly trimmed hedges, and-

“Anne???”

Cath rubbed her eyes with her fists, but when she stopped, Anne was still perched on the stone wall of a lawn about four houses down.

Without thinking, Cath broke out into a jog. She stopped in front of the tall iron gate.

“What the hell are you doing here? I said I was fine on my own”.

“I know you are. You’ve always been fine without anyone”.

The words stung, and Cath shifted her weight uncomfortably.

“How did you even beat me here?”

Anne shrugged nonchalantly. “Trains are slow, Cleves drives fast”.

Cath’s jaw dropped a little. Jane never let Cleves drive - the queens had decided she was a hazard to public safety.

“Look, you say the word and I’ll go back to the hotel, I promise. I just thought... I came here because... I know that this is a big deal for you, and I know you don’t need me, but I wanted you to know that you don’t have to do this alone if you don’t want to”.

Anne looked at Cath’s face for any hint of what she might be thinking, but found she could not read the intense gaze, furrowed brow, or parted lips.

“You know what, I’m sorry. Clearly this is personal for you, and I’ll go”.

Anne gathered her bulky messenger bag under her arm and pulled herself up off the wall.

“Wait. Anne”.

She waited for Cath to say more, but Cath simply held out a slender hand. A wave of relief washed over Anne. She took Cath’s hand, and pulled open the gate with her other.

...

“A frog? Truly, Grandmother?”

“I swear it on my life! Oh, the whole castle could hear Uncle Richard hollering. Then, he ran about the halls in just his nightclothes! Lady Anne and I were absolutely beside ourselves”.

“That’s absolutely brilliant, Lady Fitzhugh! I might have to try it out myself on a certain Spanish queen”. Anne waggled her eyebrows mischievously at Cath, who exaggerated an eye roll and then chuckled and smiled brightly.

“Please, dear, Elizabeth is just fine. Any friend of my granddaughter’s is a friend of mine”.

Anne grinned, and she realized she felt lighter than she had in a while. Her own grandmothers had been distant, much too busy conniving and calculating to pay her much mind.

“We appear to be out of tea cakes”.

“Appearances aren’t everything, darling. In the kitchen, cooling on the bottom rack of the oven”.

Cath rose from her seat and disappeared from the room in search of the pastries.

Anne struggled ungracefully with the too-large bite of ham sandwich in her mouth. When she had finally swallowed it, she turned to Lady Fitzhugh.

“Thank you again for allowing me to stay for lunch. I know you were only expecting one guest, and we didn’t mean to put you out. Or rather I didn’t mean to, Cathy had nothing to do with it, honest. Anyways, I really appreciate it”.

“Oh hush, it was no trouble at all. Do you know how often an old bag of bones like myself receives visitors? You’ve been nothing but a pleasure, dear. Besides, anyone who loves Catherine the way you do is welcome in my home any time”.

“Oh, I don’t - err - I mean, she’s not, uh, we’re not-”

“I know exactly what you are. You are her sun, and she is your moon. The Catherine that I watched over and protected from the beyond was wise and kind, but so tentative and full of doubt. But now, with you, she has an ease I’ve never seen in her. She seems... strong, and sure. Now, I can’t speak to who you might have been, but I can see the way you look at her. Like all your life, you’ve been running at breakneck speed, and you’ve finally found a place you can rest”.

For once, Anne had no words.

“I know my granddaughter. You may make her more spontaneous, but she still overthinks everything. She always comes around in the end, though. Until she does, you just keep standing by her, and she’ll stand by you. None of the rest of it matters in the end, you’ll see”.

Lady Fitzhugh smiled reassuringly. Anne suddenly felt warm, her clothing too bulky. Pulling at her sweater, she whispered, “Thank you”.

“Found them! Grandmother, do you have the recipe for these?”

“I do! Remind me and I’ll write it out for you before you leave”.

“Thank you! What were you two talking about then?”

“Nothing, dear”. Lady Fitzhugh winked at Anne. “Just the moon”.

...

“Alright, so we’ve seen the river where you and your sister used to skip rocks, the tree where you broke your arm climbing with your brother, and the tower where you studied French. Next up on the Cath’s Classics tour is...? Where are we, then?”

A ribbon of crystal blue water lazily burbled beneath the warped wood under their feet. Sunlight fell golden on dappled leaves that hid the two of them from the outside world.

“This is where I used to sit and write. It was my favorite spot - the only place that was just mine”.

Cath‘s legs felt heavy as they dangled from the edge of the bridge. Anne looked around and then lowered herself awkwardly down next to where Cath sat.

“Until now”.

“Mmm. Until now”.

The two of them sat there in silence. Catherine looked at their images reflected in the water, edges blurred, bending and blending together.

“Why did you come today, Anne?”

“I told you. I thought you might’ve been nervous, and-”

“I mean, why do you keep coming back for me? I’m always messing up, pulling away, doing the stupidest things. All the queens know it, I can tell. It’s like I’m broken or something, and I just... don’t know how to be happy. You’re not like that. You’re... magnetic, and people like you, and you’re... good, just way too good for me. So why did you come?”

Cath was finally able to bring herself to look at Anne’s face. When she did, she was confused by the deep frown and hurt eyes she found. She thought she’d said nice things...

“Is that what you think, Cath? That you’re too broken for me? I’m the broken one. God, I’m so scared of being abandoned that I cling too much, or I self-sabotage when someone gets close. I am constantly trying too damn hard to be the thing that everybody wants while simultaneously keeping them all at arm’s length. Except for when I’m with you”. She reached out her hand and swept her thumb across Cath’s cheekbone. “Being with you feels like getting home and putting on sweatpants after a two show day”.

Cath furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Err - what I mean is, when I’m with you, I don’t have to try so hard. It just feels comfortable. I think you might be the only one who knows who I am. Look, I know that these feelings are confusing for you, and that they go against everything you’ve ever believed. But you can have all the time in the world to figure it all out, because I’m not going anywhere”.

The space between their bodies diminished, and Anne kissed Cath’s forehead gently.

“All I want to do is be with you”.

.....

A/N: I LOVE YOU ALL I’m sorry this update took SO long, this summer has been a certified Mess. But here she ism and she’s long to make up for it - I hope you enjoyed! One part and an epilogue left - almost time to wrap this motha up!

Tags (copied from the last update in case you still wanted!): @mimymomo @supernova-nightmare@allthequeensdeservedmore@demidoubter @alexs-galaxies @sweet-sappphic @sarahzarahh @musical93 @six-aimie @imborrrrrrrr

#the sun and her moon #nic's fics #six the musical

71 notes · View notes

the-black-dragons-den · 4 years

Note

Hello! How're things going with you these days? Hope it's going alright

Hi! I’ve been meaning to respond to this for days but I also wanted to take this as an opportunity to just kind of, elaborate on my life because it’s been kind of crazy! I am so sorry for turning this into a novel about myself because a simple “I’m doing better, thanks!” probably would have sufficed to answer, but I also needed to get this all out!

Also you know you are one of my favorite mutuals, I adore your blog, and your presence on my tumblr feed always makes me smile! Thank you for checking in with me, that’s super sweet of you!

TLDR; My mental health is a daily struggle but I’m taking real steps to take care of myself. My financial situation has dramatically improved, I didn’t catch Coronavirus, and in general things are looking up! I’m also trying to decide what the heck to do with my life - seek a better job now or go back to school to train to get a better job.

Here’s the long version!

At the end of last year, my fiance and I both quit our jobs due to a SUPER toxic work environment. That lead to a very long and stressful battle to win my unemployment benefits from that employer (but I did win eventually!) That whole thing was really hard on my mental health, but worth it in the end. Even with that, we basically blew through all of our very meager year-long savings (that was intended to go toward my fiance’s much needed dental work) for rent and groceries, right around the 2019 holidays so that was a really hard time. We both found jobs (mine part-time and his first one temporary and his current one full-time and awesome) but we still spent the first couple months of this year going to the food bank every week and barely making rent. We’ve been in hard times like that before but having to spend ALL of our savings was gut-wrenching.

So, roughly 3 weeks after my fiance got his new awesome job, Coronavirus became a big threat in our area and he was immediately laid off. Luckily, he was guaranteed his job back, and was able to get unemployment during that time. I’m still on unemployment while I’m working this part-time job, but more on that later. Anyway, that means we both received the extra pandemic benefits with our unemployment payments.

My job now is merchandising, which means that I work for a company that’s contracted by stores in the area, and I go to those stores and do things like setting displays, compliance scanning, etc. Honestly, so few people who don’t work as merchandisers know the job even exists, but I promise that a bunch of the displays at your local stores are not put there or stocked by store employees. It’s part-time, I work independently and for the most part don’t have to interact with a ton of people (which is really helpful for my anxiety). So, all in all, not a bad job for me, especially while I try to figure out what’s next.--

---Anyway, I didn’t stop working at all during the pandemic, which was good for our finances but again, hard on my mental health. (This is kind of whiny but it was incredibly wearing that I was an essential worker, but I watched other essential workers get raises and hazard pay and an outflow of support, and because people don’t know merchandisers are a thing, no one really thought to thank or support us, or give us more money.) I actually took on several more stores during April and May to cover for coworkers. I really am grateful to have had a job but let me tell you, being out there in the pool of stress exuding from everyone’s pores every day for hours at a time really wound my brain up.

However! Despite the mental health struggle that, let’s be honest, is impossible to avoid with my pre-existing conditions and the state of the world, things are looking up! Between unemployment benefits, the stimulus, my fiance’s severance, and his return to work and subsequent promotion and raise (SO PROUD OF HIM!), we are financially more steady now than... we ever have been. We’re slowly getting his dental work taken care of, which we’ve been trying to do for nearly four years. We’re never worried about rent, we have money saved, and OH OH OH, I am now 82% paid on my debt!!! I racked up credit card debt several years ago when we were very broke (buying groceries and necessities no less) and have been paying it for 3 years now, and I’ve actually made real progress! I have a “good” credit score! That feels amazing! My fiance even accidentally dropped and shattered his phone, and we were able to order a new (still relatively inexpensive) one that night, without having to sacrifice grocery money or anything which was awesome (especialyl because he needs his phone for work).

