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fanfoolishness · 4 years

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Fulminating (The Mandalorian)

(Din suffers a complication after nearly drowning on Trask. He and the Child recover together. Maybe it's enough. 5000 words, canon-compliant, angst, medical whump, hurt/comfort, sign language. Set during Chapter 11: The Heiress. Don't say I didn't warn you about the whump - but the comfort's there, too.)

Thank you to @lastwordbeforetheend, @art3mys and @honestlyhufflepuff for helping talk me through this! You can also find this story on AO3 if you prefer.

***

The air streams past him, tugging at the free edge of his cloak as he descends. He tilts his head upward, watching Bo-Katan and her cruiser climb to the edge of the atmosphere. They’ll take the ship, and he’ll take the Jedi’s name.

It’s not the deal he wanted -- hell, they aren’t the Mandalorians he wanted -- but she gave him what he needed in the end, and he’ll respect that.

He coughs, chest feeling heavy, and lowers his head as the air rushes past. That’s better.

He aches as the rush of the fight leaves him. He’s not getting any younger, and while firefights are what he’s built himself for, taking an entire cruiser hadn’t been on his agenda. Especially coming off the disastrous crash landing on the ice planet with the kid and the passenger; he’d hit his head pretty badly in the landing, beskar helmet or no, and he still feels a nagging headache now that the action’s over. He scowls under the helmet.

The Rising Phoenix burns clean as the docks rise up before him, and he lands clumsily, staggering. He’s got to work on that. In all the traveling lately, his training has slipped. Koska in particular has given him some ideas for how to better utilize the Phoenix in combat, and he’ll have to consider incorporating the techniques into his own fighting style.

Din pulls a deep breath as he straightens up, slightly winded by the landing. Time to collect the kid and get going.

Leaving would be a good idea, if not for the fact half the port is still quiet. He glances around, realizing it’s still early in the morning and the Mon Calamari he paid to tend to the Crest is nowhere in sight. Fine. Maybe he and the kid will grab some sleep in the inn. How long has it been since they got any rest?

His feet fall heavy on the wooden docks, his boots scuffing. Yeah. A room might do them good.

***

It takes him a good twenty minutes to make his way through the narrow alleys to the Frogs’ home. He’s a little slower than usual, though he’s got good reason to be weary. The door slides open at his knock and the happy couple greets him, gesturing to a water-filled dish on their table. A tadpole splashes back and forth, and Din’s foundling stares at it with wide eyes and half-opened mouth, barely noticing that Din has come for him.

Din almost hates to pull the kid away. He’s downright enchanted by the tadpole (the kid better have minded his manners!), curious and fascinated and protesting as Din scoops him up. He congratulates the couple on their child and heads out into the alley, the kid chattering away unintelligibly. He’s been using that little voice of his much more lately, and though Din hasn’t picked out any words he understands, it’s a comforting sound. He chuckles a bit at the kid’s chatter, the laugh slipping into a brief cough that he swallows down. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could understand what the kid has to say.

The kid’s voice burbles cheerfully in his ears. Probably telling him all about his exciting night, staying with the Frog family. Maybe he’s asking where Din has been, or wondering where they’re going next. Din hasn’t a clue. He tries to pay attention, but finds it strangely difficult to concentrate and walk at the same time.

It’s not far to the inn. Half a klick at most. He’s walking at a normal pace, not running, not sprinting.

So why, then, is he breathing so hard?

He pauses against the wall of a small fishery shop, leaning against it slightly in a way that would look casual to a passing observer. He takes a deep breath, then coughs wetly, chest rattling.

You’re fine, he tells himself firmly, but his chest rises and falls like he’s been running.

His helmet swivels left, right. Quarren, Mon Calamari, humans, they scurry past Din and the child, but more than a few turn to stare at the two of them. This is too open. He needs to get back under cover until he can figure out what’s going on. You are both predator and prey, intones the Armorer, and oh, he knows it. His gut clenches a warning.

The Phoenix roars on his back, carrying them the rest of the way. He holds on to the kid with both arms and the kid giggles, enjoying the ride, but Din just focuses on breathing.

***

The innkeeper stares at him. “One night, then?” he grunts.

Din reaches into his hip pouch, pulls a stack of credits out, more than what’s needed. He forces himself to slow his breathing, though his chest hurts with the effort. He swallows. Modulates his voice to sound gruff and intimidating. “One night. And no questions.”

The innkeeper nods, holding his hands out in an appeasing gesture. “Whatever you say, Mando.” He tosses Din a fob to unlock the room. “Up the stairs, third door on the left. Food sent up to the room’s extra.”

Din merely nods. The kid, nestled in the crook of his arm, looks up at him, frowning. His ears sag down to his collar, and he wraps one hand over Din’s wrist.

Din makes his way to the stairs, shoving past a few Quarren there for their breakfast. They grumble, but they get out of his way; news travels fast about what a Mandalorian can do when pressed. They clear a path for him as he approaches the narrow stairs. With his back to the barroom, no one able to see him directly, he allows himself the luxury of a few deep breaths before he begins. He needs every one.

The flight of stairs isn’t long. Fifteen steps, maybe. But he has to grab the handrail with his free hand, gripping it tightly. His head swims, and the inside of his chest sears, burns, aches. He sucks air through an open mouth, shivering.

“Dank farrik,” he hisses, and regrets the extra breath expended on the curse. He has to rest halfway up the stairs, slumping against the wall with his head spinning.

He makes it up the rest of the flight, through the hallway, to the third door on the left. It slides open and he stumbles through the doorway, barely noticing the door sliding closed behind him as he staggers to the lumpy four-poster bed. He sets the kid down carefully before he sinks onto the bed with a thump. He struggles to remove the Rising Phoenix. He manages to rest it on the floor at his feet, and stays leaning forward, curled up over himself.

What’s wrong with me?

He desperately tries to run the possibilities. Poison? No, no, nothing’s broken his skin, he hasn’t eaten since he left the ship.… He shivers again. Is he sick? This doesn’t feel like any sickness he’s ever known before, coming on so fast like this, hitting so hard…

He sits huddled on the edge of the bed, panting. His helmet’s sensors chime at him. Normally vital signs are measured in the background, but he forces himself to focus on the corner of the display through his visor, where it flashes a warning: Blood oxygen level below 90%.

Oxygen… lungs… going under the water after the kid, struggling as the seal on his helmet slipped, as the seawater rushed up over his face, into his mouth and nose --

But I was fine, he tries to tell himself. He tries to remember if he inhaled the water or if he spat it back out, but all he remembers is frantic choking, flailing, a confusing jumble of cold and weight and struggle. I was fine --

He coughs again, the action bowing him over himself, and he gags on fluid in the back of his throat. He retches, gulps, tastes something metallic. Blood.

Fuck. Fuck.

His mind races. Battlefield first aid is taught to all Mandalorians, but he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do here. What here even is. His mind blanks for a second, or an eternity.

He suddenly remembers a function of his helmet he’s rarely used. He toggles it on with a jerky swipe over his vambrace. He can’t carry an entire tank of oxygen with him, since it’d be a clear explosion hazard in his line of work, but the helmet does have emergency oxygen concentrator ability. Enough to double the atmospheric content for low-O2 planets. He breathes deeply of the fortified air, and for a moment he feels a little calmer. This’ll fix things. Just need a little more air, a little rest, I’ll be fine --

It’s not enough.

The display in his helmet says it’s concentrating the oxygen at maximal levels, but damn it, it’s not enough. He wheezes, straining.

The display says a lot of things now. It’s going fucking haywire, streaming readings for his heart rate, his oxygen, spiking or crashing in ways he’s never seen. He forces himself to focus on the room beyond him instead of the screeching vitals, tries to focus on fishnets lining the dingy walls, a cramped closet refresher, a little wooden table to sit at, a round window letting in muted daylight.

It’s not working. Din drags in breath after frantic breath, coughs again, feels something frothy in the back of this throat. He tastes metal. He’s -- he’s suffocating --

No. No. This is just a sickness, I just have to get through the worst of it, just breathe -- just breathe --

But he wants to tear his helmet off, he’s so hungry for air, he wants -- he needs --

Firm pressure on his lap, movement, something besides the flail of his chest. It’s the kid. He’s almost forgotten about him in his struggle, and seeing the kid calms him slightly. Just slightly.

He manages to lower his head, though it makes him dizzy. The kid’s dark eyes stare up at him, his little face scrunched up and worried.

“I’m fine,” Din gasps, though clammy sweat clings to him inside his suit, though his heart still races. Does the kid understand him? He coughs, the sound harsh and wracking. “I just need to -- rest --”

Rest. Yeah. Yeah, that should help. Maybe he’ll be better off laying down in a different position. Holding the kid against him, he tries to ease himself down on the rumpled bedding. But as soon he’s down, he realizes it’s wrong -- on his back, he feels his armor crushing him -- smothering him --

He jerks upright, clawing at his chest, undoing the catches of his armor. His cuirass loosens and falls to the bed beside him. He leaves it. The pressure eases, barely.

The kid in his lap lets out a wail, and Din realizes that the kid knows.

What if I don’t -- what if he’s alone -- if this gets worse -- His heart rate jumps at the unfinished thought, pounding until he can feel the veins in his neck throbbing, the pulse thready. He slumps against the post at the end of the bed, wrapping a hand protectively around the kid. No. I’ll be fine.

He has to be fine. For both of them. He wishes he could tell the kid --

***

Grogu feels, sees, senses ripples in the Force, just as he senses ripples in the water where a frog might be near. Most of the time, it comforts him, feeling its swirls and eddies.

It isn’t comforting now. It’s scary. The Force is disturbed, the ripples churning waves. His protector, his person clings to him, and Grogu feels fear panic wrong.

Grogu flinches, his stomach hurting. He doesn’t know what’s happened to the man, but there’s something in the man’s chest that isn’t right, something that shouldn’t be there, something that makes it not work the way it’s supposed to. Grogu tilts his head up and rests one hand against the man’s armor, whimpering.

The man is shaking. His voice catches. “It’s -- it’s all right,” he chokes, but Grogu can feel how hard he’s working to breathe, how his voice sounds different. It sounds wet.

Grogu whimpers again, tries to reach out in the Force. He has to help him! The man flickers in the Force in a way Grogu remembers once from a misty dream, the day he sent the fire back; he was so sleepy after the flames ran away. But the man feels like he did then, faint and far away, and this time, Grogu understands what it means. Faint and far away and fading.

Grogu tries to talk to the man. Tries to tell him that he can help. He makes his voice loud, but the man’s breathing is louder. It’s not working.

He gets to his feet in the man’s lap, hurriedly bracing his hands against the man’s laboring chest. This close he can hear the wrongness inside him even without the Force, his ears catching terrible crackles over the man’s pounding heart. It shouldn’t sound like that. He knows it in a way he doesn't have the words for.

The man is soft without the armor, but the cloth and leather he wears are still thick and hard to get through, under Grogu’s hands. Grogu tries to reach, tries to make the Force inside the man move and change. He’s done it before, he has to try now, has to try to help him --

But it’s hard to shift the Force inside the man. He’s still wrapped in most of his armor, no skin to touch. Maybe one of the Masters from long ago could fix the man without touching him, without pressing skin to skin, but Grogu doesn’t know how. He wraps his claws around the heavy vest the man wears under the armor, and he cries at him, trying to make him understand.

“Please --” the man rasps. “It’s -- don’t be afraid --” He coughs again, thin reddish fluid beading at the bottom of his helmet. Flickering -- far away --

Grogu sinks into the man’s lap, breathing hard himself. The man’s fear is overwhelming, making it hard for Grogu to think. He’s felt it before from him when things got scary, but always the man’s bravery was bigger, more powerful, so much brighter in the Force than his fear.

But it’s all that Grogu can feel from him now.

He has to do something. The man still flickers. He looks around wildly, sees the man’s hand, limply resting against the bottom of Grogu’s robe.

“Hey, buddy,” the man wheezes. “You’ll be -- okay --”

Grogu is already pulling at the man’s wrist. He’s seen a little flash of skin here before, where the glove meets the armor. He fumbles with it, but it’s on too tight for him to budge.

“What --”

Grogu pulls hard at the glove, and the man helps weakly with his other hand, his fingers clumsy. The glove slips down at the wrist, exposing light brown skin, a thumb. The man crumples against the post at the end of the bed, the line of him all wrong, head rolled to his shoulder. He’s so faint.

Grogu curls one hand around the man’s thumb, presses the other hand against his palm. The man’s skin is cool and sweaty and calloused. Grogu holds his hand as hard as he can, and he closes his eyes, and he reaches.

He can't make sense of what he feels through the Force. Water, but there shouldn’t be water here. Breathing, but the air doesn’t help. Grogu concentrates, but it’s hard. It’s not like when that other man’s arm was hurt in the dark by the creatures, when Grogu could reach out and feel the way the poison wasn’t supposed to be there, the way the arm wanted to be normal again. The Force flowed to the hurt part, and it made it like it was before.

But now he’s confused, the fear so loud and painful, making it harder for Grogu to understand the problem with the water and the air and the lungs. He clutches the man’s skin, claws digging into his strong hand. He tries to do what he can, tries to tell the man’s chest to be normal, to work, to help.

The Force shimmers. It flows, and something goes out of him, into the man.

But it’s not like before. The other man’s arm got better so quickly, the poison disappearing, the flesh coming back to itself. It doesn’t feel that way now; he’s not sure what it feels like. It feels… like something slow, like something calm and quiet, like something gentle.