Additionally, I recently ask my job if I could cut back on hours because I was getting so burnt out and I needed to do this for my mental health. Between my fiance and I, I’m the driver so I have to make time for errands, and because he works full time (and a decent bit of overtime), I try to handle as much of the household chores as I can. But that altogether with work and making sure we can both get to needed appointments and stuff is A LOT to handle. And because he’s making good money now, I can actually take this step back from work, cut back on my hours, and we’re not super hurting for money because of it. We’ve never had a time together when we haven’t been calculating our hours day by day, trying to get more work time at any opportunity, scraping for every cent we earned. This is so amazing and different.

So I’ve cut back on my hours for the sake of my mental health. I’ve downloaded a mood-tracking app to try to get more insight into my patterns, moods and behaviors. I’ve made time for relaxation - long hot baths are my thing. I’m almost debt-free which is a huge weight off my shoulders. I just... want to be able to get out of bed most mornings without having a mental breakdown, that’s the first goal. It’s a struggle, but it’s a goal!

I’m also trying to make time to decide what to do with my life. I completed 2 years of college but never finished. I’ve only ever worked kind of crappy entry-level jobs. I really struggle with customer interaction (super wearing on me, makes me miserable) and I’d love to find a career where that’s limited, but I’m not sure if that means I’ll need to go back to school. My parents are also pushing me to make sure I seek a career in a field that pays well and is growing, which is logical, but has already made them discourage me out of the idea of being a paralegal, which I was really interested in... I’d like to go back to school but I really need a path before I make that decision. None of my passions (make-up, music, or being a paralegal apparently) are really things I could make a financially lucrative career out of, unless I had the dedication and talent of much healthier person, mentally. I’d like to be a forensic analyst maybe, but my parents are trying to talk me out of that one too. My dad has always wanted me to be an architect but I am not adept with math and I don’t want to design boring office buildings. In the meantime, it’s really hard to find a job that I get into without a degree, that allows me that minimal interaction with people and actually pays decently well. So I’m struggling but now I have time to actually think about it and figure it out, which is awesome.

LASTLY, I promise ---- I have nothing but support in my heart for the BLM movement, and I have been horrified by the actions of local and national police forces, and deeply proud of some of my peers who have been going to protests daily, helping speak out against the horrors being committed upon the colored communities in our country. I have not had the ability to participate in any protests, but I can’t explain the deep emotional grief that I feel over the unjust deaths, the tear gas and rubber bullets, the plowing down of innocent people. Videos of brutality make me ache with despair but I share them because I’m so fearful that if the wrong people come out on top in this situation, these videos and records of what was done to the American people will be destroyed. Though I am lucky to be surrounded by peers who share my feelings, these events have definitely strained my already tenuous relationship with my very conservative parents, and feeling so alienated from them has brought up a lot of childhood pain. However, as a very sheltered white female, I understand that my grief and despair cannot compare to the grief of black, brown, and other non-white communities during this time.

In conclusion, 2020 has been a real shit year so far but I’m standing here fighting back with every fiber of my being to make life better for me and my fiance, to get on top of my mental health, and to figure out what I’m doing with my life now!

1 note · View note

reynesofcastamere · 4 years

Text

People Try To Break

(A/N:All right, so it’s been...a WHILE since I last wrote fanfiction, much less published it. *cracks fingers* However Season 4 hit me with Too Many Damned Sad Feelings for these two characters and I have to get them out somehow. In collected one-shot ‘what if?’ scenario form. Thanks to remi-bw for calculating the Beast Island timeline on my previous post. WARNINGS: Violence, brainwashing, character death, Horde Prime, chronic illness and injury. Unbeta’d. )

(BAD END I)

Everything is in ashes. But Hordak will have this: the satisfaction of crushing his enemy’s skull beneath-A blast of pain, accompanied by acrid smoke and a BANG! that makes his ears ring. The makeshift club is torn from his grip, glowing eyes already seeking out the source of this intrusion- who dares, he will grind them into dust for...

Lord Hordak, Supreme Leader of the Horde, former right hand of the Emperor of the Known Universe does not even register the child who shot him, transfixed by the mass of writhing violet swarming out of the pipe. He cannot breathe, even as a form emerges from beneath all that hair and oh, he cannot see her face from this distance but he knows it with every fibre of his being- “Entrapta?” A whisper, uncertain and weak, legs moving of their own volition.

The light around him turns green after three steps, arresting his forward motion. Horde Prime is here at last. Yet he feels...terror. Please. Not now. I have to speak to her, she needs to know- “ENTRAPTA!” A hand reaches out uselessly, desperately in her direction, as if hoping against all logic and sense to close the gap between them. Too late. Darkness and Prime’s technology take him under.

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

(BAD END II)

Hordak had dreamed of standing before his brother with pride -all of this, I have accomplished in your name- next to the woman whose brilliance had made it possible. Instead he is damaged, dirty and on his knees while Entrapta lies unconscious among the rubble that was transported with them. He explains everything, but there is no flicker of gratitude or admiration on his Emperor’s face. Horde Prime seems...mildly amused, at best. At least until Hordak, in his growing anxiety to prove his worth, fails. The temperature in the room has not changed, and yet his insides are frozen.

Prime steps down from his throne to rifle through Hordak’s memories like a box of useless scrap. It feels...wrong in a way that it should not. He is a clone, the rightful property of the Emperor. Nothing can -or should- be hidden from His gaze. And yet there are moments flashing through his head that some part of him does not want Horde Prime to see. Because they are...special. “-There was even a time you wished I would not come for you. Is that not so?”

He protests in vain even as his Creator moves to stand over Entrapta’s prone form, lifting her up by the scruff of her neck. Stunned into silence, Hordak watches his brother examine the Etherian scientist as he once had-A backwater primitive with some shred of actual intelligence.

“Such an extraordinary mind... For a lesser species. A pity it cannot be utilized in service of my Empire.”

“What?” Surely he must have misheard. Then a smirk that can only be described as cruel quirks Prime’s lips and dread is a jagged stone in the pit of his stomach. “Poor little brother, so easily led astray. You truly thought that you served My will, that I would allow your pet to spread heresy. That you have even given yourself a name proves you have become an abomination.” His Emperor is no longer composed or pretending at benevolence, radiating sheer rage at the presumptive defect before Him. “You must be reborn.” His hand closes around Entrapta’s throat.

Hordak’s body does not-cannot- obey his will, despite how fast his heart is racing. He pleads, begs, grovels like the worthless creature he is, all for the wretched hope of saving her. The one being in the entire universe who truly made him...complete. The sound her neck makes when it snaps is deafening in his ears, her killer dropping her lifeless body to the floor seconds later.

An anguished howl rips through the air as the monster approaches once more. Unable to lash out, blinded by hatred and tears, he does not even realize what is happening. There is pain and then...Nothingness.

Three days later, clone HK-001 still exhibits near-constant ocular discharge despite successful reconditioning. No cause is determined, and the Empire does not waste resources on defects. HK-001′s termination is carried out efficiently, while the conquest of Etheria begins in earnest. A small creature with no voice of its’ own looks up at the stars and the massive fleet that nearly blots them out, clutching an engraved crystal in its’ hands. Waiting.

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

(GOOD END I)

Horde Prime is dead.

Princess Entrapta of Dryl claims his body, empire, and army by right of conquest. There isn’t much left of the first by the time she finishes experimenting with it, but the treasure trove of data provided is invaluable to the field of xenobiology. And to the new Empress’s Consort. Who loves her very much and made that perfectly clear once they’d gotten past the post-fight sex in the throne room and the temporary awkwardness that followed.

She’s got fleets full of new and fascinating technology, infinite galaxies to explore, masses of clones to study; (Watching them adjust to the idea of individuality is fascinating, there’s already an entire ship’s crew who started wearing maroon after spending an afternoon with Scorpia.) Her Lab Partner is right there with her, working on projects, trading theories and ideas even while lying in bed with Imp curled up in her hair and Emily in sleep mode in the corner.

Some of her friends don’t quite...understand her choices, but they also don’t have the power or authority to stop her anymore. That they’re still her friends after a regicide means a lot, even if the bi-monthly Princess Meetings involve a lot of dirty looks being thrown in Hordak’s direction. Which he ignores. Pointedly. Without breaking anything, even! Which she definitely needs to check off on her progress list for Social Experiment 51-B. Life, in the simplest possible terms, is ‘good’. Entrapta intends to keep it that way. Besides, a being who couldn’t accept that imperfections and accidents were what allowed scientific progress and the driving principles of the universe to move forward was far better off as a test subject.

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

(GOOD END II)

Hordak freezes at the sight of the apparent ‘ghost’ for only a moment before rage draws him back into its’ black, razor-edged pit. The rebel archer miscalculates and winds up dangling by his neck in a choking grip. “You DARE to use that shapeshifter’s tricks?” He snarls, eyes practically emitting heat from sheer force of will alone. “What -hgk- do you-?”

“Do not LIE to me. Entrapta is dead.” They will regret this decision, for he will wring out their apologies along with their screams for mercy. But first. “And you are delaying my extermination of her murderer.” Catra will pay. For every action she had done, every lie told, every second of time she wasted while Entrapta was sent and abandoned to die on Beast Island. (It has been five Etherian seven-day units of time. No sentient being could have survived that long.) His grasp is suddenly surrendered when Double Trouble uses the existing rope-line and their imitation prehensile hair to swing down and tackle him to the ground. The attempts he makes at ripping the face off of this pretender end with his wrists bound above his head, growling in impotent fury.

“Hordak! I found the First Ones’ database at the centre of Beast Island! It’s a technological wonder-pure information buried in the midst of a sentient hazardous waste disposal site that slowly paralyzes and consumes any being exposed to it.” A pause for breath is accompanied by a tiny shudder that most people...probably wouldn’t notice. “Anyway, Bow and Adora showed up in a spaceship-I totally need to study it properly later- and I rescued them even though they were supposed to be rescuing me, there was this weird guy who ate bugs and oh! I made a new friend. She’s really great and didn’t have any problems with me sitting in her mouth.” Entrapta tilts her head at him, looking mildly confused and then hesitant. “You...really didn’t abandon me?” The question is quiet, a complete departure from her energetic explanations. She seems almost scared of what his answer might be, hair releasing his wrists now that he’s stopped struggling.

Hordak is stricken, tears welling in his eyes as he carefully sits up. He didn’t notice the changes in her appearance before, the indications that she couldn’t possibly be the form-changing mercenary. If this is another lie, and he is about to be killed for believing it, then he no longer cares. His fingers slowly, gently caress the hair along her scalp. “No. Never.” He’s never known her to be particularly fond of touching people with any part of her body aside from her hair...Yet they wind up with her arms around his shoulders and his around her waist. “I have been an utter fool.” Hordak murmurs, the upper half of his face resting against her left shoulder. “Believing you were a traitor from the start. Catra is a proven liar, and you...” The words catch in his throat for a moment. He has never done this before. Had neither wanted nor needed to until now. With her. “Entrapta. I need you.” Somehow he gathers the courage to meet her eyes and finds them as moist as his, but she also looks...pleased?

Entrapta sniffles. “I kind of gave up on you while I was imprisoned. Bow offered me some good advice, though.” She smiles, even if it’s a touch shaky. “Hey, we’re both imperfect, right? Just means we need to keep working on it.” She considers the question a success when he laughs softly and smiles at her in turn, their foreheads coming to rest against one another. Hm. His armor is missing the central crystal. She’ll have to ask about that, locate it, and tell him what the writing on it translates to. She loves him too, and he deserves to know it as an absolute proven fact. In time, they’ll rebuild what is broken (The Fright Zone is a mess, for starters.). When nothing arrives to block out the stars, no further attempts to contact Horde Prime are made. They have enough to keep them busy for a very long time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(A/N: In Bad End II Entrapta is unconscious the whole time because I am a firm believer that she is capable of murdering him in 2.5 seconds. Especially if he has the alien equivalent of a jugular or carotid artery. So originally I was going to add reactions from Bow and Glimmer in Good End II buuuuut this is already decently long and their dialogue would have boiled down to Bow quietly squeeing, Glimmer going WTF?!, Entrapta being cheerfully blunt and Hordak scowling because You’re Interrupting A Moment, Godsdamnit. Horde Prime accidentally flew into a black hole or something, IDK. One last thing. I’ve never written a neurodivergent character (coded or otherwise), so if I have butchered Entrapta’s character and/or written something that is offensive; I deeply apologize and will look to correct this if provided with constructive criticism.)

#entrapdak #sorry for starting with sad stuff but I wanted this to have a happy ending #Horde Prime is his own f*cking trigger warning lbh

7 notes · View notes

fantasyizlife · 6 years

Text

My Savagez Part 3

Paring: Tom Holland and Harrison Osterfield x reader (AU)

Summary: Tom, Haz and Y/N are in a loveship built so uniquely by your own three beating hearts no one could break it apart. But what happens when buried past don't stay buried? Will your love survive? Will you survive? How much of their past is going to test and take from each of you? Only time and endurance will tell.

Side note: Loosely based off of the movie Savages

Word count: 4427

Warnings: fluff angst MORE violence in this round and little smut. 18 and older type of vibe

Tom leaned forward revealing the lotion at his side. I layed on my stomach and Tom moved his body over my legs, his knees touched my hips and he rested some of his weight on the back of my thighs. I could feel his package start to swell through his shorts and my thin sundress, as he pressed against my ass and his rough fingers soothed more than my burning skin. Harrison untied the bow at my neck and moved the hair off of my face, smiling at me as I peeked at him with glossy eyes. He bit his lip as I moaned low at the sensations Toms hands were working up inside me. Haz lightly ran his finger tips up and down my arm causing me to shiver. I closed my eyes trying to push out our hot encounter from just hours ago. FUCK! Harrison was so hard in my hands. I gasped at the reminder of his precum spilling down my hand. I gripped the white sheets underneath me and whimpered at the memory of how close we both had been to cumming. I arched my back in attempt to stop the arousal from growing out of control, unknowingly pushing my ass into Toms harding dick. YEP, sensory overload! Tom squeezed my hips as I moved my ass up and down his growing length for a quick moment or two. He patted my ass gently and layed down to my right side, breathing a little rugged. I giggled into the mattress knowing I just made Mr. Control lose some of his self restraint. He was human after all. I sat up onto my knees again, eyes still closed, unable to handle them both so close and it feeling too intimate. Yep, my head was buzzing from alcohol and them both. I was so screwed! I opened my eyes as the wind sweeping through our hut blew across my firm and exposed breast. I quickly tied my dress in place and took control of the situation before It got deeper.

“So, tell me about yourselves” I blurted out looking anywhere but at them. I settled my hands into my lap as Harrison took off his shirt as to level the playing field for me. He took a sip of water and offered it to me. I sure needed it. He winked at me to let me know what I did just there. I rolled my eyes because it was true, anything to avoid telling Tom. They looked at each other speaking a silent conversation. Tom sat up against the headboard and started from the beginning. We three were now properly introduced, full names and birthdays.

They were best mates since childhood, living only a few blocks from each other helped them become more like brothers. There never was a day really, that they weren't together. Even their families went on vacation (holidays as they call it in London) together. It was the summer after graduating high school when their families took their last vacation together. Tom and Harrison were supposed to go away to college soon after the trip so Tom’s twin brothers Sam and Harry begged them to stay extra days while the others returned home. Tom stopped speaking and Haz sat up continuing where Tom left off at an attempt to divert my attention as I watched Toms mood slip into a dark distant place. He got up and left the hut as Haz touched my face pulling me back to his words.

“Both of us lost our mums and dads, my sister as well as Toms youngest brother” Harrisons eyes brimmed with tears. He squeezed them tight and tried to push forward. I grabbed his face swiping the small streak of the ones that did get lose. “Hey, we don't have to talk about this” I choked out knowing how it felt, I’ve never spoke it outloud. “I lost my mom a long time ago, the only one soul who ever cared about me” his eyes looked into mine with an apology “You need to know y/n, it’s part of who Tom and I are, well the soul purpose of our lives now” he said kissing my hands and pulling his composure back into place as I nodded my head. “They were killed by a gang...that rules over London.., dead for three days before we were notified and flew home to identify each of them”

“MURDERED” Tom cut in as he stood against the wall with bottles of liquor and three glasses of ice. “They were fucking tortured and murdered in cold blood by disgusting drug lords because our fathers are brave men who were undercover special forces and were close to shutting them down and taking away their livelihood.” Tom shot Haz a look as he walked towards the bed. “Give it to her straight Harrison or not at all. It’s what we agreed on, yeah?” Tom spat out making it uncomfortable to be in between them. I inched back slowly, my eyes wide with horror from their story not them. Tom tossed the bottles of alcohol on the bed and handed the cups to Haz, turning his attention towards me. “Don’t worry y/n, they didn’t get away with it...for long” he trailed off laughing at nothing I could see as funny here. Haz gave me another look of apology. “And sooner or later they will all pay, once we catch them, right Haz?” Tom said flopping back down on the bed as we if we were discussing the weather. They clinked their glasses as Haz handed me mine. “Fucking right there going to pay mate” they nodded together before looking at me.

I sipped my drink and studied them both and tried to piece it together with the words given to me. Make them pay? They didn’t get away with it...for long? They will all pay..once we catch them? Killers? Are they killers themselves? Well, in this case..vigilantes? My eyebrows scrunched together trying to picture them just as that..vigilantes. I focused on Harrison James Osterfield. His built physique was slightly bent forward towards me. His eyes met mine but now in a different way. Those ocean blue eyes were not the all telling eyes I had grown comfortable in swimming in. I seen the wall he was now behind to protect himself or perhaps protect me from himself? I visually traced his soft skin and noticed he was tensed and guarded. He hadn’t been since our first encounter, just this morning. What felt like weeks was simply hours ago! Haz dumped my belongings upside down and went through each item. The way he quickly read my personal name, address, social security number, itinerary and passport info to his partner who held me in a death grip with his hand on my throat, squeezing it more than once. I was only released when Haz..Harrison..Haz had said so. My mind flashed back to the fear that his gun shook me with.I ignored the red alert stranger sirens in my head as I swallowed hard, THANKS CIROC! I took another sip thinking if they wanted to hurt me or more it would have been done by now! Right? Perhaps this was a game and I was unknowingly the prize for the winner. I thought about it deeper as I watched Harrisons long soft fingers circling the top of his cold glass. I took a big gulp of mine and made the choice that there was no way with Haz! Yet plausible. I chewed on ice as Haz refilled my drink. He was right before, he knew what my body needed. Fuck, he had skill sets that would be required of a killer or vigilante. I took in a deep breath and let it out. Toms turn.