Grogu lets go of the man’s hand, his mouth twisting. He knows he didn’t understand enough, didn’t get it quite right. He lets out a soft wail, sinking down into the man’s lap and staring dejectedly at his hands.

He hears a quiet, tired voice. Feels the man shift, feels his hand with the rolled-up glove brush against his cheek. Grogu looks up through sleepy eyes and sees the man’s helmet upright again, looking steadily at him.

“Kid?” A long, ragged breath. A hoarse voice. His shoulders rise and fall with big breaths, but not as fast as before.

The man pulls him closer, and Grogu’s ears swivel. The crackles are getting softer. Going away.

“Thanks, kid,” the man whispers.

Grogu gazes up at the man, and he manages a tired little smile. The man is getting brighter in the Force. No more flickering. And underneath the man’s fear, Grogu senses brave again.

***

Din isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there, leaning against the post at the end of the bed, holding the sleeping kid in his lap. He only knows he’s been working, and it is work, at breathing.

In, and out.

His helmet display flashes numbers at him. They aren’t normal. Oxygen, heart rate, respirations. But hell, they’re so much better than they were.

He doesn’t know what the kid did. The bare skin of his hand tingles in the cool air, and he’s almost afraid to cover it up again, in case it reverses what the child did to him.

For him.

All he really remembers -- things are hazy, even though it was at most only a few hours back -- is the panic, darkness at the edges of his sight, a terrible, unending hunger for air.

And then something quiet and soft, gently washing over him. It was enough.

He coughs again, but it’s easier than before. The rattle’s faint, thin, clearing. He’s not a medical droid, but he’s sure of it anyway: he’s going to make it.

The kid yawns beside him, half-wrapped in Din’s ragged cloak. He squints up at Din, his expression wary. Worried.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, his throat raw. “Are you okay?”

The kid whines a little, his ears swinging low at the way Din’s voice sounds so rough. Din feels an ache that has nothing to do with his lungs and everything to do with the kid’s anxious face.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna be fine,” Din manages. “You helped me. Saved me.” The words are hard to force out, but he knows they’re important. Hell. What the kid must have seen -- what he must have thought was going to happen -- He freezes, remembering a dark cellar, explosions, a day of red robes in the smoke.

No. That’s not gonna happen. Not to him.

Din cradles the kid into a hug, his ears brushing against Din’s chest and shoulder. The kid hugs him back as hard as he can with his small arms, and he can feel the child trembling.

“Hey, hey,” Din murmurs, though he’s getting winded with all the talking. “I’m sorry I --” He huffs, keeps going even though it’s difficult. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

The kid reaches up to rest one clawed hand against the cheek of the helmet. Din blinks, startled at the closeness, but the kid keeps his hand against the beskar. Din mirrors the gesture, resting the knuckles of one hand against the child’s soft cheek.

“We’ll be okay. You and me, pal. Understand?” he asks gently.

The kid blinks those large, dark eyes, and Din wonders if he’s failed to reach him. Then the child lowers his hands, letting out a cheerful babble with a tilt of his head, and the tension in Din’s chest and gut falls away.

Yeah. He’ll be okay.

The kid chirrups again, voice rising in a question. Din thinks he recognizes what the kid is asking. “You hungry?”

Food. He dimly remembers a few ration bars, tucked in at the back of his belt, swiped from the Crest before they’d left. He sets the kid down beside him, then pulls out two bars and unwraps them both for the kid. Din’s thirsty, after everything, but the idea of food holds no interest yet.

“Here,” Din rasps. “Eat.” He carefully straightens up, taking a moment to slowly swing his legs over the edge of the bed. What normally takes a second leaves him breathless.

He gets to his feet, using the bedpost for support. He’s still wearing boots, his armor aside from the cuirass. It’s all so much heavier than it should be. He lets out a hiss between his teeth and crosses the room to the refresher, one step at a time. Water.

Once inside the refresher he sinks down onto the seat, removing his helmet and setting it into his lap. He glances up and sees his face in the cracked, streaky mirror, the skin blotchy and pale, hair a matted tangle, eyes swollen. There’s residue on his face, dried pinkish red around his mouth and nose. The sight makes him run cold.

It had been so close.

He flicks the water on, strips off his gloves and sets them into his upturned helmet. He cups his hands together beneath the faucet, the cold water spilling over the edges of his palms.

He drinks, and it’s enough.

***

The ship awaits them. Unfortunately, it's barely better off than it was when they left it. The Razor Crest drips with Mon Calamari detritus, rope rigging and tangles of seaweed crisscrossing the ship's hold. Din shakes his head, stepping aboard with the kid in his arms. It’s not great. It’ll do to limp along to something better.

He allows himself a faint chuckle, putting himself in the same category.

He’s mostly recovered. He can still feel it, the way his lungs don’t fully expand the way they should, the way he gets a little winded when he’s up and walking around. But he’s so much better than he was, and getting better every day. Thanks to the kid, and his powers.

He glances down at him; he seems fascinated by the Crest’s new decorations. Din brushes a hand over the back of the kid’s head and the little one coos, reaching out to bat at a clump of seaweed.

“You like this, huh?” he asks. “Don’t get used to it.” Soon as I’m up to it, this stuff’s getting spaced.

The kid giggles at the slimy seaweed in his hands, and Din softens. Maybe he’ll leave it up for a little bit, anyway.

He carefully takes the ladder up into the cockpit, only huffing a little. He’s grateful for the way he takes oxygen in, the way it sustains. He finally turned off the oxygen concentration function of his helmet this morning, and he hasn’t missed it. It’s a good feeling, one that’s been growing as he’s gotten closer to recovery.

He doesn’t remember much of the past few days. He remembers the Quarren innkeeper hollering outside about their time being up, until Din lurched to his feet and shoved a pile of credits at him through the crack in the door. He remembers the innkeeper, mollified, bringing up bowls of steaming soup and leaving them out in the hall for Din to slowly bring inside, one at a time. He remembers how good it tasted, rich and briny and hot, hot, hot. He remembers sighing so loudly the kid’s ears twitched, and the kid let out the longest, tiniest, happiest sigh Din had ever heard.

***

He remembers a realization.

He had found it hard to talk on the second day, between the lingering heaviness in his chest and the bone-deep exhaustion. The kid, though, had seemed to bounce right back after using his powers, and had taken to relentlessly exploring the room for things to do.

Din watched him roam, crawling under the bed, playing with the empty drawers of the dinged-up dresser, trying to climb up the wall to see out the window. The kid was gonna hurt himself if he wasn’t careful, and Din couldn’t afford another scare. He reached out and planted the kid on his lap the next time his circuit around the room brought him close.

Inspiration struck. So it was hard to speak. So what? He had options.

He held up a finger. The kid watched keenly.

Look here, he signed in Tusken, fingers splitting and then rising up to his visor. The kid tilted his head, focusing.

We can talk like this. A wide sweep, a hand raised up near the mouth, palms spreading wide. Din waited. The kid had seen him use Tusken before, but for some reason, Din had never tried it with the kid. He’d always seemed to understand Basic well enough for how young he seemed to be, but he’d never spoken a word of it that Din could make out. He wondered why he hadn’t tried this earlier.

Do you understand? Din asked, hands flattening, circling, ending with a soft point of the index finger. He asked it a few times, varying the speed and size of the question, trying to see if the child understood.

The kid’s ears quivered, as if trying to catch something far in the distance. He held out his small three-fingered hands, and tried a clumsy sign for you.

Din leaned forward, hitching a sharp breath at the effort. Do you understand me?

The kid signed you again. Tried it a few times, the word smoothing out the more he tried, getting clearer.

Good job. It was hard to say if the kid really got it, or if he thought it was just a game. But it was promising to see his ears perking up, his dark eyes wide and interested, his mouth in a toothy, tiny grin.

Din smiled beneath his helmet. If this worked, they might be able to understand each other a lot better. The kid could ask him for help. Din could make it clear what was off limits and not to be bothered with. It was heartening as hell, a bright spot glimmering in the midst of some of the shittiest days he’d had in years.

And then a name swam into his head, causing his hands to drop, slowly, back into his lap.

Ahsoka Tano.

It wasn’t going to matter soon if the kid learned Tusken or Basic. He’d be back with the Jedi.

And Din would be alone, again.

His hands, trembling, spoke for him. Fingers flashed much too quickly for a beginner to learn; phrases scaffolded in front of him, words in motion, hands unfolding with meaning he knew the kid couldn’t hope to guess. The little one gazed up at him.

Thank you for saving my life --

I promise I’ll help you, no matter what --

I’m really going to miss you, kid --

Din’s eyes stung. He blinked once, twice, and stilled his hands. He’d said too much. The kid reached out and held onto his palms, his hands weighing almost nothing at all against Din’s own.

Din swallowed, looking into those trusting eyes. “Okay, kid,” he said hoarsely. “Come on. Let’s try again.”

***

Din shakes the memory off. He knows what he has been quested to do, that Mandalorians keep their word. He’s promised to find the place the kid belongs, and he would rather die -- nearly did -- than leave that promise unfulfilled.

The door to the cockpit slides open, and Din groans. The Mon Calamari’s handiwork is even more ridiculous here than in the rest of the ship. A dangling fishnet slaps him in the helmet, and he shoves it aside irritably as he buckles the kid into his favorite seat. Even through the helmet, the whole place stinks of brine.

“Mon Calarami,” he grumbles. “Unbelievable.”

He powers up the ship, starts easing it into the atmosphere. The ship shakes beneath him, clearly wounded. He can tell by the feel and the instrumentation that the ship should hold together for travel… barely.

A strange noise catches his attention, and he reaches out, grabbing some kind of sea creature that looks like it was about to pounce on the kid. The child burbles with delight and Din shakes his head. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. He squeezes until he’s sure the creature’s dead, then hands it to the kid for a snack. It’s not as hideous as some of the things he’s seen him eat, anyway.

“I finally know where I’m taking you,” Din tells him. “But it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

The starfield opens up before them. He takes a deep breath -- hold together, now -- and punches it to hyperspace. The stars ribbon past them, and Din leans back in his seat, relieved. It’ll be enough to get somewhere safe. Before they find the Jedi.

The ship vibrates around them, and Din makes a running list in his head of things he needs to check, wiring that needs to be redone, processes to recalibrate, repairs that need to be made, Mon Calamari detritus that needs to be jettisoned. He could start work on it now. Get it done. It'd be the efficient thing to do.

Instead, Din turns to the kid. “Hey. You wanna practice what we learned?” His hands flash before him as he speaks, tracing out the sentence structure in Tusken. “You can do it.”

He knows he doesn’t need to bother. He can speak again without losing his breath, and what’s more, he knows the kid will leave him soon. He knows it’s not enough time to teach proficiency, that it probably won’t make a difference for the kid in the long run.

But the kid likes it, and Din does, too. Maybe that’s enough.

The kid stares at him intently, moves his small hands in little circles, makes a fist. He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

Din laughs, hands shifting in affirmation, echoing the kid’s words. “That’s right, kid.”

The kid’s hands sign again, repeating the phrase Din had gone on to teach him, the signs clumsy but clear.

You. And me.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu djarin #grogu #clan mudhorn #the mandalorian fanfiction #noromo mando #whump #noncardiogenic pulmonary edema is the diagnosis if anyone is wondering #and treatment is basically... oxygen and sedation #it ain't fun!#my Mando fic

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rolanberry-rebel · 3 years

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Info sheet: Kjalla Nisemi

Name: Kjalla Nisemi Nicknames: K, Two-Guns, “oh hell, not her!”, “Gun-bunny” if you want to get shot Race: Viera (rava) Age: mid-late 30s in hyuran years, exact age unknown (even to her, really) Gender: Cis female Orientation: Whatever suits her at the moment Relationship status: Whatever suits her at the moment Profession: Professional psycho, hired gun, mechanic

Height: 6′2″ Weight: 160lbs. Eyes: Icy blue Hair: Dark blue Skin: Greyish-blue Build: Fit, busty Scars: Deep scar along the left side of her jaw, scarring around her wrists and fingers, scar tissue along her neck. Tattoos: Blue markings along her face; a thorny blue vine splayed down the back of her neck, along her right shoulder and twining around her right bicep Fashion: Spartan and street-tough; never goes anywhere without her kickin’ boots and a good jacket. Loves leather, loves fishnets, loves denim, loves spikes. Comfortable and not necessarily showy. Dark colors. Loves red; loves black. Not afraid to show off what she’s got. When she thinks she’ll need it she's outfitted in the one of the suits of heavy armor she custom-builds herself, varying from more mobile sets of light plate to bulky, gadget-augmented battle suits. Accessories: Kjalla wears a fair amount of jewelry, a lot of it worn and tarnished, suggesting it might have some sentimental value. Often seen with a smattering of dull gold and silver rings, earrings, and a bridge piercing with a pair of rubies at each end.