Not the eyes, not the eyes, anywhere but there! TOO LATE. What choice did I have with Thomas Stanley Holland? His unnerving dark gaze had been on me the whole time I openly assessed Haz. With liquor flowing through my veins I’m sure my feelings were transparent at this point. Not that Tom needed me to be buzzed to see my soul. He just had that ability to see me even if I didn’t want him to. No one has ever got passed my wall, hell, no one's ever noticed I had one after I lost my mom. He tapped at his empty glass almost impatiently as I tore myself away from his remorseless dark chocolate eyes. My encounters thus far with Tom have always been spine-chilling and unnerving. He has done nothing but set off panic, hazardous alarms since he held me in his arms at his mercy. From the second we met he controlled me. He placed his calloused fingers around his neck, resting his veiny arm pulsing with alcohol across his chest as I recalled my limited time with him. His forceful and terrifying grip on my neck when he cut off my breathing..twice. SKILL SET! I sucked in air and moved to my next impression of him. The mark he left on my soul when we had our first of many unspoken exchanges with our eyes. I seen a soft and protective Tom, full of sorrow and regret at the way he handled me. Killers don’t have remorse for violent actions, but vigilantes do! Right? Next, our breakfast conversation where Tom once again took control. I remembered the silent exchange we shared after I forced myself to be brave against him, he challenged me on that and again took back the reins. I drank from my glass smiling at Harrisons note that told me what I already knew “He’s always calculated, careful and in control” he was an enticing and dangerous man that excited me. He stirred feels and lit a fire inside me that was snuffed out so long. Tom has already made his mark on me and he knew it. He proved it over and over every time he felt challenged or sensed a threat of me recoiling from him. Next, our encounter on the water. He scolded Haz like a child and I was sure he would have put hands on him if we were on solid ground. Once he noticed my fear and my red back he snapped his mood in a second. Soft protective Tom took care of me. He wasn’t threatened by Haz, just more of me and my fight or flight instincts. The protective Tom showed up every time I showed fear of him or felt uncomfortable. He also liked the way I shook things up. Haz confirmed that in his letter. I’m the best kind of surprise, they both agreed. So..Tom a killer, nope. Vigilante for those he cared about, yes! Haz, is best mate since childhood..also a Vigilante, yes! Tom was the master in this three ring circus and I was going to follow them anywhere.

I looked at them back and forth. They waited for a response. But first, I needed air. Without a word I attempted to getup from the bed and found myself swaying on my knees and falling forward as I lost my balance. Tom sat up grabbing my waist as I started to giggle “Don’t worry, I’m not running away, a girl just needs air” I sighed looking into his panicked eyes. I grabbed his curly brown hair and yanked him to my lips “I’ll take yours if you let me Tommy” his hands gripped my back pulling me close our lips nearly colliding until I yelped in pain. FML!

“Shit shit shit, I’m sorry y/n” Tom said releasing me into Harrisons arms behind me on the bed. He took a step back and I squeezed my eyes to bit back the tears from the pain. Tom grabbed numbing spray and lotion handing it to Haz. He held my face close to his and helped slow my breathing as the pain was replaced with a shocking bite of cold gel and stinging spray. I was a hot fucking mess everywhere! I opened my eyes eager to get passed this.

“So you only kill the ones who are involved with murdering your family?” I asked looking into Toms eyes. He looked at Haz almost in confused panic, that in turn, confused me. “Not exactly” were his only words as he clenched his jaw tight. Tom was the straight shooter, no bullshitter man in charge. What was happening? I understood once Haz answered me from behind.Tom couldn’t use the next words of truth and be soft with them to keep me comfortable.

“It’s hard to explain that love” he said kissing my head.”We weren’t this way when our families were killed, we never knew our fathers were undercover special forces until after their deaths. We grew up as normal kids grow up I suppose. Happy, loved and protected.” he exhaled sounding so sad. I ran my fingers over his bare skin on his legs that surrounded me in comfort, trying to return the favor. “We were recruited by the same private military that our dads devoted their lives to. The more we learned about what our dads fought for our lives changed forever. Were the good/bad guys that are kept a secret from even the highest powers”

“Were elite contracted killers y/n” Tom sad bluntly “The day the dirt hit our families coffins is the day I sought revenge and I haven’t looked back” he said so matter of factually. “If we hunt other bad people down to stop the pain we all suffered, I’m more than okay with it” he took a long look into my eyes to gage my internal reaction. I didn’t flinch. If anything it sucked me more into him.

I patted the bed as he smiled a wicked grin knowing I never would judge or hold what they did against them. If anything I understood it deeper than they knew.

“My mother was all I had growing up. I had no idea who my father was until the end of her life. My mom loved to dance. She graduated top of her class at Julliard and was on the path to stardom when she met Robert y/l/n. Soon after, he swept her off her feet, then she found out she was pregnant with me. That bastard destroyed her world. He left her of course. He returned just once when I was born, only to test to see if I was indeed his daughter” I gripped my dress tight as I painfully forced myself to tell the rest through a stream of mad/sad tears. “She was taken from me too. We were coming home from her dance studio where she shared her passion of dance to so many people, she was loved by everyone.” I looked up for strength to tell her story for the first and last time. “We were talking about what to eat when we heard sirens and saw red and blue flashing lights. She pulled to the side thinking the cop car just needed to get by. She was so wrong, so so wrong” Harrison placed kisses on my trembling shoulders as I struggled not to sob. Now I knew why Tom used the word murdered over killed like Haz used. It gave the pain a name. Like a disease does when someone dies from it, you can blame the disease. Killed was too open ended, it’s why I always said I lost my mother because I had felt nothing but lost since she was murdered in cold blood. Her killers never found. Tom took my fisted hand opening it and sliding his own rough fingers locking them with mine.”She was murdered on the side of a fucking rode!” I choked out with anger. “She hadn’t done shit wrong, I mean EVER! Rob gave her lots of guilt money to cover our living expenses and to take care of his inconvenient, mistake of a daughter that was me, but she never touched a penny of it! She put that money in an account and was going to surprise me with it when I left for college. My mom took care of me with love and respect. She showed me what hard work meant and how it rewarded you even when bumps happened in the road of life.”

Haz handed Tom his shirt and Tom wiped my wet face first and then my running snotty nose. I grabbed it burying my face in the scent. I blew out a heavy breath and finished my story. “It was dark on that road. I hadn’t noticed they turned off all the lights and sounds until a man tapped on my window making me and my mother jump.She rolled both windows down as the other man asked for her ID and nothing else. He grabbed it as he shined a bright light in our faces. The other man leaned in and told us to sit tight, that they will be right back. My mom must have known they were bad men and of our fate. She dialed 911 and gave them our location and names and pleaded for them to hurry before hanging up. She held my hand tight and demanded I follow her lead, do as she says without hesitation. She made me promise to be strong and fearless! I was only nearing 16! I had no idea what she meant. She told me to tell them I was y/bestfriends/n and that I wasn’t who they already thought I was. Tell them I’m driving you home after dance class as we do y/bf/n sometimes. Police will be here soon to help us. Don’t admit to anything “tiny dancer” she smiled at me with her whole heart showing, she had been calling me that since I was in her belly. MOM! I don't understand why we have to lie to them! She calmed me as she told me, I love you y/n, your the best gift of my life. This is just a big bump in the road of life. Be strong and fearless sweetheart! She let go of my hand as they got out of their car. It happened so fast 10 years ago but the details have never faded. Right away he asked if I was y/f and l/n. She said no, I was y/bf/n a student of hers at her dancing studio. They jerked open our doors and I started to scream and punch at the man as he grabbed me by my hair. He faced me towards my mother. She had a gun to her head as the other man shouted at her that I was in fact Roberts y/l/n daughter. She insisted he was mistaken and that I looked a lot like Roberts daughter, we were best friends after all. The man behind me asked my name and I looked into my mothers eyes as I lied. I told them she was driving me home after class, I gave them my b/f address, her birthday, her parents name her dogs name. Even if they checked my b/f was away on family vacation so they weren’t in danger. They believed me and shoved us towards one another. That's when real police sirens could be heard and lights seen in the far distance coming our way. Stupid woman, you were home free, now we have to kill you both. He raised the gun at me first and my mother shielded me, getting shot in the back falling into my arms. The other man grabbed him cursing at him pulling him away as the cops got closer. She died in my arms” I stopped unable to tell them the details I still have nightmares about.

“She was so fucking brave y/n!” Haz said softly behind me as words of encouragement.

Tom nodded his head “That’s where you get it from y/n, yeah?” he asked as I smiled at them.

“I have always feared men with power like you both have, thanks to the sperm donor that gave me life aka, my father and the men he hung around. They all were hot blooded, impatient,overpowering, venomous, toxic and down right petrifying at times in my life. I just learned to stay small and go unnoticed unless requested when they were around. I’m thankful I learned fast. I’m just as thankful to learn so fast about you guys.You seem to be the best kinds of those scary men. Just more savage and with honor behind your reasoning. My Savagez, that's what I’ll call you” I said looking into Toms eyes but talking to them both.

“You have nothing to fear with me angel” Harrison kissed the side of face “Tom on the other hand, I don’t know, I should keep you away from him” He wrapped me in his arms mindful of my back and shifted us onto our sides. Tom laid down with his forehead touching mine. All three of us emotional, buzzing and our souls on full display. Tom was the one to burst the bubble.

“Now that we let out all our hidden secrets and past, can I ask you to let us take care of you and protect you, y/n?” he kissed my nose and looked into my eyes “Stay with us we'll be Your Savagez and you can be our home, forever” he stared into my eyes waiting on my answer.

My heart started to hammer in my chest and all of a sudden I really needed that air. Toms eyebrows furrowed together as I started to wiggle from under Haz and away from him. Harrison was confused as he watch me sit up and meet his eyes shooting daggers at him. His eyes went wide as he understood what I was freaking about. He started to laugh.THIS ASSHAT?! Tom looked between us several times before asking him what. “Nothing serious mate, great way to ask her but bad choice of words, right y/n?” he laughed as I got to my feet scowling at Haz “No, GREAT choice of words! Perhaps it was just bad timing then, y/n?” I let out a loud agitated growl wishing this was already past us. His proposal was truly perfect. Tom was starting to stress out.

I hated myself for having to tell him after all we just shared. Tom was on his feet coming towards me and I put my hands up to stop him. This was it girl, just lay it out. Now or never. You can’t lose what isn’t yours yet, right? I looked at Haz as I remembered he said we’d tell Tom together. He sat up still laughing. “Huh, a little help here Harrison” I said trying to get him to grasp the seriousness of the situation. His arm swept left to right as Tom’s attention was solely focused on me. “The floor is yours angel, ladies first” he smirked. It pissed me off that he found this funny.

FUCK IT! “I’m sorry we..NO, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. I was half afraid and half shy of you Tom” I said honestly hating myself as I couldn’t meet his worried eyes “Just tell me now y/n, please darling” he urged as he twisted his fingers in his hair, chewing on his lip. I closed my eyes as I fought the urge to taste his mouth, my deepest desire yet. GIRL FOCUS! SAY IT!

“Haz and I got really personal on the jet ski before you caught up to us. Good news is...I found out he might have a smaller than normal sized penis but a really big heart! It wasn’t right to not tell you, but honestly Tom, I was caught up in the moment. I hope you can forgive our “little” indiscretion. I won't let it happen again, I can promise you that much.” Tom turned towards Harrison and I smirked at him now “I need to use the bathroom, Haz can keep his word to me and fill you in on the details if you want them” I winked at Haz just before Tom looked at me with more emotions than a woman day two of her cycle! I straightened my face and hoped he really felt my sincere words to him and Haz “I really want to put this behind all of us and say yes to your perfect and beautiful proposal, I don’t want to be a lone in this world any longer” I turned away before I could see his response and went into the bathroom closing the door behind me.

I washed my face and cooled by back off as I heard them talking things out between them. I let the water run as I also processed my insides after hearing their horrible story and finally speaking about my mother. So much of me felt lighter after saying it out loud. A tiny piece of me knew that in doing so it was my way of letting her go to rest. All these years I hung onto her knowing she was the only one who cared for me, looked out for me, loved me. Now I felt I was free falling until they said yes to me.

A knock on the door jolted me back into the hear and now. I cleared my throat and shut off the water. The sun was low and that meant we could get out of this hut that felt like a prison at this moment. I opened the door slow, anxiety kicking into overdrive. Who was on the other side? To my pleasant surprise it was both of them. No one looked mad. In fact they looked like I had hoped inside, happy with me and each other! Tom held up water for me with a smile and Haz had lotion.I smiled leading my savagez outside to see what we could do with a fresh new start on life. We agreed to get dinner at the resort and then see what the night life was like. I was amazed that we didn’t have to talk about anything. The air was just natural between us three. I whispered a thank you to the sky above us. I knew we all had angels watching over us.

Requested tag list: @tom-hollands-eyelash

Please DON’T hate me for the feels this one gave me even as I wrote it! If you like what your seeing let me know with a like and a reblong to help me out. Thank you to my few fans who seem to share these thoughts with me. HUGZ!

37 notes · View notes

premierleaguefootballtickets · 3 years

Text

Liverpool Vs Arsenal Tickets: Top 10 highest paid footballers as Liverpool star Mohamed Salah breaks £30m mark

Liverpool forward Mohamed Salah's Anfield future remains unsettled with his deal up in two years. Mohamed Salah's Liverpool future remains will be a topic of discussion for some time yet it seems. The 'Egyptian King', who has just develop the fourth player in Liverpool history to reach the 100 Premier League goal mark for the club, has two years outstanding on his Anfield deal.

Premier League Football fans from worldwide are called to book Premier League Football Tickets from our online platforms, WorldWideTicketsandHospitality.com. Fans can book Liverpool Vs Arsenal Tickets on our website at exclusively discounted prices.

Liverpool Football Club needs Salah to remain, while the 29-year-old is also understood to be open to joining teammates Virgil van Dijk, Trent Alexander-Arnold, Andrew Robertson, Alisson Becker, Fabinho, and others in obligating his long-term future to the club. For Salah it likely signifies his last major contract. Approaching his 30s and in fine form, the Egyptian international, who joined the Reds from AS Roma back in 2017, will be well conscious of his worth in the market as one of the game's elite talents.

For Liverpool to keep him beyond 2023 and not have to consider moving him on so as not to lose him on a free will be a costly workout, but one that they will know means their best option both competitively and fiscally.

Signing a player of the caliber of Salah would involve a major fee and major wages. If Liverpool wants to keep Salah then they would have to make him the highest-paid player in the club's past, but with him being still being so contributory to Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool mechanism it is hard to make the case that it isn't a price worth paying.

Salah's rise to becoming one of the game's elite at Liverpool Football Club can be underscored by where he sits in the global match. Forbes magazine, in their 2021 report into football's highest-paid players, has placed Salah at number five, late only Kylian Mbappe, Neymar Jnr, Lionel Messi, and Cristiano Ronaldo. Three of the top four highest-paid players are on the payroll at Paris Saint-Germain.

The report doesn't simply use salaries to calculate how much a player earns in a year, with the value of their endorsements playing a major part. And Salah's switch from the elapsed man at Chelsea to talismanic Liverpool forward has seen his popularity, chiefly in Africa, boom and the value of his endorsements follow suit. According to Forbes, Salah brings in some £30m per year, with £18.3m of that being his salary from Liverpool and £11.7m coming from his authorization deals.

Forbes' report stated: "He has become the face of Muslim athletes in the game, and an important one at that. A recent academic study found that after Salah combined Liverpool Football Club, hate crimes in the city were released by 16%."

His major social media following across Twitter, Facebook and Instagram are around 72m, demonstrating the kind of global appeal that makes him an attractive proposition for commercial partners, with profitable deals such as his boot deal with Adidas in place. Salah's off-field authorizations outstrip those of Mbappe (£11m), although the French striker's assessed £20.5m annual salary sees him ahead of the Liverpool legend. For more to know about Liverpool Football Tickets.

For Liverpool, Salah's global plea is lucrative for both the player and for the club. In his book 'Done Deal', sports lawyer Daniel Grey explains: It is common for top Premier League clubs to enter into image rights contracts with their choice players who have significant profitable value to their commercial partners.

"Occasionally those payments can be as much as 20% of the total basic salary of the player. A club will therefore have a possible image rights payment of up to £1m per year to make."

Speaking to the ECHO concerning Salah, Grey commented: "It's likely that Salah has this in place. What it does is provide certainty that his image can be used across brand team inventory. It is significant because it gives the club contractual control that they can exploit.”

At fifth on the list, Salah is some way back from the top three of Neymar Jnr, Messi, and Ronaldo. Neymar Jnr has a £69.6m annual income, with £55.9m of that inward from his PSG salary. Messi's annual income stands at £80.5m, with the same salary as Neymar in the report but authorization deals are worth £25.6m per year. It is, though, Manchester United's returning Ronaldo who holds the top spot with annual earnings of £91.5m, £51.2m of those coming through wages, and £40.25m from endorsements.

Salah's salary will rise if he signs a new deal at Liverpool, but it won't be reaching the levels of the top three. Part of the thinking for Salah will be where he will be best suited to continue to thrive and maintain his global appeal, something that will be closely linked to how much his authorization deals are worth, which currently make up 63.9 percent of his overall annual income. For Liverpool Football Club, the difficulty will lie in the custody of both Salah happy and also create sure they don't disrupt the harmony when it comes to payroll.

Geey said: "Clubs have to make a call on the incremental value of the side.

How much a new contract might be worth to Salah, the other players in the squad will be thinking that they should be getting closer to that and the risk exists that the wage bill will rise significantly the next time you have to engage several key players on new deals. Liverpool Football Club has managed to get a lot of their key players tied down already, which could work in their favor.

Top 10 highest-earning footballers according to Forbes:

1) Cristiano Ronaldo - $125M 2) Lionel Messi - $110M 3) Neymar - $95M 4) Kylian Mbappe - $43M 5) Mohamed Salah - $41M 6) Robert Lewandowski - $35M 7) Andres Iniesta - $35M 8) Paul Pogba - $34M 9) Gareth Bale - $32M 10) Eden Hazard - $29M

We are offering tickets for Premier League admirers can get Premier League Football Tickets through our trusted online ticketing marketplace. Worldwideticketsandhospitality.com is the most reliable source to book Premier League Football Hospitality and Premier League Packages. Sign Up for the latest Tickets alerts.

#LiverpoolFootballTickets #ManchesterCityFootballTickets #PremierLeagueFootballTickets #LiverpoolVsArsenalTickets #WestHamUnitedVsLiverpoolTickets #LiverpoolVsLeicesterCityTickets #LiverpoolVsWestHamUnitedTickets

0 notes

ganymedesclock · 6 years

Text

Minutiae of the generals I’ve picked up going over their scenes a bunch of times:

Ezor

Ezor’s really not as bubbly as she seems at first glance. She’s actually a pretty even keel person, more casual and with a lower voice- if anything, a bit easily frustrated and expresses that loud and clear, but doesn’t usually let it get under her skin- she gets annoyed fast but also calms down fast. Very similar to Lance, actually.

The saccharine attitude she sports is a pretty clear pattern of mocking her enemies. She’ll often even pitch her voice up into a kind of girlish giggle- compare s3e1 “That went well,” or s4e3′s “So, how’d it go, are you fired?” to s3e2′s “Ooh, look, there are five kitties now!”

Basically Ezor’s not really that ebullient a person, she’s just incredibly sardonic and her preferred flavor of messing with people is by being massively patronizing. Her more genuine demeanor is a lot more laid-back, relaxed, and calculating- that she gets annoyed when Acxa corrects her terminology in s3e4 would suggest that she’s not overly concerned with small details (and possibly, not quite as tech-savvy)

Out of the team she tends to ask a lot of clarifying or qualifying questions- e.g. the two I listed before, also “What happens on Thayserix?” “Do you think he’s onto us?” which suggests that as much as she doesn’t want to bother with irrelevant tidbits like ‘dimension’ versus ‘reality’, clashing a bit with the straitlaced Acxa, it’s important for Ezor to have a general sense of what’s going on. In tense situations, she’s genuinely serious, which betrays a more quiet and thoughtful side. In casual contexts she can often be seen with an easygoing expression.