Birthplace: the Golmore jungles somewhere. Residence: Her junk shop/personal safehouse off of a private jetty near Kugane. Alignment: Chaotic Evil Hobbies: Violence, rowdy nights out, any and every manner of indulgence, creating new weapons and gadgets for her armors, salvaging and experimenting with old junk, making and spending lots of gil Likes: Exciting experiences, adrenaline rushes, the opposite sex, the same sex, swapping stories, swapping punches, money, people with guts, alcohol, tinkering away Dislikes: Cowards, soft people, pretty things, lalafel, you if you get in her way. And chocobos. Disgusting things. Personality: Erratic and unconstrained, shifting wildly with her impulsive mood swings. One night you buy her a drink and you might flirt your way back to her junk-shop; the next she might put a round through your skull. More than anything she likes to surprise and be surprised, so always expect the unexpected. Always headstrong and often arrogant, and you should absolutely never tell her what to do. Ever. In spite of her crazed impulses, when she’s not in a bad mood Kjalla can be incorrigibly flirtatious, friendly, and fun to have a good night out with. Virtues: Strong, physically and emotionally; there’s very little that will break her, and she’s seen it all. Strong leadership instinct, whether through her charisma or force of character simply overwhelming others into following. Obsessively self-sufficient and fiercely independent. Determined and diligent when there’s work to do, and will not quit until she gets it done. Streetwise, clever, skilled; not conventionally smart but picks up new hands-on skills quickly. A fierce, experienced fighter. Unfailingly loyal to those who prove themselves worth it. Bad habits: The obvious - she’s utterly immoral, indulging in any behavior if it makes her feel good. Impulsive, reckless, violent, quick to anger and lash out at others. Heart hard as a rock and a firm believer in the survival of the fittest (the fittest, of course, being her). Trusts next to no one and will betray others save her closest circle if it helps her get ahead. Stubborn as hell. Promiscuous with little regard for whom it might hurt. Huge chip on her shoulder. Has a major problem with authority. Unintelligent by conventional standards, and completely dead to magic.

Significant Other: *derisive laughter* Children: *even more incredulous laughter* Family: All presumed dead, except for her sister Eyrisse, from whom she is estranged. Pets: Linchpin and Electrode, her pair of baby coeurls, who live at her junk-shop. Their unique grounding and electrical powers help Kjalla with her electrical experiments.

Friends: People aren’t friends to Kjalla; they’re tools, things to be used, experienced and discarded. (Most of the time, anyway...)

You might know Kjalla if...

Merciless Mercenary. Kjalla is a notoriously cutthroat sellsword, unscrupulous - more than willing and able to do any job big or small, just as long as kids aren’t involved. (That’s the one line she doesn’t cross.) From political leaders to petty thieves, she’s taken them all. Her race may paint her as a novelty - it’s not often you see a viera mercenary traipsing around the world, after all - but she’s no laughing matter. If you hire mercenaries, work with them, or are one yourself, there’s a good chance you’ve heard of her, under one of her assorted names - some flattering, some very much not.

Underworld Surgeon. Kjalla has no magical healing talent but she’s a darn good field surgeon, and has a great knowledge of alchemical remedies, salves and drugs. A ‘side-job’ of hers is to sell her services as a mundane healer to shady characters who, for fear of the law, of the attention, or otherwise - avoid visiting a reputable establishment for healing after an incident. Criminals on the run, overdose cases, just someone who wants to stay off the grid - if you’re in need of a quick patching-up and you’d rather keep it discreet, her junk-shop is always open.

Life of the Party. Kjalla is a staple in a few of her favorite seedy dives in cities across the world - and would certainly be recognizable to regulars, given scar-covered, foul-mouthed viera with backwater accents aren’t exactly easy to miss. If you frequent these kinds of establishments, you’ve no doubt heard of, seen, and maybe even gotten into a drunken brawl with her.

Purveyor of Dangerous and Exploding Things. Kjalla loves weapons - all of them, but especially guns, bombs, tasers, flamethrowers, dynamite, and weapons far more bizarre and exotic. If you’re a weapon collector, an arms dealer, or if you’re looking to outfit yourself with something significantly more dangerous, you’ve no doubt run in to back-alley gunrunners and smugglers who’ve mentioned her as a supplier. Conversely, if you’re searching for training in gunsmithing or engineering from a master, she might consider it... you’ll probably wind up dead, though, so maaaybe not a good idea... unless that’s your kink.

Garlean Killer: There’re few jobs Kjalla loves more than the ones where she gets to pop Garlean heads like grapes. Though one could scarcely call the viera a principled woman whose violence is politically sophisticated, she takes a perverse delight in torturing and killing agents of the empire, even if she’s not getting paid to do it. Naturally her reputation for murdering prominent officers, personnel, facilities, and stealing lots of Garlean technology has made her a notorious outlaw in the empire, and if you’re involved in any of those fields, you’d recognize her scarred visage anywhere. Just be careful - she really does love planting bullets right in those third eyes.

Hi! I’ve been RPing forever and I’m lookin for new friends!

Adult female OOCly who’s RPed in every game you can probably think of and happy RPing lots of themes/scene types so long as we talk about it beforehand.

Kjalla is violent, rude, crude, and lustful. I however am (well, in my opinion, anyway...) none of those things, and am happy to talk with nice people! Just be aware most RP involving her’s gonna be one of those things, lol.

Available at random times, usually late evenings EST. Will always try to respond to private messages here no matter when you send them though!

Discord: I’m not on there very much, but I know it’s become a big way for a lotta people to do most of their OOC communication/RP threads so I’m willing to get on there if you wanna talk!

In-game: Anylissa Sebastis (Balmung) or Kjalla Nisemi (Mateus)

If you’re not into psychotic rabbit-ladies, I have my playful spoiled heiress, Anylissa, if you’d prefer. :>

#kjalla #ffxiv rp

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

I Just Wanna Dance With You, 1/2 (Branjie) - Athena2

Summary:

Brooke and Vanessa work at the same strip club, and Brooke takes Vanessa under her wing to help her out. But when business at the club slows and Vanessa desperately needs money, they resort to a risky scam to stay afloat.

(Hustlers au)

A/N:

Hustlers au is here! I honestly came very close to writing this last year, but decided to do Mateo’s Eight instead. It was really fun to finally take this on, and there are a lot of people to thank for this one! First off, thanks to thackeryisatop for posting about this idea, and then to Ortega for nominating that I write it. They were both super encouraging and open of me taking on the idea, and I really appreciate it. Also, thank you so much to Writ for betaing and supporting me with all of this, especially because this fic is so different from what I normally write.

I’ll be honest here: writing smut is not my thing, so there WILL NOT be any explicit sexual content in this. I wanted the sexier aspects to be vague/implied and just parts of the overall vibe. This also does differ from the movie a bit—I streamlined certain parts of the plot and removed others entirely, so it won’t follow it exactly. Regardless, you don’t need to know the movie to read this. I really hope you enjoy, and I’d appreciate any feedback you have. I’ll have the second part out as quick as I can with school starting soon.

Title from Gimme More by Britney Spears.

—

Every night, Vanessa leaves A’keria and Silky in the noisy dressing room, settles herself among half-drunk business men that are sleaze wrapped in suits, and watches her.

Every eye in the place stays locked on the stage as Britney Spears trickles over the speakers and she emerges in a glittery red panty set that matches her lips perfectly, long legs encased in fishnets that make them even longer, show off the beauty beneath those thin strands of lace. She flips her blonde hair and drops into a split that makes the men cheer, bills fluttering like confetti.

The dim stage lights brighten in the face of someone worth watching, casting a golden glow as the woman grips the pole and spins herself around. Vanessa watches with the rest of the men, jealousy curling in her stomach as they throw fresh-from-the-ATM bills stamped with double digits and pictures of old men who were just as rich as they are. Bills they don’t give Vanessa.

The woman calls herself Destiny, though Vanessa knows it’s not her real name. With the way men let their money-stained hands linger on her pale skin as they tuck bills inside her fishnets, Vanessa doesn’t blame her for using a fake name. Hell, Vanessa uses a fake name, and she’s nowhere near as popular.

Destiny leaves the stage, blowing kisses to the men still cheering. She always heads to the roof of the club in between her performances and sessions in the private rooms, and tonight, Vanessa follows, chasing that magic and mystery of her, wanting tonight to be the night she finds out more.

Destiny gazes out at the city, looking more like a person out here than she does inside, where the stage makes her a goddess. In the night air, you could almost believe she’s human. Then that eyebrow raises as she takes in Vanessa, and she’s an angel again.

“Where’s your coat?” Destiny asks.

“Left it inside.” Vanessa shivers as chilly air hits her.

“Here.” Destiny opens up her coat, a massive faux fur thing big enough for both of them.

Vanessa slips inside, her arm searing where it presses against Destiny’s. She hopes Destiny can’t feel her heart racing. Destiny has always seemed untouchable, so effortlessly beautiful that it’s slightly intimidating, especially with how she finishes her makeup before anyone else and returns with fistfuls of cash. She’s a pro, an idol to the newer girls like Vanessa, and as much as Vanessa has wanted to talk to her, get close to her, she hasn’t quite worked up the nerve. But she has the courage now, and Destiny’s face is warm and kind as she huddles beside Vanessa.

“Did you like what you saw?”

“What?” Vanessa’s face warms, because even though A’keria and Silky tease her every night and warned her that Destiny would catch her spying eventually, she didn’t really believe them.

Red lips pull into a wicked smile. “Did you like what you saw? I always see you out there with your mouth wide open, you better hope no flies come in—“

“My mouth wasn’t open that wide,” Vanessa protests feebly.

“Uh-huh.” Destiny winks, actually winks, and Vanessa has to grip the edge of the building to stay upright.

“How do you do it?” She blurts.

“Do what?”

Vanessa sighs. “You make more in one number than I do all weekend. How do you do it?”

Vanessa needs that money, needs it more than she’d care anyone to know. And no matter how much she flips her hair and winks and smiles, the money just doesn’t come the way it does for Destiny. Vanessa wants to be bitter, but she can’t deny how much Destiny deserves what she gets. Vanessa just doesn’t understand why she can’t get it too, why bills fly for Destiny but have to be wrestled from sweaty hands for her.

Destiny bites her lip, lipstick so perfect it doesn’t even get messed up. “Vanjie, right?”

Vanessa nods. “My real name is Vanessa.” She’s not sure why she says it. Maybe because underneath that perfect makeup, she knows Destiny is trustworthy somehow. Or maybe because she just wants this woman to know her, know the real person she is beyond her makeup and boots and lacy gloves.

“Vanessa,” Destiny repeats, and the name seems more special on her lips. “To answer your question, I don’t know how I do it. It helps if you treat them like friends, I guess.”

Vanessa nods. It seems so simple, but she hasn’t mastered it, can’t think of clients as anything but clients whose money she needs to help her mom. “I wish I could,” she mutters.

Destiny sighs. “Look, you’re beautiful, Vanessa,” she says, and Vanessa’s stomach leaps. “And that’s what they want–an escape with a beautiful girl. They want the fun, and that’s what you have to give, not the reminder that you’re gonna pay your bills with their tips.”

Vanessa’s heart sinks. Destiny is right.

She looks at Vanessa with the brightest green eyes Vanessa’s ever seen, smooth yet sharp like pieces of sea glass. They’re a part of her you can’t get from the stage, something you can only see if you’re close enough to her. The real person, not the illusion. “I’ll tell you what. Can you come here early tomorrow?”

Vanessa nods.

Destiny smiles, and that smile, like everything else, lures Vanessa in. “Good. I’ll teach you.”

“Thanks, Des—“

“And call me Brooke.”

—-

Vanessa doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into when she walks into the club early the next night. It’s strange to be here during the day, the overhead lights revealing scuffs in the tables and the straws and trash littering the sticky floor. The illusion is gone, and the club is just a cold room rather than the warm fantasy it promises at night.

Brooke is in leggings and a white tank top that shows off the firm muscles peeking beneath her skin. She’s softer somehow, gentler without the hard rhinestones and blinding glitter she’s usually armored in.

“Hey, Vanessa,” Brooke says.

“Hey.”

“You ready?”

Vanessa nods firmly. “There won’t be a test or anything after, right? I’m not so good at tests.”

“There might be.” Brooke gives a mischievous wink and points to a black chair right before the stage. “Sit there. I’m gonna do one of my routines for you. Watch me, okay? Watch how I dance just for you, like me and you are the only ones here.”

“Me and you are the only ones here.” Vanessa grins, swallowing hard against the idea of them being alone.

Brooke rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s just us here now, and you want every client to feel like it’s just you and them.”

Vanessa nods, and then Brooke takes the stage. She shakes out her arms and stretches her long legs, grips the pole, and begins.

The change is jarring–she’s not Brooke anymore; she’s Destiny, both the person and the thing itself, the thing mesmerizing men and making them want to spend hundreds on her, because she’s their destiny. She’s equal parts danger and dangerous, a lit cigarette just begging you to take hold and breathe her in, even if you know it’s wrong.

Watching her this close, Vanessa is mesmerized. If she had money, she would throw every cent on the stage, but it’s more than that. It’s the way each movement is light and delicate, the way she holds you in her gaze and smiles right at you, the way she rests a hand on Vanessa’s shoulder and makes her shiver. Vanessa wants to reach out and touch her, pull her into bed and sleep beside her, all because of this dance.

“Now, these are moves for the pole, okay?” Brooke’s voice snaps Vanessa out of her dream.

She does her best to focus as Brooke shows her the different grips and spins, coaching her to smile and shake her hair through them all.

“What if I don’t have muscles?” Vanessa asks, pointing to her arms. They’re not flabby, but there’s no way in hell she can pull herself up like Brooke.

“You have muscles!” Brooke insists.

“I don’t.”

Suddenly Brooke’s hand is in hers, pulling her onstage. “Come on, you try,” Brooke coaxes. “I’ll spot you. You won’t fall, I promise.” The danger is gone and she’s just Brooke now, and Vanessa trusts the promise even if it might burn her later.