In s4e3, she’s the most obviously emotionally affected, but also doesn’t make any sudden rash moves against Lotor in s4e5 even though she’s clearly lost trust in him and is hurt- rather, she is careful to network with Acxa and Zethrid and make sure everyone’s on the same page before she even makes a plan to make a move against him.

Her rationale during s4e5 seems to focus heavily on relationships. “Narti trusted him,” “as his generals, we...” and in s4e3, she is visibly startled by Zarkon pronouncing Lotor an enemy of the empire to be killed on sight.

Zethrid

Zethrid appears to be the worrywart, out of the team. Virtually always when she protests a plan- and she tends to argue the most, out of the generals- it’s that she wants to hunt down and take out a known hazard, or because she thinks a maneuver is too risky- in s3e3 she doesn’t want Lotor to face the paladins alone, and then later in the episode becomes stressed when he appears to be delaying/taking too long to fight them. She also is the one to argue against burning their entire quintessence reserve to try and open the rift gate in s4e5.

She’s able to produce something that sounds like a tiger growl rather than a human vocalizing and did so towards Throk in s3e1.

Zethrid is shown to grin and enjoy herself in combat, but under very specific situations. Noticeably in s3e2, she has a disinterested expression shooting a net at the fleeing family, and markedly grins when the mounted rider tries to trample her. Similarly, she is unhappy while attacking Throk and fighting the paladins in s3e6 only to crack a smile and call Allura a ‘worthy opponent’, stating she’s going to enjoy this, once Allura grapples her gun and is able to drag her forwards off her feet.

The underlying implication would seem to be that Zethrid enjoys direct contests of strength- in the grapple fight with Allura, Zethrid is easily able to position her gun to shoot at Allura and thus break the grapple, but doesn’t do so until she pronounces Allura worthy, implying that she hung onto the gun/delayed shooting to see if she could resist Allura’s pull.

In s3e6 Acxa has to order Zethrid to avoid chasing the paladins when neither Ezor or Narti make a move. This suggests of the generals, Zethrid is highly tenacious.

Ezor is not shown discussing betraying Lotor with Zethrid in s4e5, but, by the time they disembark at the rift gate, she’s already on the same page, and describes Lotor as a threat- that he’s going to turn on them soon and they have to strike first. This, combined with her usual relationship with perceived enemies, suggests that Zethrid’s aggression is only partially her desire to prove her own strength, and more that she believes the best way to stay safe in the presence of perceived enemies is to attack them before they attack you.

It also seems to suggest Zethrid and Ezor are fairly close- that Ezor can count on Zethrid to be on her side/agree with her, while Acxa was more of a gamble. In s3e2, Zethrid is observed to be teasing Kova with a treat, suggesting that she enjoys both playing with him and spoiling him and probably brought the meat onto the bridge specifically for him.

Zethrid can also be rather flat and sarcastic at times, such as when Lotor ejects her, how she discusses the situation. She doesn’t ask clarifying questions as often as Ezor, but rather tends to disagree by offering advice or arguing for another plan, suggesting she tends to form her opinions quickly and strongly.

She enjoys explosions, but can be empathetic, as in s3e4 she points out the spectacular destruction of previous ships was “Fun for me, not for your pilots” with a sadder expression. Along with Ezor, she was very obviously affected by the loss of Narti, in her case folding her arms and leaning back hard in her chair as if she were trying to stop herself from crying/“stay strong”.

Acxa

Acxa tends to speak in a very technical manner. She appears to respond to her position as second-in-command by attempting to manage numerous small details about her situation. She will also question elements of Lotor’s plan to clarify them, but is more inclined to ask long-term strategy questions- “They can form Voltron after all. Will that be a problem?” and “Thayserix? Why?”

She appears to be the main scientist on the team besides Lotor himself, and in s3e4 references Lotor’s theory about Voltron’s properties, that they must have discussed off-screen. She’s familiar with the terminology of alternate realities, to the point that she corrects Ezor, seemingly reflexively. This, along with her precision-based weapon and her tendency to deliver detailed reports (while Ezor tends to describe things in a much more casual manner) in general creates a very finicky perfectionist image for Acxa.

This is further reflected when Acxa and Narti pilot the first Sincline ship against Voltron, but are unable to protect the teludav. While both are pilots, Acxa is shown taking the failure and Lotor calling it disappointing, personally- she reacts negatively, closing her eyes and lowering her head, while Narti is not shown to react at all.

On several occasions in s3e6 Acxa can be observed telling Zethrid to stick to the plan, but in s3e2, it’s clear that outside of naming specific goals, she does not pay attention or worry about the means by which they accomplish this outside of setting an equally loose parameter.

Acxa seems to use the computer built into her bracer more than any other member of the team.

She may have sensitivity to bright lights, as the only time she was in a bright daylight environment was in s3e2, on Puig, and she had her helmet tinted black the entire time.

Narti

Narti can be observed swishing her tail back and forth seemingly to express mood (s3e2). She doesn’t appear to emote with her face or ears at all, and we have yet to see her open her mouth. Her tail would also appear to be fully prehensile since she’s able to pick up Hunk and lift him into the air with it.

This, combined with her unusual foot structure and long, protruding toes that she was able to use to hang from the ceiling by her feet in s3e6 would suggest that Narti basically has five fully dexterous appendages.

Kova usually sits either up on one shoulder, or draped across the back of her neck. Other times he will sit or stand nearby. When she’s fighting, such as in s3e6, he will leave her and retreat, presumably to a better vantage point where he can lend her his eyes without being in danger. This makes sneaking up on Narti in a fight effectively redundant.

Narti can be seen to stand with one hand on her hip or fold her arms.

While she is voiceless, she appears to show apathy to other obvious workarounds of text and may speak by stealing the voices of others via control.

She can be seen cradling Kova in her arms and petting him in s3e1. He also often seems to emote either sympathetically or on her behalf.

In s3e6, her fight against Pidge effectively boils down to repeatedly tripping the smaller paladin without once attacking her. During the same fight, she smacks Hunk and his bayard around, possibly implying that she doesn’t want to attack children, or that for some reason she uniquely wants to toy with Pidge without hurting her.

Given the size of the average galra, and of the hunter that Pidge and Matt fought in s4e2 that would appear to be the other half of Narti’s fully species, it is possible she’s young and not fully grown herself.

#voltron legendary defender #vld #Ezor #Zethrid #Acxa #Narti #readmore

102 notes · View notes

monochromemedic · 6 years

Text

Mr. Warfstache

When I came to this college it was highly recommended. Everyone who went here said it was fun and interesting all be it a bit... strange. Rumor said that if you could survive the teachers weirdness you’d go through life with flying colors, if not... then you’d be scarred over what you encountered. I decided to apply to the college and easily got in, as most people were terrified to try the college.