She grips the pole and pulls herself up, following Brooke’s orders to point her toes and smile as she spins around, and she’s flying. She’s a fairy flying through the air, drunk on Brooke’s smile and flashing her own to the invisible crowd.

With a burst of courage, Vanessa climbs, shimmying and twisting her way up, muscles burning. Brooke’s hands are waiting below, strong and sturdy and just waiting to catch her, and some part of Vanessa wants to fall and let those hands do what they’re waiting for. Let those hands touch her and hold her tight. But she also wants to make Brooke proud, show her she can do this, and Vanessa pulls herself up with a massive grunt.

“Lose the grunt at the end and you’re golden,” Brooke praises as Vanessa slides down, steadying hands cupping Vanessa’s hips and making her heart skip a beat.

“Will do.” They perch themselves on the edge of the stage, and Vanessa watches her legs swing a much shorter arc than Brooke’s and can’t help but smile.

“Were you at any clubs before this?” Brooke asks.

“No. This is my first … y’know … job.”

Brooke nods.

“I never really planned on this,” Vanessa continues. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it! I just–I have a day job, and my mom is sick and outta work, so she lost her work insurance, and I started doing this to get more money to cover her treatments.”

“I get it,” Brooke says. “Sorry to hear about your mom.”

“Thanks.” Vanessa sighs. She’s glad Brooke didn’t pry, because she’s sick of talking about her mom’s illness, sick of thinking about it and how it might take her mom away from her. She wants to focus on Brooke instead, because Brooke takes the weight of it all off Vanessa’s shoulders somehow. “What about you? You’ve been here a while, right?”

“You saying I look old?” Brooke teases.

“No, no! Just that you’re so good,” Vanessa says quickly.

“Nice save.” Brooke smiles, though it quickly turns to a frown. “I, uh, I used to dance with the city ballet. You hit 25 in ballet, and you’re basically ancient. I left the company five years ago and decided to keep dancing, make some good money.”

Vanessa nods, because Brooke’s toned muscles and delicate grace make sense now, another piece of the puzzle that adds up to her. And this close to Brooke, intoxicated by her perfume and the soft curves of her shoulder, Vanessa wants to find more pieces.

“Think we can do this again tomorrow?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke grins. “You got it.”

—-

Nina marches over to Brooke’s station like a woman on a mission. She’s the only decent one of the club’s owners, and would happily take things over herself if she could get the other owners to give up control. She’s a mother to the girls, always ready with a listening ear, and the click of her heels over the tile is comforting, a sound everyone counts on when they need help.

“Am I hearing things, or have you made a friend?”

Brooke sighs. “Well …“

“Brooke made a friend! Kam, Pri, Brooke made a friend!”

Kameron and Priyanka crowd around Brooke’s station, whispering in excitement. Brooke groans and hides her face in her hands.

“A friend, and she’s not even imaginary?” Priyanka squeals. “I’m so proud of you, Brookie!”

“I didn’t think I’d see the day you made friends besides us,” Kameron says.

“You’re one to talk,” Brooke shoots back. “Have you texted little Miss Asia yet—“

“Yeah, you never shut up about her,” Priyanka says.

“That’s enough of that.” Kameron quickly returns to her makeup, and Priyanka follows, using the opportunity to make fun of Kameron instead.

Brooke sighs, finally facing Nina’s broad grin. “Look, I think Vanessa’s nice. She—she reminds me of myself, when I started. Figured I’d give her some tips, look out for her.”

“You mean look at her.”

“Nina,” Brooke whines. She’s had her eye on Vanessa since she started here, she’ll admit that. Vanessa is absolutely beautiful, one of the most beautiful women Brooke’s ever seen. There’s real joy and passion in her, the kind you can’t teach, can’t really find in many people. Vanessa is a breath of fresh air over dirty money and sickly-sweet liquor, and Brooke’s had more fun with her than she has in a while. She wants to help Vanessa, make sure she keeps herself safe from the darker aspects of the club and uses the lighter parts to her advantage. Make sure she doesn’t lose that joy. Brooke’s just helping, that’s all.

“I’m just teasing, Brooke,” Nina says fondly, rolling her eyes. “It’s good that you’re getting to know her. She seems great, from what I’ve seen.”

“She is.” Vanessa really is, and Brooke can’t help but marvel at how quickly she picked up Brooke’s steps, how beautiful and free she is in her routines.

Not that Brooke has feelings for her or anything. She’s just helping.

—

Brooke decides to give Vanessa the lowdown at their next practice. Her knowledge of clients is based on years of collecting information, from each leather wallet pulled from a tailored suit to each set of eyes that seek to own her. She knows how things at the club work, and when you know the rules, you can play the game.

“There are three levels of clients,” she explains to Vanessa. “The ones at the bottom are so desperate for power, to be on top, that they’ll break out hundreds if you smile. Guys in the middle are… in the middle. They don’t do much one way or another.”

Vanessa nods, eyes wide as she waits for the rest. Brooke can’t help the thrill in her heart at having Vanessa’s eyes on nothing but her, soaking in her every word. Part of Brooke has always liked the thrill and rush of attention, whether on a fancy theatre stage in silk or a sticky club stage in fishnets. But the thrill is that more intense and intoxicating in the form of Vanessa, in the form of letting someone close to her, close enough to know her name and not the persona she creates.

“The ones on top—they’re the ones who blow thousands a night and it doesn’t even make a dent. They have a private entrance, but even if they got caught, they’d never see the consequences. They want attention, want you to show off for them. They’ll treat you like dirt but pay you like you’re gold, and you can milk them for every cent they’re worth. That’s where the real money is.”

Brooke has found her success, found a nice apartment with more than enough space for her and her cats, found security in her life, all from the bills those men in the top tier slide her way. With practice, Vanessa can get that same success.

Vanessa nods again. “I think I always get the middle guys. They all look the same. Like someone copy-pasted them or somethin’.”

Brooke snorts loudly, a far cry from the gentle laughs she does for her clients. This is her real laugh, one that hardly anyone can wrestle from her.

“Hey,” Vanessa says suddenly, “do you have time to get coffee? Then we can talk somewhere nicer than this.”

Brooke just smiles.

—

The more Vanessa watches Brooke, the more tiny signs of the real her poke through her mask of makeup and confidence. There’s the way she starts chewing on a cuticle, before looking at her manicured black nails and immediately stopping, or how she spills some coffee over the edge of her mug after an enthusiastic nod. It’s like getting a peek behind the curtain, and Vanessa is going to treasure each glimpse she can get.

It’s nice to be here and just talk to Brooke, free of dazzling lights. At the club, there’s idle gossip in the dressing room, and it’s fun, but it’s not personal. It’s a way to pass the time between numbers and client sessions, to laugh before they go out there. But now she gets to just talk to Brooke without interruptions, her heart racing with each of Brooke’s smiles.

“You said you had another job, right?” Brooke asks.

Vanessa nods.

“So, what do you do?”

“I do makeup at a department store. I like it, you know? Getting to talk to people, make them feel good.” Vanessa smiles to herself at the thought of all the clients that have sat in her makeup chair, their grins at how confident they felt after her help. “The pay is okay, but not enough for things like medical bills.”

“I get it,” Brooke says. “I’m glad you like it, though.”

“Yeah. Once I get enough money here, I should be good with just that job.” Vanessa pauses, glancing over the strange look of sadness on Brooke’s face that quickly disappears. Is Brooke sad about the idea of her leaving, or something else? Brooke doesn’t talk too much about herself, but Vanessa wants to know more about the old Brooke that used to dance, and maybe she’ll talk. “Did you have any jobs besides ballet?”

“No.” Brooke takes a sip of coffee. “I went right from that to this, and the pay’s been enough that I don’t need anything else. Don’t really know what I’d do anyway.”

Brooke still seems a little upset, and Vanessa decides not to press anymore. She really can’t see Brooke doing anything else, if she’s being honest. There’s just something about the way she moves, like the whole world aligns and stops for a moment when she’s dancing. It’s magical, and Vanessa’s heart leaps just at the thought. She changes the conversation to the cat she’s thinking of getting, and things are okay.

—

It’s a week later that Vanessa gets her first top-tier client. From what Brooke’s taught her, Vanessa is getting better at recognizing them. Every inch of their outfit is expensive, from coat to shoes. Their walk is firm and confident like they own the place. And they hold out hundreds with the casual air of a dollar bill.

She walks past the hall’s dim red floor lights, each one illuminating a plain black door. Vanessa takes a breath before the room she’s using and reminds herself to be like Brooke, to give the man attention, like he’s the only one she’s doing this for, even if she’s already done it tonight. Vanessa walks in, and she walks out with over a thousand dollars.

Rinse and repeat.

—

“It’s working, huh?”

Vanessa looks up from the stack of bills she’s struggling to stuff into her knee-high black boots. Brooke stands next to her, grinning smugly, while Brooke’s friend–Vanessa’s pretty sure the redhead with the muscles and tattoos is Kameron–grins behind her, giving Brooke a push until she bumps into Vanessa.

Vanessa laughs as Brooke swats Kameron away and turns back to her. “It sure is working,” Vanessa says. “Got so much money I can’t even get it in my boots.”

“Can I help?”

Vanessa nods, and then one of Brooke’s hands curves around the back of her knee, the other carefully unzipping her boot. Vanessa doesn’t breathe as the zipper slides down and Brooke delicately arranges bills around her calf, soft fingertips brushing over her skin. She’s close enough that Vanessa can smell her perfume, close enough to grab Brooke and maybe kiss her–the zipper screeches back into place, and Vanessa straightens up.

“Thanks,” Vanessa says, trying to remember how to breathe.

“No problem.”

“Damn, Vanj,” A'keria mutters, open-mouthed in the chair beside Vanessa. “Destiny needs to teach us all how to get that coin.”

Silky nods, swinging her hairspray in excitement. “Miss Destiny’s Stripper School. I’d sign up.”

Vanessa shushes them and finishes getting ready. Brooke winks at her after she’s done, and Vanessa pretends her next lap-dance is Brooke.

—

It happens fast.

One day, Brooke hears some news report coming from Kameron��s phone, a guy in a suit talking about fiscal collapse and crisis and economy again and again. Say economy three times, and a middle-aged white man in a business suit will appear like Beetlejuice. It’s all they ever talk about, and Brooke doesn’t think much of it, just goes to work and comes back with her usual wad of cash she had to mop off the stage floor.

A few nights later, there are empty seats in the club. When the music stops, it’s quiet enough to hear ice cubes clinking in glasses, hear the rustle of the one or two single-digit bills they hand her.

Brooke walks off stage in confusion. For the first time in over a year, her wad of tips is slim enough to fit in one hand. She heads straight to Nina’s office, where Nina is running a hand through her messy hair and drinking from a bottle of wine.

“What the hell is going on, Nina?” Brooke asks. “It’s totally dead out there.”

Nina sighs. “It’s the stock market. I don’t know what the fuck happened, but stocks are down, apparently, and those Wall Street business men aren’t coming anymore.”

“Are we … we’re not gonna close, are we?” Brooke’s stomach is twisting in knots just at the thought of losing all this. The same knot that had formed when Vanessa said she would leave after she had enough money, because Vanessa has quickly become one of Brooke’s favorite parts of the club, a part she doesn’t want to lose. But she might lose it all depending on what Nina tells her.

“No.” Nina takes another swig of wine. “We’re staying open, but your tips won’t be like they usually are. The real rich ones will still come in, but I doubt they’ll spend as much.”

“I–” Brooke shakes her head, needing to get out of here. It’s too stuffy in here, the wine burning her nose and the bright office lights burning her eyes. She runs to the roof, the coolness clearing her head and allowing some air to reach her lungs.

What is she supposed to do now? Brooke joined the strip club because it made sense–it gave her a performing outlet without the constant body aches from ballet, a chance to use the dancing ability she had trained decades to perfect. A way to keep the thrill of performing, the love of a crowd, when she couldn’t be on a theatre stage anymore. She can’t walk away from this, try to find whatever minimum wage job will hire someone whose place of employment for the last five years can’t go on a resume. She’s wondering if she’ll have enough saved up to weather the next however-many months when the roof door slams, and hoarse sobs arise.

Vanessa.

Brooke immediately forgets her problems and runs to Vanessa, who’s shaking with sobs. She wants to wrap Vanessa in a hug, let her arms circle that soft skin, but she stops herself. Touch is something they do all night. They touch bills and stripper poles and men, everything washed away with the apricot soap Nina stocks the bathroom with. But if Brooke were to touch Vanessa, it would be different from touching a client. More personal. And Brooke knows she won’t erase that touch no matter how much she scrubs her hands.

Instead, she pulls Vanessa to the edge of the building, uselessly whispering that it’s okay, even if she knows it’s not. When Vanessa is finally able to talk, she looks up at Brooke with bloodshot eyes burning with exhaustion and sorrow, and again Brooke wants to hug Vanessa and let her rest inside her arms.

“I’m guessing you heard,” Brooke prompts.

Vanessa nods. “What am I gonna do, Brooke?” she cries. “I was starting to make a lot of money, but it’s not enough. I–I don’t have enough to help my mom, and if she doesn’t get her meds and everything then she’ll …” A fresh sob erupts from Vanessa, and Brooke doesn’t hesitate this time. She pulls Vanessa into her arms and gently rubs her back as she cries. Vanessa is real and solid, realer than anything the club offers. She smells like coconut and Brooke wonders when she started liking that scent so much. Wonders when she started liking Vanessa so much, because she can’t deny it anymore. But Vanessa doesn’t need that now; she needs help.

Brooke selfishly hadn’t even thought of Vanessa and her mom when she first heard the news. Now, she has to accept how bad things are, what might happen to Vanessa’s mom without the money Vanessa needs. The money she can’t get anymore. If only they could take that money that the really rich Wall Street guys still have and give it to Vanessa and the other girls somehow …

But maybe they can.

The wheels in Brooke’s head are spinning, weaving together a plan. It’s risky, sure, but they don’t have a choice. They all have bills to pay. Some of them have relatives to care for and medication to buy, and hell, just normal lives to live. Brooke might lose her home depending on how long this lasts. The other girls might lose theirs too, might even lose their jobs if it comes to that. And Vanessa will almost surely lose her mom. Vanessa always talks about her with such love in her eyes, with such joy in the memories of the two of them cooking or dancing together. She doesn’t deserve to lose that. Brooke has to do something.

“Hey, Vanessa,” Brooke says gently, “I think I have an idea.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #nina west #kameron michaels #priyanka #silky nutmeg ganache #akeria davenport #branjie #lesbian au #hustlers au #implied smut #i just wanna dance with you #athena2 #concrit welcome #submission

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redpendana · 4 years

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Polishing up some details and designs for my hero OC, WildCard!!

WildCard was inspired with similarities from The Legend of Zorro and Ghost Rider.

Similar to Shoto Todoroki, her birth was coordinated to create the perfect successor in the name of her families’ long standing hero legacy.

She wanted her hero look to appear similar to that of the story hero, Zorro, as well as the look of a black fox because when she was young, she was obsessed with the legendary vigilante hero and because she was given the childhood nickname of “Zorra” due to her being as mischievous as a small fox. (Her obsession with the hero was because her grandfather resembled the hero in his prime days and he would often share stories about the masked hero whenever they spent time together.)

One quirk has been passed down to most of her family members and thus helped establish a family based hero agency (Shadow manipulation-allows user to manipulate shadows to their imagination). The other quirk was married into the gene pool to help create a hero of dreams and nightmares (psychological stunnance-allows user to peer into another’s dreams/fears and could psychologically cause ease or damage). Combined together, WildCard can be a dream-come-true to civilians as well as a living nightmare to her opponents.

Her design’s notes and edits:

I wanted her to have dark color schemes in her hero costume but then I had an epiphany while rewatching The Incredibles Movie, “what if she was so good as a threat to villains in the dark that she was sued to have some bright coloring in her suit to give some warning to her opponents as they found it ‘unfairly inhumane for a hero to attack an unsuspecting victim’”. so she adds a luminescent design to help make shadows, follow the demanded legal requirement, and to look impressively cyberpunk as well! The goggles are to help her stunnance quirk work directly or in wide range (if she decides to use her stunnance but she actually rarely ever does for safety reasons).The spotted “fishnet” look is actually her manipulating her own shadow to wrap around her exposing skin as self defense armor and helps her keep a constant exercise of her quirk while on the job (a trained requirement taught from her family, similar to regulating breathing techniques or running with weights).

#my ocs #my hero oc #my hero academia original character #my hero original character #original character #redpendaana #digital design #character design #character backgrounds #character backstory #super hero design #hero design #wildcard

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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 5 years

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Roguish Women Part 1 *Tommy Shelby*

Summary: Kate Rosseau is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

82 Boulevard de Clichy

Paris, France

1925

The Moulin Rouge.

The city of love. A city of lights and illusions. A city where one could lose sight of their troubles. A city where one could hide in plain sight.

“Monsieur Shelby!” A plump man with a red face greeted the men at the door. He was dressed in a scarlet-colored suit and Tommy couldn’t help but think how the man would stick out like a sore thumb in Birmingham. But in Paris, he fit in like he was one of the landmarks. “Bonjour, bonjour, welcome to the Moulin Rouge.”

The Peaky Blinders were there for business. Not the cabaret, but Paris. A man had contacted Tommy some time ago, asking to negotiate about importing car parts and subsequently firearms with a little bit of cocaine to sweeten the deal.

Conversations over the telephone were held until the man invited Tommy and his brothers to seal the deal in person. None of the Shelbys had been back in France since the War. It caused a knee-jerk reaction of disgust but it was a big deal that they couldn’t pass up.

Paris was nothing like the countryside they fought on. The city was electric and it was hard to believe the city had faced the same war only a few years prior.

“There is a table upstairs for you, Monsieur Dugas is waiting.” The man ushered the Blinders into the crowded venue. Tables crowded around a massive dance floor where a group of girls was putting on a show. Beautiful women wearing elaborate costumes covered in frills, gemstones, and feathers. Their outfits shimmered in the spotlights, a far cry from what would’ve been deemed appropriate only a few years ago. Shorthaired and hiking up their skirts, these girls captivated the audience, hypnotizing the men who dared glance their way. How could they look away from women dancing in such outfits?

Arthur and John were positively chuffed at the display and jostled each other as they climbed the stairs to the second level. The promenade that overlooked the dance floor was a bit tamer. Tables were set up against the railing allowing people a good view of the stage below. A bit quieter than the main floor, it was the perfect place for their meeting.

A man stood up when he saw the entourage approach. “Monsieur Shelby, thank you for joining me.”

“Mr. Dugas.” Tommy nodded politely and shook hands with the businessman.

“I trust you had a pleasant trip over from England?” The well-dressed man sat, gesturing for the rest to sit as well.

John and Arthur took a seat, leaving Finn and Isaiah to stand as guard though the younger men were distracted by the women around them.

Martin Dugas was a businessman to the core. Every drop of blood in his body was dedicated to the trade. Whether or not the things he did were legal wasn’t the issue.

A waiter arrived with an ice-cold bottle of champagne, letting Dugas inspect the label. “Gentlemen, champagne? Then we can talk business.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A deal was settled within the hour. Although his brothers were keen to drink through the entire negotiation process, Tommy kept his wits about him. He wasn’t going to let a wild environment and French champagne cloud his judgment. But once the deal was made, the two men shook hands to confirm. Contracts would be signed the next morning.

Once the ink on the contract began to dry, Finn and Isaiah to go mingle with the entertainment. Tommy waved them off with his hand, letting them have their fun. He wasn’t interested in the women at the cabaret, he was there purely on business and wasn't going to get caught up in the lights of the club.

“Whiskey, Tom. You can relax.” Arthur handed his brother a glass. “Got everything you want, din’t ya?”

Tommy nodded but he couldn’t help but scan the scene around them. John already had a pretty brunette perched on his lap and was flagging a waiter down for another whiskey. A woman clad in a corset and fishnets was giggling at every word Finn and Isaiah had to say, causing the men to practically drool all over her.

“Need to take a walk,” Tommy muttered. Standing up, he stubbed out his cigarette and went for the stairs. Pushing his way past a few partiers on the stairs, he made his way down to the first floor.

There were about a dozen girls on the dance floor, dancing to the live music that was loud enough to make the venue tremble. Some of the women on the dance floor were beckoning to men, luring them out to dance with them. Tommy ignored a few propositions to dance and continued towards the exit.

Tommy passed by a group of young men, most likely a stag party. They were all sloshing drunk and hollering at one of their mates who was doing his best to keep up with one of the dancers. It briefly reminded him of how he and his brothers once were. When they were younger and hadn’t been broken by the war. They often spent long nights out, getting drunk and high. Trying their best to win over the prettiest women at the bar.

Despite only walking past them, he caught a glimpse of one of the men grabbing roughly at the woman. A flash of discomfort crossed her face and she made a move away from him.

The party booed and taunted their friend. The man on the dance floor egged on, kicked out one of her heels bringing the woman to her knees in front of him.

Tommy heard her yelp of pain, a sharp contrast to the large brass section blaring away. The arrogance made something snap inside of Tommy and he wasn’t about to pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

The Blinder pushed past the stag party and out onto the dance floor. “Oi!” He barked.

The man who had grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair, startled at his shout. A clueless look passed over his drunk, glazed eyes. He said something in French but it was lost to the music.

Tommy grabbed him by the collar and spoke two words that he assumed the man would understand. If he didn’t know the words, he’d be able to translate the tone. “Fuck off.” He spat and shoved him back towards his friends.

The stag party began to act up again, shouting some angry words in French and making steps towards Tommy. But the Blinder quickly squashed their outrage by flicking open his coat and showing them the pistol in his holster. The flash of a gun was enough to make the drunk men hastily retreat.

The young woman was trying to get up off her knees. One of her hands went to her hair, the other resting on the filthy wood floor. She watched as a pair of shoes stopped in front of her. They were expensive, shined to perfection, and waited patiently.

The dancer looked up with tears in her eyes to see the man who saved her. Her knight in shining armor. Although he wore an expensive suit instead of armor. He had dark hair and stunningly cold blue eyes. He silently reached out a hand to her.

Shaking, she took his hand and allowed him to help her stand. “Merci.” She whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Tommy answered in English so she was aware he didn’t speak fluent French.

“You’re British?”

His forehead wrinkled in mild shock when he heard her accent. “You’re American?”

She nodded and let her hand slip from his. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Are you hurt?” He asked.

The dancer looked down at her heels. “I may have twisted my ankle but it’s nothing to fuss about.” She shrugged.

“Can you walk?”

She forced a smile. “Don’t need to walk. Just need to be able to dance.”

“Can you dance?”

“I have to unless I want to be fired.”

He frowned and glanced around them. “Won’t be fired while I’m here. C’mon, there a room you can sit down? Somewhere quieter? Maybe get you some ice for your ankle.” There was no room for negotiation in his tone.

Since he was a patron, she was supposed to give him what he wanted. And if he wanted her to go sit in the back room while he fetched her ice, then who was she to deny him?

“We can use one of the dressing rooms.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

After Tommy retrieved some ice from the bar, the dancer led him to the back hallway. Although the music could still be heard and felt through the walls, it was much quieter behind the scenes. There were many dressing rooms, able to hold about ten girls at a time, but there was only one that was empty. Costumes and props were scattered around cluttering the space. Women rushed around the mess trying to get ready for an upcoming act.

Tommy helped the woman onto a chair and grabbed a towel left hanging by a mirror. He poured the ice into the towel and tied it up like a sack before pulling up a chair and setting it up in front of her. “Set it up here. Need to keep it elevated ‘fore it swells.”

She obeyed quietly and let him gently place the fashioned ice pack onto her ankle. “Thank you…”

“Shelby, Tommy Shelby.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby. You’re much kinder than other men I’ve met.” She leaned down to remove her heels.

“Are you going to tell me your name too or are you meant to keep that secret?” He pulled out his cigarette tin and offered one to her.

“Some girls take aliases.” She admitted. “My name’s Kate though.” She let him light the cigarette.

The two sat in silence for a moment, smoking and stuck in their own heads.

“So, what’s a girl like you doing here in Paris, aye?” Tommy wondered.

“I uh…” Kate made herself busy by fussing with the ice on her ankle and fixing her hair. “My father had debts and they were after my family. So I came here to get away from that life I was just a dancer at home. A ballet dancer.” Her green eyes lit up with joy when she mentioned her passion. The love she had to leave behind. Still, the joy was short-lived. “But I wasn’t making any money so I came here. They pay better and well…dreams aren’t meant to pay the bills, are they?”

“Are you not just a dancer here?”

She laughed bitterly, the joy instantly leaving her eyes and leaving behind a residue of bitter disappointment. “We aren’t dressed like this for fun, Mr. Shelby.”

He nodded in understanding. “They made you a whore.”

“I prefer the term courtesan but I suppose it’s no improvement.” Kate sighed and tilted forward. Twisting an arm back she tried to loosen the laces of her corset so she could breathe a little easier. “So, Mr. Shelby, if you’re British then what are you doing here?”

“Business.” He replied. “Ordinary business.”

Kate studied his appearance. The man clearly had wealth. He wore a three-piece suit that looked either nicely tailored or custom made. But there was something about the look in his eyes that gave off an air of danger. It was unlike Kate had ever seen in the eyes of a wealthy man. It was evident that he wasn’t someone who inherited his money or struck it rich by chance. He’d worked hard and it had paid off. It was still too early to tell how he’d acquired his wealth. “I meet a lot of businessmen in my line of work.”

“I can imagine.” Tommy was sure that hole-in-the-wall brothels were much cheaper than the cabaret. “How about politicians?”

She let out a nervous laugh and shrugged. “I’m not supposed to say. They expect confidentiality.”

A glint of mischief formed in his blue eyes. The spark of youth that diminished the dark circles under his eyes. “Royalty?”

“If you must know, there was a prince. But that’s all I’m able to say!”

He chuckled and took another drag of his cigarette. “How long d’you think it’ll be before things die down with your family in America?” He wondered.

Kate’s face fell. “I don’t know. My father didn’t tell me how much he owes. 'Sides I doubt he'll ever be able to pay it off.”

Tommy had often been on the debtor’s end of things. Bars and businesses that were well behind what they owed to the Shelby Company. When it warranted a visit, he sent his brothers or sometimes went himself. If violence was necessary, then they could be violent. It didn’t bother them much.