It was obvious to see what was going on my first semester there. The teachers were all strange in their own way, none of them a ‘normal’ teacher. One of them was a man that I would have sworn was a computer, he could easily calculate the answer to any math problem in just a few seconds. Some people swore that his veins were just wires in disguise. Another one was a business man who always wore old western outfit, complete with cowboy boots but he had the best jewelry in the world. He would constantly complain about the amount of kids he had. Last time someone counted they were easily in the 20′s. While all my starting classes were strange, there was one I was dreading. My PE class. School basically forced us to take some sort of exercise and almost all of it was maned by a man known as ‘The Colonel’ although his real name was Mr. Warfstache. People who took the class said he was a strange looking man, even by the other teachers standards. Big round pink lenses glasses, a cap always on his head with the schools logo. And the bushiest black mustache anyone had ever seen. If it wasn’t for the dumb shorts he always wore and the fact the man was ripped they could have sworn he time traveled. That coupled with the fact that I sucked at PE as a kid and was... well fat didn’t help. I always had trouble sweating, I could never exercise for long before I was overheating and struggling to catch my breath. I felt as soon as ‘The Colonel’ saw me his army instincts would kick into over drive and he’d pull out one of those old timey army whips and beat the shit out of me. So when I walked into the field in my exercise clothes along with the other students and saw him standing there, clipboard in hand I began to shake. God the others were right, he looked like a weird safari man... It didn’t help when I noticed the amount of light scars on his legs, which looked like hunks of ham with how big they were. So many scars, small ones, huge ones. I could only imagine the amount of battles he went through. It didn’t help with how young he looked. “Good evening everyone~” Mr. Warfstache called out his voice strange. It took everyone off guard. Was it an accent? Some speech impediment? We all looked at each other in confusion as if expecting one of the others to say what the hell was going on. “My name is Mr. Warfstache... You could also call me the Colonel or if we get really friendly after a few days... William.” He flashed a smile, looking over the crowd of kids he’d be working with. “I’ll be going over names, and then we’ll warm up. Then we’ll run the mile.” Everyone let out a soft groan “Yes, Yes I know. A mile run on the first day, not the first thing everyone wants to start out with~” He drew out the last syllable as he fixed his mustache, looking down at the board. “But it’s a good start to see where we all stand as a class fitness wise and then at the final day we’ll do it again and see how you’ll improve. Seeing how fit you can get in such a short amount of time really increases your confident, trust me.” And with that he went over the list of people in the class. With each name someone would give a sign of affirmation. I dreaded with how he said my name. “Jenna er...” He paused, tapping his finger against the paper as he tried to think about how to try to pronounce my last name I didn’t even give him a chance to try as I told him. He nodded his head, closing his eyes and muttering it to himself as if trying to remember it somehow. He lifted his head, eyes scanning over me before giving a small smile. Was it a smile? It seemed so forced. I looked away from him, a shameful flush coming across my face. He probably thought I was gonna be his biggest hurdle this semester. After he said all of the names we began to stretch as a group, nothing special but I could tell everyone had eyes on Mr.W. Stretching his huge calves with lunges, lifting his arms in the air, a bit of his stomach revealed. More scars, every time he moved there were more scars. It was obvious everyone was trying to figure out where they all came from, how that many scars could be on one man, and how many more they could find. It was alarming to say the least. “Alright~” He called out after a few stretches. “Four times around the track is a mile, get to it! I’m keeping track.... NOW.” He quickly pulled out a stop watch from his pocket and grabbed the whistle from around his neck, blowing it in all of our ears. Everyone took off at a breakneck speed while I started out slow. My messy mop of hair began to bounce in my face, blocking my view. Damn it, I knew I should have gotten a haircut during break. As I ‘ran’ Mr. Warfstache sped pass me seemingly wanting to catch up with the large group of runners ahead of me. As he passed though I noticed he gave me a little wave before speeding ahead. I shook my head and tried to concentrate on breathing. In through the mouth, out through the nose. I could feel my skin beginning to heat up as my legs began to ache and sting with each step. ‘Come one you’ve only been running for a little while’ I thought to myself trying to push myself further, not wanting to be ‘that guy’ in PE. I managed to make it a little further before my bangs flew in front of my face, blocking my view. I quickly began to wipe the hair away before realizing at the last moment that I was speeding straight for a pole. The sound of my skull hitting the metal echoed through the filed as I quickly fell to the ground, my entire world going blurry. I couldn’t hear anything except for the ringing in my ears and the sound of blood pounding in my head. I didn’t feel anything, but as soon as everything began to come back to reality I began to notice the wet sticky feeling running down my face. I learned from other students what happened while I was down. A person rounding the corner saw me smash against the pole and stopped calling attention to the teacher. As soon as he took notice, they said he took off at full speed towards me, hurdling over gym equipment left in the interior of the track to slide down beside me. The world was still whirling around me was I saw his face hunched close to mine. He looked worried and he was obviously saying something, but it was muffled to me. “... h....hey! Come on old girl...can’t do this to me first day.” I heard him say. I only muttered what I thought was a ‘sorry’ but probably sounded like me trying not to gargle my own blood that was currently leaking down my face. He began to hold up fingers in front of my face. They were so blurry but i could see 2 fingers. “2...” I muttered out to him. This was seemingly right as he let out a small breath of relief. Then he did something I don’t think anyone expected. He slipped his hands under my body and picked my up, holding me close to his body, my head laying on his shoulder. “Come on, we gotta get you to a nurse. No concussion but still you bashed your noggin pretty good.” He said softly to me before turning to the crowd of people, all worried and slightly amazed at the feat of strength he was displaying. “Uh... keep going. I’ll be back as soon as I get her to the nurse.” With that he began to carry me off back to the building, facing towards the field as people began to talk, a few beginning to run again. The whole thing seemed like a blur. I probably wasn’t all there as all i could remember was him carrying me, muttering something, and the floor changing from grass, to the floors of the school. And then I was out like a light. I woke up with a splitting headache, laid against a couch in an office I didn’t recognize. It seemed... sporty? Medals after medals were placed on the wall, not all of them athletic ones. Pictures of a baby faced man in army clothing smiling towards the camera, with other men in uniform. Mr Warfstache’s office. I wanted to move but my body was still recovering, every inch of me hurting. It wasn’t long after before Mr. Warfstache walked in, a sigh coming from him. He was in a different shirt. I must of bled on the white one. “Jenna, Jenna, Jenna. Hell of a first impression my girl!” He walked over and kneeled beside my laying body. His face was close to mine but his eyes were focused above me. “Don’t mean to intrude... just checking on the cut. Seems good... good. That Schneep fellow deserves a pay raise.” He gave a little chuckle before sitting on the floor, look at me. “Now... I know you’re probably not in the mood for talking, but tell me what on Earth happened? Why did you decide to give me a scare on our first day back?” “I...I’m sorry. m...my hair. Got in front of my face and I just... ran into the pole. I didn’t want to...” I trailed off causing Mr. Warfstache to raise a brow “Didn’t what?” “D...didn’t want to fall behind. I know i’m not... good at running... or anything. I didn’t want to be that kid in class.” Mr. Warfstache looked me over before bellowing with laughter, a hand covering his mouth. “Sorry i’m not laughing at you just your thought process... Jenna my dear it doesn’t matter if your the last one in the group, i’ll just be happy if you try. And besides I don’t think anyone will think that of you now. I think they’ll think of you of the girl that bashed her face open first day of physical education!” His smile faded however as he took on a more serious tone. “I am glad you are ok though. You really did scare me. That’s not a very nice trick to play on an ex army man...” My heart sank as I tried to speak up to apologize but he put a finger up in protest. “That just makes me want to protect you now. You’re a hazard, who knows what you’ll do next. I got my eye on you Miss Jenna. Got to give you some protection. Any worries you have about this class or... anything about ‘being that kid in class’ please come to me... I hope you stay with me and don’t drop this class. I think you just made this class period just as mad as I want it to be!”

#egocation au #Wilford Warfstache #wkm the colonel

52 notes · View notes

whatsyourcolor · 6 years

Text

Dragnet - Ch2- The Detective

Hello. Here’s the second chapter of Dragnet. A million flowers and thanks to @lucidink for helping me edit.

Chapter 2 – The Detective

An open book rested on his chest as the first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds, stealing him from the elusive and vacillating hours of sleep. He laid in absolute stillness—the hand over the book—dressed in tailored pants, a white shirt and a slightly loosened tie; a posture that to any outsider would resemble that of a dead man in his funerary and elegant tranquility.

But he did open his eyes, and dreams about cases, numbers and suspicions dissipated from his view and memory. Just as he had conquered (through relentless forbiddance against what he perceived to be his faults) the crags of rigorous discipline—that is, through a carefully designed routine that allotted brains and muscle the time and energy demanded, needed—the trivial merited the same type of sharpness and obsessive precision. Setting the book aside, he stood and fixed the wrinkles on the covers of his bed. The bedroom’s décor was minimalistic: a bed, bare walls, an old sofa and a nightstand to hold books and cigarettes.

Like most mornings, he went to the kitchen to prepare himself a modest breakfast and ate while watching the MWPSB sanctioned news on a holographic screen.

So, they decided to keep the media in the dark about the case, he thought, when a commercial for hue-clearing vitamins interrupted his train of thought.

After putting the kitchen back to its tidy state, he headed for the other room in his apartment. As a detective, he had become aware early on of the paradoxical nature of his job; at once rigid and fluid; requiring a sharp memory and an ability to forget. He had wondered back then—when he was younger—if he’d ever be able to develop what Masaoka called a “detective’s intuition.” Not the habit to predict that hindered so many inspectors, but the ability to smell and to follow that smell.

The door opened to a smaller room with a desk and three tall bookcases replete with paper books. On the wall hung a large board with notes and drawings—spirals, waves, lines—over pictures, names, numbers, coordinates and maps. He sat at the desk where stacks of files stood in irregular towers. Other documents were placed carefully on the floor in a calculated arrangement, discernible only to him. When he managed to find free time or in his off days, he’d sit to read on a cushioned green seat nestled between the shelves: it was his favorite place in the apartment.

It was as though this room held what he rarely allowed himself out of it: the pangs and sparks of random inspiration, the license to be more visceral than rational for a while and, even at times, the short flashes of madness that came with lucidity. Doubtless, it was his discipline that kept that chimera controlled and his Psycho-Pass clean: he could dwell without letting his thoughts seize him and drag him down.

Many of the paper books he owned—most well-thumbed; the oldest failing to hold together—had come from his father and grandparents’ library. Even though he never met his father, he could piece the man together, the ghost of him, by sorting through his literary collection, the only legacy left of him. But most of his collection had come through Sasayama and his connections (to whom or what, he didn’t care to know): random titles—both local and translated to Japanese—that told stories in more ways than words. There was the big fat dictionary with different dates scribbled on its end papers (the oldest one dating to 2015); the mystery novel that had pages chewed off by some animal and the love dedications written on poetry books with aging pages. What surprised him the most was the notion that there was still a market for such rarities, not only virtually obsolete, but the type that could cloud your hue.

Patiently, he began to study the files; his personal observations for the cases of the MWPSB. Soon after, it was time to shower and head to work.

“We’re back where we started. The suspect says she was given hue-clearing drugs and sent to work at a factory for a measly salary. She’s an unregistered and latent criminal. There’s no lead as to who the seller is and there’s no match for the name she gave us.” Ginoza summarized in a humdrum tone, impatient with the delay of the closing in this case.

“Five days after she was taken into custody, the body of an unregistered man was found in a small textile factory in a different part of the city. The cause of death is still to be determined, but—” Kogami clicked a button and a picture of the holo projection of the body appeared on the screen, “the open sores found around his neck and his bloated extremities point to a reaction to a certain type of chemical ingested. We still haven’t determined if it’s an adverse reaction to the drug. As for the woman, it doesn’t make sense that if she was up to her ears in illegal hue-clearing drugs, her Psycho-Pass would suddenly cloud. There must be something we’re overlooking.”

“What you’re overlooking here is that the drugs she was given may have been counterfeit,” Sasayama muttered through his teeth, trying to lit up his cigarette.

“Sasayama! Didn’t I tell you not to smoke here?”

“Okay, okay, Gino-san! Calm down, will ya? Don’t want to kill your little cactus with those pitch-dark vibes of yours,” Sasayama replied, a little startled by the loud reprimand, putting out the cigarette.

“If the drugs are counterfeit, then how do you explain the fact that she worked undetected for a whole month? As soon as she’d come out of the abolition block the cymatic scanners would’ve detected her,” Kogami countered.

“There’s two possibilities: the sellers use a hook dose that’s effective temporarily, then replace the dose with a counterfeit. Or, second, the drugs have some sort of expiration date that renders them useless after a while.” Sasayama replied, with his usual overconfident satisfaction, smirking.

“But what’s the point of selling drugs that don’t work?” Kogami asked.

“That’s the question, Ko.” Sasayama said, smile wide now. “I’m sure from the business point of view there must be something to be gained.”

Kogami held his chin in his hand, deep in thought. But it doesn’t make sense, even from the business point of view.