In a moment of weakness, Kate unleashed some pent up frustration. “I’m just sick of being here. I make more than I did at home but I’m still barely getting by. The city is so expensive. I feel like I ought to be living in a penthouse for the amount I’m paying for rent. And I can’t ask for help from anyone. I don’t have any family or friends here. They’re so awful to me here, call me stupid an-and worthless. I’m just so alone and I…” Her eyes met Tommy and she realized she was venting to a complete stranger. “I’m so sorry.” She snapped back into the calm demeanor she was meant to have in front of patrons. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

It occurred to Tommy that he most definitely caused people to flee their homes. Whether it be because of their own mistakes or those of their family member’s, it didn’t matter. The Peaky Blinders had a violent reputation and it was enough to send people running for safety. Safety, but perhaps a worse off situation than before. Hearing Kate air her grievances made him step back and think about the people he’d displaced. “Will you return to America?” His voice quieted as if muted by the thoughts overwhelming his brain.

“I’m not sure.” Kate tried not to think about the future. It did her no good to hope for something that might be so far away. “I’d like to return to a ballet company if I’m able to.”

Tommy’s fingers tapped nervously at his knee. He was getting the urge to do something that was a little unorthodox even by his own standards. Guilt stirred up in his stomach as he thought about the families he might’ve separated in the past. “I may have connections in America. If I were to pay off your father’s debt, I could find you a place there.”

Kate’s eyes widened. “Mr. Shelby that is…” What could the man possibly want in exchange? She couldn’t even imagine what he would proposition next. “I’m not sure what you’d like in return but I…I don’t know if…”

“Nothing in return.” He promised coolly. “Consider it a favor to pay forward in the future.” He gestured with his cigarette.

Every bit of her body wanted to launch forward and seize the opportunity. But it seemed too good to be true. And she knew she couldn’t return to America. “I appreciate that, Mr. Shelby. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to go back to my home for quite some time. I’ve burned too many bridges and have too many enemies.”

It was suspicious that a beautiful woman would possibly have one enemy let alone multiple ones. “What sort of enemies?”

She peered at him with reservation. “Enemies of my father. Why do you ask?” When he simply shrugged, she began to pick up on his game. “You’re not just a normal businessman are you?”

His facial expression didn’t flinch at all. “I assure you I meet the definition of a businessman.”

His blunt response made her laugh. “I’ve met my share of gangsters, Mr. Shelby, you can’t fool me.”

The corner of his lips turned up ever so slightly. “What sort of enemies, Kate?”

She adjusted the ice on her ankle and tugged her knees closer to her chest. “Hand me that coat?” She requested instead of answering.

Tommy glanced over his shoulder to where she was pointing. There was a rack of clothing that was waiting to be adorned for the enjoyment of men. Glitter outfits trimmed with fringe that went longer than the skirt hemlines. Elaborate garments with intricate beading and laced with feathers. A careful design that would be lost in the bright lights and under the stares of leering men. Tossed over the rack was a deep navy blue coat with gray fur lining the collar. He handed it over to her, watching as she draped it over her fishnet-covered legs.

Kate finished her cigarette and instantly reached for another one. She needed to relax and the conversation they were having didn’t help. She held out the fresh cigarette for Tommy to light.

He obliged, still awaiting her response.

But she kept him in suspense, taking a few drags. The proper façade of a showgirl. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Italians in Chicago.” She leaned an elbow on the back of her chair, reclining slightly like a centerfold flapper dream. Smoke curling around her bobbed blonde hair. Her eyes framed with kohl and lips painted a dark red.

“I am.” He answered.

“And the Irish in Boston.”

Again, Tommy nodded.

“Let’s just say I’ve had my run ins with them both.”

“Enemies of your father.”

“Correct. They like to use family members against you.” She smiled bitterly and shrugged.

Tommy studied her face but she wasn’t letting much on. There was something unsettling about her backstory but who was he to question it? If anything, a possible informant could be useful if she knew more than she was letting on. “Anything damning you might know?”

She laughed and wagged a finger at him. “Are you trying to loosen my lips, Mr. Shelby?”

He didn’t smile but instead nodded. “You don’t want to be here.” He waved a hand around the dressing room. “You know you deserve more respect than what you get here. If you’ve got information I can use, I’ll compensate you well.”

Kate tilted forward as if her interest was piqued and narrowed her eyes. “What sort of compensation?”

“You name the price.”

There was a slight break in her calm demeanor. A tell of vulnerability. The prospect of leaving Paris with a substantial sum of money in her pocket was alluring. She wouldn’t have to spend each and every night trying to attract attention. Try to pretend she was in love with strangers just so they would pay her more. She chewed on her lip for a moment. There was a chance the information she gave would be traced back to her. The information Tommy wanted could possibly uproot her secrets so she needed to be cautious. A misstep could cause her the life she built in France to come tumbling down in an instant. “I know some names.”

“Names aren’t good enough.”

Kate wrung her hands together. To the average onlooker, it might appear that she was nervous about giving information because it could threaten her safety. Instead, she was nervous because she was lying about who she even was. “I know bootleggers. People my father pissed off.”

If Tommy had been careful enough, he would question how the woman knew so much or who her father was. But he was drunk. Drunk on the possibility of information he could use to build his empire. Perhaps get more gin smuggled in. Buy more property. Expand the company worldwide. He pointed his cigarette at her, his lips turning up in a smile. “Now you’re talking.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Tommy helped Kate out of her fur coat upon entering the hotel suite. The luxury of the ornate room wasn’t new to her. She had spent plenty of time in lavish rooms being spoiled by expensive food, fine wines, and Egyptian cotton. The black, white, and gold embellishments of the Art Deco style was familiar to her. She was used to the light of glittering chandeliers and passing by her reflection in the many mirrored surfaces.

Although the expensive decor wasn’t any comfort to Kate. Not when she had to fake affection and love. In fact, the atmosphere of hotels had begun to make her nauseous. She knew what was awaiting her.

But it still wasn’t exactly clear if those were Tommy’s same intentions. He had expressed interest in what she knew but not her services. Still, he was a man. A man who had become accustomed to the finer things in life and that no doubt included expensive courtesans.

Kate had changed out of her stage costume before departing with Tommy. She left under the guise that he was an expensive client who wanted to take her somewhere a little more intimate. To complete the appearance, she left in a seductive jade colored dress. The one made of silk that left little to the imagination and had a scandalous open back.

Tommy noticed this very quickly as she walked over to the sofa. The silk shifted with every movement, clinging to her body and revealing the curve of her hips. He cleared his throat and hung her coat up on the rack by the door. He was careful to maintain his appearance of business by leaving everything on but his coat. This wasn’t a situation to be comfortable with. He still knew very little about this woman.

“Drink?” Tommy asked while moving to the liquor cart by the large windows. He looked down on the lights of Paris still sparkling in the night.

“Do you have wine?” Kate settled on the plush sofa, grateful to be off of her sore ankle. She reached down to take off her heels and inspect the area. Luckily there didn’t appear to be much swelling.

“Merlot.” He answered after inspecting the lone wine bottle among the liquor.

She made a face. “I prefer Chardonnay. Don’t particularly like red. I’ll just have gin.”

Tommy poured her a glass of gin and whiskey for himself. He walked over with the glasses and set them down on the table by the sofa. He took a seat across from her so they could talk.

“Do you have someone back in England, Mr. Shelby?” Kate wondered. It seemed unfathomable that a handsome and wealthy man like himself wasn’t married. But perhaps he’d simply taken off his wedding band while he was in the Moulin Rouge. Some men did that, some didn’t seem to care and left them on. Kate wasn’t sure which was a worse sin.

Tommy’s mind went to the blonde barmaid he left behind in Birmingham. Grace had captured his attention but it had been a long while since he’d allowed himself to succumb to love. He hadn’t opened his heart up since he lost Greta. But he was getting dangerously close to that territory with Grace. “I’m not married.”

“Hm.” Kate didn’t remark on his answer. But it led her to believe there was someone. It was anyone’s guess why he was keeping it a secret.

“Tell me what you know about the Americans.” Tommy redirected the conversation.

She took a drink of the gin and grimaced at the taste. “I don’t understand why Europeans like their gin so bitter.”

He crossed his arms over her chest and stared at her. For a moment, he doubted his decision to bring her back to the hotel. She could’ve been reading his reactions and telling him what he wanted to know. Could this all be a ruse to get something out of him? Blackmail? Maybe she wanted a free ride to England or even back to America. What if she didn’t know anything?

Kate raised an eyebrow at his expression of displeasure. “Are you always so serious, Mr. Shelby?” She asked.

“I asked you a question.”

“And I asked you a different one.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “I’m not here to play games. Either you know something or you’re wasting my time.”

Kate looked slightly amused despite his intense tone. “I grew up in South Boston. They call us Southies. There’s a group there that runs all of the bootlegging operations.”

“The Gustin Gang.” Tommy nodded as this wasn’t news to him. “I’m aware. I’ve done my share of research.” It was necessary to do such investigations if he was really going to expand overseas.

“Then you’ll know that they’re weak. Easy to take over if you’re strong enough.” Kate leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “But if you’re so smart, Mr. Shelby, then you won’t need my assistance.”

He balked a little. Yes, he knew about most of the active gangs that controlled the smuggling operations on the east coast as well as Chicago and Detroit. But he didn’t have enough intel to know how they operated or what their weaknesses and strengths were. “I brought you here to give me information.” He replied without explicitly saying that he needed her help. Admitting that would only give her power.

“There are Italians in the North End, lots of them. It doesn’t matter what city you’re in, Boston, New York, Chicago, the Irish hate the Italians and vice versa. Neither of them like to share control. They’re looking for allies, strong allies.”

Tommy considered what she was saying. It was much like London, various gangs all pushing and shoving each other for a larger piece of the pie. Would the Americans find a relationship mutually beneficial? Could he even trust them? Could he trust that Kate wasn’t looking out for her own interests?

“That’s very vague.” He responded.

Her confident demeanor wavered a little. “Well, more in-depth information could get me in trouble. I don’t want to risk that for a man I don’t know very well.”

So they were at a stalemate. Both of them standing with their backs against the wall so neither of them could stab the other when they weren’t paying attention.

“You were in the war,” Kate concluded.

He eyed her for a moment before nodded. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here. Northern France.” The break in the conversation gave Tommy a chance to find his cigarettes and light one.

Kate watched him. Each movement deliberate and firm. He was a man who hid his weaknesses well. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have any. All men had a weakness. So did women. “You must hate America for coming so late.”

His blue eyes didn’t meet hers as he lit the cigarette. “There were many people to blame. I’ve got more important things to deal with now.”

Little did he know, the woman in front of him had been through trauma. No, she hadn’t been in an active battlefield but she’d fought her own personal wars. Came across enemies who were ruthless. Suffered enough to warrant building up her defenses.

Tommy decided to throw her an incentive. He wasn’t there to talk about the war. “You want to get out of here. If you can’t go back to America would you want to come to England.”

Although she perked up, Kate was suspicious about his intentions. She hadn’t given him enough information to warrant a reward. He’d been vague about his relationship status. Maybe he wanted to bring her along as some sort of toy. “I don’t want to be a whore.” She replied. “Not here, not in America, and not in England.

“What else are you good at?” Tommy replied callously even though he didn’t intend to come off so harsh.

She scoffed, her eyes widening in disbelief. “You mean what am I good at beside fucking men?” Her voice was incredulous.

“I didn’t-”

“I’m not an object, Mr. Shelby, I have plenty of redeeming qualities. Or do you have your head so far up your own ass that you can’t see that?” She demanded.

He subtly rolled his eyes. The woman was testing his patience. “Are you using me?”

“Are you using me? ” She retorted.

Another stalemate. Neither of them looked away or softened their glare. It was as if the world had never seen such a dramatic clash of personalities. A mysterious woman who held valuable information, although it was questionable how she acquired it. And a man who wanted nothing more than to rule an empire but had severely lost his trust for others.

Kate decided to break the tense silence. “Mr. Shelby, you must understand that I fled America for a reason. I’m not looking to stir up the pot again and have them out for blood. They have no issue sending men to come and find me. If I give you information that can be traced back to me, then I have a problem.”

Tommy prided himself on being a good judge of character. He rarely trusted anyone that was outside of his immediate family. It was easy for him to pick up on tells that someone was lying. And he saw the hint of fear hidden behind Kate’s slate-colored eyes. He cleared his throat and stood up to pour himself another whiskey. “Say I were to trust you. You gave me the information I want and in exchange, you come to Birmingham with me. I can give you work at my company. Legitimate work.” He clarified before she argued with him again. “If your information checks out and is valuable, you’ll be compensated. And if there’s a threat on your life, you’ll be under the Peaky Blinders’ protection.”

Kate fidgeted and was a little uneasy with the proposition. But it was the only lifeline she had to get out of Paris. She had men promising her large sums of money before. Enough cash to leave the Moulin Rouge and find a life of her own. But they were hollow promises that were never kept. They promised to bring her home and provide her with everything. But what was expected from her in return made her sick.

Tommy could be holding out. Maybe he would break his promise once he got what he wanted. Maybe he would bring her to Birmingham and still treat her like a whore. Still, the walls were closing in on Kate. She didn’t have another option. It was a calculated risk, but it was a risk for Tommy as well. Maybe that was why she stood up and reached out to shake his hand. Sealing the deal.

//This is cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad. Anywhere else is not my account. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future posts

Permanent Tag: @sansajonsastark

Masterlist

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelbyxoc #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinder fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #cillian murphy #cillian murphy character #ofc #oc #moulin rouge #paris #1920s

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sqoiler · 5 years

Text

spoiler: into the stephanie-verse

Lex Luthor made a multiverse machine, in order to mine Kryptonite from other dimensions. It was kinda a good idea, except the machine was faulty, and kept dragging other stuff from the multiverse into Lex’s earth as well.

The League was dispatched to deal with the alternate versions of themselves that were brought into their Earth. Before he left, Batman assigned everyone in Gotham to guard the city from the various monsters and Rogues who roamed the city.

Spoiler had just finished a fight with a female version of Oswald Cobblepot and was headed to Nightwing to help him deal with a pair of mischievous twins, when the air in front of her opened up and a dark shaped tumbled through. Spoiler grabbed her bo-staff and dropped into a crouch, wary.

The shape sat up, and Spoiler absorbed the dark cape and pointy ears, the purple flashes on the suit, and the golden curls tumbling down her back.

Spoiler met her own eyes.

“Shit,” the other girl said, and she stood, brushing off her knees. Spoiler lowered her bo-staff and straightened, looking at herself curiously. “Did you pull me here?”

“No,” Spoiler said. “Lex Luthor made a machine….”

“Say no more,” the other girl said, and Spoiler noticed a yellow bat emblazoned on her chest. Her mouth fell open.

“Batgirl?” she gasped. She vaguely recognized the suit from the images of the other timeline that she’d seen, months ago.

“Yeah,” Batgirl said. “And you’re Spoiler. I haven’t been Spoiler in years, but you make it work. I like the half-mask, it’s nice.”

“Thanks,” Spoiler said, feeling a little ridiculous. “Sorry, I’ve never met an alternate version of myself before.”

“Me neither,” Batgirl admitted. “Although you always hear about it, don’t you.”

“Yeah,” Spoiler agreed. This was seriously surreal. Seeing herself--same height, a little longer hair, but standing so confidently? Spoiler blinked and told herself not to compare. They were different, after all. “So, Batgirl, huh? How’d...how’d you land that?”

“Cass gave it to me,” Batgirl said, shrugging. “When B died. But he’s back now, don’t worry.”

“Huh,” Spoiler said, and she remembered the mentions of Cass as Batgirl, too. “So where’s Babs, then?”

“You mean Babs is still Batgirl in your universe?” Batgirl asked, eyes wide. “This universe?” She gestured around them. Spoiler nodded.

“Yeah, nobody else has ever been Batgirl,” Spoiler said.

“That’s so fucking weird,” Batgirl said. “Babs hasn’t been Batgirl since before I started out, and that was like five years ago. You mean she didn’t get shot?”

“She did, but there was an implant,” Spoiler said. “So she’s better.”

“Wow. That’s great but--how do you survive without Oracle?” Batgirl asked. “I want my universe back.”

Spoiler agreed with her, and wondered how to put her back. Should she take her to Batman? Hm. For all the multiverse shenanigans she’d heard about, she really didn’t know how to deal with them, what the protocol was.

“Let’s go find Drake,” Spoiler said. “He just got back from a multiverse adventure.”

“Drake? Like the rapper?”

“No, like Tim. My boyfriend? It’s his new code name.”

“Tim picked his own fucking last name? That’s so stupid,” Batgirl said, and although Spoiler agreed, she didn’t say that. Spoiler checked her trackers, and found that Drake was across the city. She got out her grapple, and Batgirl did the same.

“Wait,” Batgirl called a minute later, when they were already in the air. They landed on the roof of the next building and Spoiler turned to her expectantly. “Did you say that he’s your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Spoiler said. “Is he not?”

“Not since like, middle school!” Batgirl cried, and Spoiler rolled her eyes.

“We don’t live in the same universe,” she reminded her. “Our Tims are probably totally different.”

“Yeah, right,” Batgirl said, and then there was a flash of purple light and Spoiler turned to face it. Two people appeared. One of them was in a purple bodysuit with a lightning bolt emblazoned on the chest, blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. The other was wearing fishnet tights and a leather jacket, an armored purple unitard under the jacket and a skirt over that. Her blonde hair was long, nearly to her elbows, and free-flowing. The new pair blinked at Spoiler and Batgirl.

“Holyfuckthat’susbutBats,” the girl with the lightning bolts said, her words tipping over each other, and Spoiler said, “Before today, I’d never been involved in multiverse shenanigans, and now this!”

She gestured at the duo.

“I’m Dart,” the speedster-Steph said, holding out a hand. Spoiler shook it, dumbfounded.

“I’m Canary,” the other Steph said. “Violet Canary, but generally they just call me Canary.”

“Like Red and Gold Canaries,” Dart said gleefully.

“....No,” Canary said. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Black Canary’s partners,” Dart said, rolling her eyes. “Cass and Jason.”

“Cass and Jason are Bats,” Batgirl said. “Not Canaries.”

“Not in my world,” Dart said. “What, in your universe is everyone a Bat?”

“Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Damian, Babs, Duke,” Spoiler rattled off.

“Duke?” Batgirl asked.

“Yeah, none of those people are Bats in my world,” Dart said. “Dick’s a Super, Cass and Jason are Canaries, Damian’s a Lantern, Tim’s a Martian, Duke’s a Wonder, and Babs is Aquagirl. Or, well, she used to be, before the accident.”

“See?” Batgirl demanded, gesturing at Spoiler.

“I didn’t give her the implant!” Spoiler said. “It happened before I even started crime-fighting!”

“She’s not Oracle in your universe?” Canary asked, looking wildly startled. Spoiler threw her hands up.

“Sorry that you guys landed in a garbage universe, I guess,” she said, and Dart patted her shoulder.

“So this is your place, huh? Kinda nice,” she said. “You know, I’ve never really been in Gotham before? Not since I moved away, anyway.”

“Yeah, how the fuck are you a speedster?” Canary asked. “I’m not even a meta, and my job depends on me having superpowers.”

“I was going to ask the same question,” Batgirl said.

“I mean, basically the same way everyone else did,” Dart said. “I made Wally tell me how he did it, who made Barry tell him how he did it, who made Jay tell him how he did it. And, uh, the rest is history.”

“But why were you with Wally--? Never mind,” Spoiler said. “We really need to find Drake.”

At Dart and Canary’s confused looks, Batgirl said in a loud whisper, “As in Tim. That’s his new codename. And yeah, we know it’s stupid.”

“Thank you, Batgirl,” Spoiler said loudly. “Let’s just go, yeah?”

“Won’t Batman snipe me?” Dart asked, and Canary asked Batgirl for a spare grapple.

“He’s out of town,” Spoiler said. “Just follow us.”

“Sure thing,” Dart said. “Wait, what’s your codename?”

“Spoiler,” Spoiler said. “You mean you were never…?”

“I used to be Kid Flash, but never ‘Spoiler’, whoever that is,” Dart said. “Sorry.”

“Even I was Spoiler, and I’m not even a Bat,” Canary said, and Dart said, “Okay, we get it, I’m a weirdo among Stephanies. Let’s go.”

They went, and Spoiler wondered if the other Bats were also dealing with themselves. She was leading the way, which was weird, because she never led any ways. Maybe if it was just her and Tim, or something.

Below her, Spoiler caught sight of a swarm of Clayfaces, and she had to stop. She yelled to the others to help her, and they dropped into the alley below.

Fighting with only herself as backup was weird, Spoiler thought. Batgirl threw batarangs that had stuff inside them. Dart sped around confusing the Clayfaces and Spoiler brought her bo-staff down hard on one, but it just sloshed through his arm. Oops.

“Cover your ears!” Canary yelled, and she threw a little device at a Clayface. It screamed, a loud noise that was what Spoiler assumed the Canary Cry sounded like. The Clayfaces barely reacted.

From above, a dark shape descended. Spoiler could’ve cried in relief, even though she was sure it wasn’t her own Batman.

Batman threw a device at a Clayface, which sent out some sort of signal that froze all the Clayfaces that weren’t already frozen by Batgirl’s batarangs. Icearangs? Whatever.

Quick work was made of the Clayfaces, and then Batman led the Stephs back into the air.

“You saved us!” Dart said.

“Yes,” Batman said. Spoiler inspected their new friend. This Batman was shorter than Bruce, and the bat across her chest was purple. The eyes on the cowl glowed with purple light, but it was still unmistakably Batman. She had on purple lipstick, and Spoiler spotted a scar near her mouth. She knew who this was.

“Holy shit,” Spoiler breathed, and beside her, the others seemed to come to the same conclusion. “You’re me.”

“I would argue that I’m me,” Batman said, her mouth twisting into a smirk. “But yes, I am another Stephanie Wayne.”

“Wayne?” Spoiler and Batgirl cried at the same time.

“Fuck,” Dart said. “If that isn’t a weird last name to think of me having.”

“It makes sense that circumstances would differ,” Canary said. “Although in my universe, I was never truly a Bat.”

“But Wayne?” Spoiler said, waving her hands.

“Bruce actually adopted you?” Batgirl asked.

“No,” Batman said. “He left a portion of the estate to me in his will, and after I took up the mantle I changed my last name.”

“What the fuck,” Spoiler said, and Batgirl seemed of the same mind.

“Why are you panicking? It’s not that weird,” Dart said. “And I mean, clearly you all aren’t Stephanie Allen.”

“Allen?” Batgirl repeated, her voice an octave higher.

“Sweet Jesus,” Batman said, and Spoiler pushed that image aside for examining at a later time. “The pair of you never shed ‘Brown’, didn’t you.”

“No!” Spoiler cried.

“I’ve never even thought that was an option!” Batgirl said, sounding distraught.

“I’ve just been daydreaming about the day Tim proposes so I can be anything besides a Brown,” Spoiler admitted.

“That’s disgusting,” Batman said. “You and Tim, really?”

“Why not?” Spoiler demanded. “Everyone seems to be of the same mind--what’s wrong with him?”

“I mean, besides that he’s an asshole?” Batgirl asked. “Uh, two words: Super. Girl.”

“I’ve never even met Supergirl,” Spoiler said, struggling to imagine herself dating Supergirl.

“Tim’s dead,” Batman said flatly. “But I agree with Batgirl’s assessment.”

“I think Supergirl and Babs have a thing going on?” Dart said. “Maybe? But anyway I’m more of a Wonder Girl kinda gal myself.”

“Ditto,” Canary said.

“Okay, I get it, you guys are hetero-shaming me,” Spoiler said, lifting her hands up. “For the record, I am bisexual.”

“Good,” Batman said.

“Although, speaking of my lovely boyfriend, I should probably tell him about this….Stephplosion,” Spoiler said, waving her arms at them. She put her finger to her ear to comm Drake, but then the air folded in on itself on a roof within Spoiler’s line of sight and she saw a flash of a familiar color that made her blood boil.

“Shit,” she said.

“What?” Dart asked. Spoiler pointed.

“There was some….orange over there,” she said significantly.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Batgirl said. “If I have to deal with alternate Cluemasters I’m going to slaughter someone.”

“We need to check it out,” Batman said.

“I’m only agreeing since there’s five of us,” Canary said.

“I haven’t seen Arthur since I was eleven and I’m not about to start now,” Dart said, and Spoiler pushed down a surge of jealousy. Batman led the way, grabbing Dart to carry her across the gap.

They stopped at the edge of the roof and looked down at the kid--the kid!--who was sitting on the rooftop below them.

She had on an orange skirt and shirt with blue suspenders. Her tights--also orange--were ripped and she had on orange combat boots. Her bandana was pulled down from her face to rest around her neck, and her blonde hair was in tangles.

Spoiler stared her thirteen year old self in the face and thought about fainting.

“What the fuck,” Batgirl said flatly.

“Don’t hit me!” the kid cried, scrambling to her feet. She had braces, Spoiler noted dimly. “Who are you? What happened?”

“We’re in an alternate universe,” Batman said. “Something’s wrong with the multiverse.”

“Lex Luthor,” Spoiler provided, dazed. “Mining for Kryptonite. Batman--my Batman--is taking care of it.”

“Oh,” tiny, orange Steph said. “So...who are you, then?”

Batman pulled off her cowl. Her blonde hair was short and messy and her face was--old. Spoiler pegged her to be late twenties, probably. Huh. The other Stephs were all teenagers like Spoiler.

“Stephanie,” Batman said, her real voice jarring after the modulated one was gone. “I’m you, okay?”

“In an alternate universe, I’m Batman?” the younger Steph whispered.

“Yes,” Batman said, her voice soft and kind of tender. Spoiler wondered what experience she had with kids. She realized that she could have a Robin. “And that’s Batgirl, and Dart, and Canary, and Spoiler. We’re all you.”

“Spoiler?” the younger Steph said, her eyes wide. “Holy fuck.”

“Language,” Batman said.

“I’m thirteen, not a child.” The younger Steph turned and pulled off her backpack. “Look!” She opened it and pulled out a homemade black bodysuit and hooded cape. “Here’s my Spoiler outfit.”

“I’m going to cry,” Batgirl said. Spoiler’s heart was doing something weird, looking at this tiny version of herself wearing Cluemaster orange.

“Oh, yeah, well. Being Spoiler is my biggest secret,” younger Steph said, putting her costume back away.

“Why are you dressed like that, then?” Dart asked.

“Well,” Steph said, drawing out the word. “I thought Dad might, like, kill me if I didn’t say yes when he asked, so I’m Cluekid by day and Spoiler at night. But, uh, I’m working on bringing down the empire from the inside.”

“Empire?” Spoiler repeated.

“Yeah, Dad’s criminal empire,” Cluekid said. “I’m taking it down.”

“Criminal empire?” Batgirl said, sounding shocked.

“By yourself?” Batman asked, putting her cowl back on. Cluekid pulled up her bandana.

“Yeah, it’s like...someone’s gotta do it, right?”