“Don’t think so hard, Inspector. Your Psycho-Pass may cloud,” Yayoi softly told Kogami. “Also, there’s still the matter of how these drugs are being transported undetected to different places in the city and if there are additional unauthorized people working elsewhere. And we don’t even have a sample of the drug to have Shion analyze it.”

“If people realize that unregistered or illegal aliens are working alongside them, it could cause a Psycho-hazard. Not to mention the fact that most of them may be latent criminals. Hordes of criminals could be walking the streets amongst healthy citizens.” Ginoza turned to look at the screen behind him. On it, there was the image of a woman in her forties, sitting in an interrogation room, still dressed in the factory uniform. Her hands were wringing her shirt nervously and she appeared distressed. “Still, let’s not rule out that the defect in the drug could be a mistake on the part of the manufacturers.”

“Could be. But even if that’s true, there’s still an organization that’s in the business of drugging unregistered people and putting them to work or even killing them,” Masaoka said, receiving in reply a glacial stare from his son.

“We checked the logs of the factory and they followed the hiring protocol. Since her Psycho-Pass was clear, they didn’t pay attention to some irregularities, like her birth date. I don’t think we’ll get much more than that since the Ministry of Economy isn’t willing to cooperate,” Ginoza said.

Let’s focus then on the possible routes they’re using to transport the drugs between abolition blocks. Look for reports of hues suddenly clouding and transpose them onto the city map for now,” Kogami ordered.

By force of habit, in stressful days like this one—days in which they could not even say they were stalemate, since no opponent or game had been identified—Kogami and Sasayama ended up having a smoke in the balcony of their floor. The golden city around them shone as the sunset mirrored on the buildings circumambient. It almost seemed like this city could never be dark.

“So, what’s new with you, Ko?” Sasayama asked casually, attempting to have a talk that carried some semblance of levity, after a whole afternoon of grim faces.

“I was just thinking…” Kogami said, taking a drag while hunching over the glass panel of the balustrade, “it’s evident that they wouldn’t risk moving the drugs on the streets of the city, even if they were using the drug themselves. It’s too unstable and their hues could suddenly cloud. If they know about the side effects, that’s even a bigger reason not to use them.” Sasayama rolled his eyes hearing him speak. “You know, on the night I lost my dominator I met—”

“Oh, you’re still on that? All we’ve achieved so far with these underground crackdowns is stir up the pot for a bunch of maladjusted teenagers and crash their little parties. But we may have found new rave enforcer material, for sure!” He grinned mischievously. “Don’t tell Kunizuka that I said that. She already wants to murder me.”

“And we didn’t find any trace of the drug,” Kogami continued, still engrossed in his thoughts.

“True, but we found lots of alcohol that got confiscated and are probably being consumed by old man Masaoka as we speak, the undefeated champion of the ancient game of ‘elbow-raising,’ if you know what I mean,” he said, half-laughing.

Kogami was finally dragged out of his thoughts.

“Don’t worry, he’ll call when he’s ready to share his loot. He always does anyway.” He snickered, amused.

“Yeah, but you stopped joining us after that night.” He looked at him from the corner of his eye, his wide grin biting the cigarette in his mouth. “The fateful night in the enforcers’ lounge when you got so drunk you were slurring your words and tried to wrestle me because I beat you at Mahjong.”

“Because you cheated,” Kogami replied in a serious tone, exhaling smoke.

“And the arguing with old Masaoka about women, and beauty and death and all that nonsense? You two wouldn’t shut up!” he laughed. “I’d never peg you for the philosophical yet violent type of drunk.”

“You won’t ever let me forget it,” he muttered in a low complain, averting his eyes.

“Don’t worry, you are a karaoke legend now in the enforcers’ lounge. After all, it did take three men to rip the microphone off your paws and even after that, they were terrified that you might bite them!” Sasayama was now bending over the balustrade, laughing shamelessly.

“And you still expect me to come back?” Kogami said, red in the face but it was unclear if from embarrassment or irritation. “Forget it. I’m never drinking again.”

“Don’t blame the alcohol, Ko. Sake is one of those poisons that makes you dance on the line between lucidity and foolishness. It’s your own fault you went down the path of foolishness.”

“Says the person who ended up throwing up in the bathroom,” Kogami sneered.

“Well, when it comes to my vices, I can’t help but be foolish. I’m… what do you call it? A hedonist. I live for sake and—“

“Women. Yeah, we’ve heard it all before a thousand times. Half the time getting shitfaced and the other half getting slapped by the women you supposedly revere,” Kogami said, trying to bite back.

“Supposedly? Okay, now this is personal. One day, Kogami Shinya, you will understand! All your drunk talk about beauty and women is nothing but abstract cynicism that you use to keep people at bay; crap you’ve read in your books,” Sasayama said, and even though both knew he was teasing, there was an unmistakable sting in his words.

“You’re crossing the line, Enforcer.” Now Kogami was pissed off. He put out his cigarette and threw it in the garbage can, walking away.

“Hey! You’re still the most liked Inspector of Division 1!” Sasayama shouted to him as the glass doors closed. Kogami gave him a sarcastic thumbs-up gesture without looking back.

“Shit. I always hit his sore spots without meaning to,” Sasayama mused with a shrug, unconcerned.

Leaning back on the chair of his station, arms on the back of his head and a cigarette in his mouth, Kogami Shinya was absorbedly staring at his computer screen. Everyone had already left and, though he was tired, he knew that if he went home he wouldn’t catch any sleep. A map of the city of Tokyo flashed back at him from the screen.

Illegal hue-clearing drugs sold to unregistered latent criminals wanting to work. Two cases in different parts of the city seemingly related to the drug. Worked for months… but then their Psycho-Pass clouded. The drugs stopped working. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have loyal consumers than kill them with the product? That sure throws whatever prospects of new customers out of the window. This doesn’t appear to be the classical drug crime confined to the abolition blocks either.

The face of a young woman talking about tunnels appeared in his mind.

“This is a tunnel that hasn’t been mapped yet.”

He sat up on his chair.

It would make sense for the sellers to use the old tunnels to transport the drugs. That woman was familiar with the tunnels and understood the marks on the floor; maybe even made them herself.

He typed some words into his computer and the website for the MLIT blinked in front of him.

Those old structures stopped being used more than 25 years ago as the city went an infrastructural remodeling under the Toyohisa construction company per commission of the MLIT. According to the company, those tunnels have been perpetually closed or destroyed. No common citizen, even less someone in an abolition block would have access to that information. Unless the old tunnels weren’t destroyed and someone was…mapping them out for criminal use.

The face of the girl was becoming more and more vivid in his mind.

What was her name? Could she be involved with…?

He brought his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes to recall what he saw before she kicked his dominator.

Tsu…Tsugawa… no. Tsubaki? Tsumita? Tsu… Tsu…

He remembered those incandescent golden-brown eyes, staring at him with anger.

“Tsunemori!” He spat out loud, typing away in his computer.

“Tsunemori. Age 20 to 24. Female. Short. Dark hair.”

He skimmed through various pictures in the citizen database of Sibyl. Quickly scrolling through blonde, brunette, long haired, freckled women until, finally, there was her.

Or at least, someone that looked like her.

No, it was her. As he remembered: short brown hair and two locks falling along her cheeks framing a pale face. But her countenance was decidedly different; softer, even innocent. The faint trace of a smile still rested on her lips, as if someone had said something amusing seconds before snapping the picture. The sparkle in her brown eyes held something delightful, hopeful.

Her doe-eyed look would certainly fool him on a different day, had he not been on the receiving end of her fierceness. Her profile read:

Tsunemori, Akane. Age 22 Graduated from Hongou Higher Education. 2112. Currently employed at Fioira Restaurant. Roppongi.

Wait, this punk works at a restaurant in broad daylight?

Her boot brushed the dusty wooden floor while her body laid suspended in a hammock in a dim shop. A small monkey eating a piece of fruit sat on her stomach as she played with its hair, captivated by the animal—a real one, not a drone pet. In the corners of the room, old artifacts in disuse laid accumulated in random piles that could fall at the slam of a door. The only thing suggesting that this was something akin to a shop, were the two run-down barber chairs with peeling leather cushions and the old mirrors facing them, so old, that you’d think you were looking at yourself as through a thin fog.

“Well, you look much better than the last time I saw you,” Tanaka-san said as he entered his shop, sending a serious glance at the intruder romancing his monkey.

He was a bald old man with a few unruly wisps of white hair hanging from behind his ears; he had the habit of licking his fingers and stroking them to set them down. Dressed in an odd attire—something not uncommon to those living in abolition blocks—he wore sweatpants and sneakers under a dilapidated kimono that had been feasted on by hungry moths.

He unrolled a piece of cloth over a small table and began to organize his tools: the straight razor, the comb, the shave brush, the scissors. He cleaned the relics in the same ceremonial fashion that Akane had seen in those who, anachronistic and useless in Sibyl’s world, strived to preserve a sort of pride in their bygone knowledge.

“Well, I can’t be sad forever, right? Also, Salsa makes me happy,” she answered to his concern, her finger caressing behind the ear of the little monkey who hooted agreeably.

“You should know, that monkey eats better than me nowadays,” the old man said, glaring at the hairy face that stared at him, chewing open-mouthed.

“No worries, Tanaka-San. I also brought something for you.”

She moved her hip to grab the container on her side and the monkey quickly gobbled up what was left of his fruit, hoping to be treated to this banquet too, raising his arms to make a reservation.

“No, Salsa! This is for me!” the old man quickly snatched the container, hiding it from the monkey.

“The best ramen in all of Tokyo!” Akane said eagerly, hoping to reanimate the spirits of the grim old man. She stretched her arm to retrieve the fruit container from a chair and gave another piece to Salsa.

“So, is Ryota coming or what?” the old man said, taking out his metal chopsticks from a drawer and sitting down to eat.

“Yeah, he should be here soon.”

“Good. There’s a group of unregistered that needs to be moved.”

#psycho-pass #fanfiction #dragnet

19 notes · View notes