“Was anyone else’s Cluemaster, like, vaguely incompentent at best?” Batgirl asked, and Spoiler and Canary rose their hands. “Criminal empire, really?”

“It’s super fun that you guys weren’t Cluekid, but leave me alone about it,” Cluekid said. “My dad’s the real deal.”

“Then what’s your plan for when he finds out you betrayed him?” Batman asked. Cluekid blinked slowly.

“Well,” she said, then she stopped.

“You don’t have a plan,” Dart said knowingly. “I can relate.”

“No, she does,” Batman said, horrified.

“You’re just gonna let yourself die?” Spoiler asked. Cluekid shrugged, her arms going up past her head.

“If I have to!” she cried. “Someone’s gotta take him down and I’m the only one who can!”

“Dying’s no big D,” Batgirl said. “I do it all the time.”

Everyone turned to face her.

“I mean, once, but that’s like, more than most people do it,” she amended, and Spoiler shook her head.

“Jesus christ,” she said. “I have to get you guys out of here. I’m going to call Drake, and we’re going to find out how to return you guys. Except maybe Cluekid, cause your universe sucks.”

“Yeah, well, your universe has people leaking into it, so it can’t be all that great,” Cluekid shot back, and Spoiler had to admit she had a point.

While they grappled towards the other end of town, Batman carrying Cluekid and Dart running below them, Spoiler put in a call.

“Batman,” she said. “I have five alternate versions of myself with me.”

“Five Spoilers?” her own Batman asked, his voice gruff.

“Five Stephanies,” she corrected. “A Batgirl, a speedster, a Canary, a kid, and, well. A Batman.”

“Interesting,” Batman said. “Luthor has been apprehended and once I turn off the machine, everyone should return to normal.”

“Okay,” Spoiler said, and Batman disconnected. Spoiler stopped grappling and the group gathered around her. “According to my Batman, you guys should just...go back soon.”

“It’s been nice getting to know you,” Canary said. “Although really weird.”

“Agreed,” Dart said. “I can’t imagine being a Bat.”

“I wish that would happen to me,” Cluekid said. “But…”

“It’ll be okay, kiddo,” Batman said.

“Hey,” Spoiler said. “Batman, do you have a Robin? You’re pretty good with kids.”

“Yeah,” Batman said, smiling. “Her name is Carrie.”

“Hell yeah,” Batgirl said, raising her hand for a fistbump. Batman obliged, and from the corner of her eye Spoiler saw the universe begin folding in on itself.

“Damn, this is me,” Dart said, looking at the wrinkle in the air. It was tied to her leg, so not a difficult conclusion to make. “Well, it’s been nice knowing you ladies. I wish all of you every success--especially you, Lil Steph.”

“Thanks,” Cluekid said, and Spoiler nodded at Dart before she vanished in a puff of purple lightning.

“I’m going to turn on my earplugs,” Canary said. “Who knows what’ll happen when I get back--but anyway, I’m going to be in the dark, hearing-wise.”

“Okay,” Spoiler said, a little confused, and Canary gave everyone a smile.

“It’s been real,” she said, and then she turned on her earplugs. She signed something at them--Spoiler knew only a few signs and couldn’t keep up. Batgirl nodded thoughtfully.

“What’d she say?” Spoiler asked.

“Oh, I have no clue,” Batgirl said. “Come to think of it, the signs me and Cass use aren’t strictly ‘real’ sign language.”

“She said that she turns off her hearing so it’s not damaged by the canary cry,” Batman said. Everyone looked at her. “What? My brother was mute and he had to talk somehow.”

“Brother?” Spoiler repeated, and Batman said, “Damian.”

Damian, mute?

Damian, Steph’s brother?

“I’m leaving,” Canary said loudly, and they turned to face her. She was vanishing just like Dart, and she gave a little wave, then pointed at Batman, who was also disappearing.

“Goodbye,” Batman said, and then she and Canary were gone, leaving Spoiler with Batgirl and Cluekid.

“I’m gonna be real with you guys,” Cluekid said. “I know it’s only been like two minutes but seeing myself, older and with a place in the world….it’s pretty inspiring to think that in another universe I grow up to be Batman.”

“Maybe you still can,” Spoiler suggested, thinking that she didn’t like the idea of this tiny version of herself planning her own death.

“I don’t think so,” Cluekid said, smiling sadly.

“I’ve been through a lot of shit,” Batgirl said. “I’ve even died before. You can’t let any of that stop you, okay? You just gotta push through it.”

“Keep on coming back,” Spoiler said.

“However long it takes,” Batgirl said. Cluekid blinked, tears welling in her eyes, and then she reached for Spoiler and Batgirl, tugging them both into a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Spoiler said, ruffling her hair, and then Cluekid was gone.

“Damn,” Batgirl said. “She says she’s inspired by us, but I’m inspired by her. She’s so brave.”

“Yeah, I know,” Spoiler said, her throat sort of rough. “Geez.”

“Well, it’s my turn next,” Batgirl said. “So, uh. Bye? I guess.”

“Have fun in your universe,” Spoiler said. “With Oracle and Supergirl.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” Batgirl said. “Have fun with….Drake. Seriously, we give you shit, but if he’s good for you--”

“He is,” Spoiler said, trying not to think of their breakups.

“Then that’s all there is to it, isn’t it,” Batgirl said. She grinned, and the air behind her began to fold. “Oh, what timing!”

“Goodbye, Batgirl,” Spoiler said.

“Bye, Spoiler,” Batgirl said. “You know, it’s nice to see that somewhere out there, we’re still in the mantle we created.”

“And it’s nice to see that we’re in a mantle given to us,” Spoiler said, and Batgirl grinned.

“Hell yeah it is,” she said, and then she was gone, and Spoiler was left alone.

She sighed, and kept moving.

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

dart from here & here

canary from here

batman from here

cluekid from here--(don’t worry--she doesn’t actually die!)

(all are my own work!)

& then spoiler’s from rebirth and batgirl’s from preboot canon AMEN

#stephanie brown #bruce wayne #my writing #anti tim drake #this is just stephanies roasting each other (but especially the reboot version lol)#long post

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frostboundknight · 6 years

Text

Paths Carved In Ice

Chapter 2 - Fragments of the Past

Agmar’s Hammer hadn’t changed much truly in the time since Zanthaen had been there last. The dark metal walls lined with spikes and fires spread round still stood out amidst the forest. Some of the faces were different, that much the death knight had expected though. He earned a few odd looks at first which was also something Zanthaen had anticipated. If his eyes weren’t a dead giveaway then the armor certainly was or perhaps the deathcharger at his side. Dark and with the occasional skull etched and emblazoned onto the plate armor he was an intimidating figure. The dual blades at his hips were wickedly edged and glowing dimly. The pale skin and stern countenance further solidified that he was not someone to be trifled with.

A few conversations paused as they strode by and into the heart of the camp. Blue eyes looked around noting the differences he could easily see before plate armored feet started off again to carry him to the inn. If Zanthaen had paid more attention in the past he would have recognized the innkeeper to be the same but he’d tried to make his prior stays as short as possible. Ever since his death and rebirth he’d never quite felt comfortable with the bustling cities, or even the smaller settlements. Still he made his way inside and after a few short words had a bed for the night and a spot in the stable for his steed.

Zanthaen frowned as he set his pack down. Calling it a bed was truly a stretch. The death knight was of the opinion ‘fishnet hammock’ would have been a more accurate description. Still it was his for the evening and would be better than sleeping unguarded in the elements. While some of the threats had been dealt with in the time since the Lich King’s fall it didn’t mean all the dangerous elements were gone. Especially those that took great offense at the part the Knights of the Ebon Blade played in their former master’s downfall. Those not so unlike the cultist Zanthaen had run across on his way here.

With his pack settled and his swords propped within easy arm’s reach the death knight drew himself onto the hammock. Zanthaen didn’t lay down at first, instead he sat thinking over the last time he’d been here. Before the Lich King’s fall. It seemed so long ago now and he’d seen so many places since. After consigning himself to the Horde like so many of his fellow death knights had he’d been stationed where they needed him. Where they needed a merciless killing machine. Zanthaen frowned, a brief wandering thought of whether he truly belonged there. Yes, his Sin’dorei brethren were there, from before his fall but did he truly belong with them either at this point. The death knight’s pale lips turned down in a frown. With a quiet exhale he laid back, shoving such musings from his mind. He didn’t really need the sleep, not like so many others but it was familiar and afforded him quiet,and peace. Zanthaen felt the hammock swing just a bit as he settled in before he let blue eyes slide shut to feel oblivion claim him.

~~~

The sun lit the woods in glorious splendor. Golds and bright greens and reds seemed to shimmer as the light’s rays struck them. The forest had always been vibrant, ethereal really and it’s beauty was not lost on it’s people. Bright blue eyes looked over it once more as if he’d never truly seen it before. Those vibrant eyes that marked all of his people.

“You’re being sentimental again,” a voice called out with a quiet laugh and Zanthaen felt his own lips curve up in amusement. The paladin turned to face his friend that grin only growing as he saw the smaller girl beside him.

“Tetherys and Solienne,” he welcomed with a wide gesture of his arms, “Who else should I expect to see when one accuses me of being sentimental.”

The little girl giggled almost shyly as she hid behind her big brother. Tetherys himself laughed before he moved up to grasp Zanthaen’s hand in a firm shake.

“None other my friend, none other,” the ranger agreed, “I was just teaching young Solienne here the finer points of tracking and it seems we’ve found our quarry.”

“Oh?” Zanthaen asked as he looked down to the smaller girl. She was seemingly caught out, a hint of red on her cheeks before she gave a tiny nod.

“Would I be the prey you sought to hunt fair huntress in training?” Zanthaen pressed as he knelt down, “Well then my congratulations on a successful hunt and what will it be for your prize?”

The girl blushed almost as red as her hair before looking back down to the ground. Her ears bobbed as they too grew to be an almost equal shade of red. Tetherys laughed, “Ah I fear you’ve succeeded in turning her as red as the ripest of berries my friend. Whatever shall we do?”

Zanthaen’s arm came out to playfully swat at his friend before he rose and moved down closer to where Solienne stood. “It was not my intention to upset you, though you do have my congratulations for a hunt well done. Perhaps at a later date you may choose your reward.”

She looked up at him, blue eyes wide as the blush intensified. In her mind there was no one more handsome. His long dark hair, lightly sun kissed skin and brilliant plate armor signifying him as one of the blood knights. She had been smitten upon first meeting him and that crush had only intensified over the years her elder brother had been his friend. Solienne gave a tiny squeak and a nod before she looked to Tetherys. Her mouth opened once as if to say something before she shut it and with another nod bolted back off toward the city.

“Will she be alright?” Zanthaen asked, a sliver of worry in his tone as he looked to his friend.

“Indeed, she knows well the way through the wood. In fact I did not lie when I said she tracked you here. Though my friend you frequent the same spot regularly,” Tetherys shrugged as he moved to plop onto the grass below.

“She’s had a good teacher then,” the paladin countered as he moved back over to join his friend.

“You know she still has hearts in her eyes for you,” Tetherys teased as he mimicked a love struck swooning lady, “Her knight in shining armor.”

“I had suspected as much, though should you really tease her over such?”

“I’m her brother, it’s my job,” Tetherys retorted with a smirk before he sobered some.

Zanthaen paused at that. The ranger was usually jovial and light hearted, for him to look so serious was concerning. The paladin sighed quietly, his own mood slipping to a more serious one.

“It was to spare her ears this talk was it not?” Zanthaen asked as he suspected why Tetherys had been so quick to get his sister back home and unawares.

The red haired ranger gave a nod as he turned to look out over the forest. “It was,” he confirmed, “There are reports, you’ve likely seen them. An army of undead coming this way.”

“I had, but they say they are still well away and possibly not coming this direction.”

“Then you haven’t received the latest report,” Tetherys sighed with a frown. He reached into his satchel and pulled the latest of the ranger’s scouting reports from it before he offered it to Zanthaen. The paladin took it eagerly, an unease beginning to churn in his gut.

“They’ve amassed more forces and they’re coming this way now?” Zanthaen asked, voice barely over a whisper once he’d read it.

“They are. We are to inform all those of the defense units to be expecting an attack in a few days time at the earliest. Though if they wish to incite fear before attacking they may well wait. After all it’s an army of… dead and rotted husks, that would unsettle most of the staunchest defenders.”

“It would,” Zanthaen agreed as he offered the scroll back to Tetherys, “I’ll ensure my men are ready and prepared to fight. The defenses should hold but it does not suit to be ill prepared or cocky.”

He turned looking out over the forest once more. This was his home, these were his people and he’d taken an oath to protect and defend them both with his life. His vision faltered for a moment and he swore he could see a path of destruction carving through the forest for the briefest of moments. When he blinked it was gone and the forest was there unscathed. A hand rested on Zanthaen’s plate armored shoulder which drew his attention back to his friend.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Tetherys asked with a tinge of concern, “Are you well?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine,” Zanthaen answered as he tried to put a reassuring smile on his face. It did not reach deep though as he was truly unsettled by that vision and thoughts of what was to come.

~~~

Blue eyes shot open staring blindly ahead. Plated hands clenched into fists as he forced himself to inhale and exhale steadily. Why had he dreamed that, no not a dream. A memory. Why had his mind chosen to replay that scene. Zanthaen lay there wondering over it. Had it been because he’d been thinking of sentimentality? Had it been remembering the last days before his death? It was so hard to say and yet for the first time in a while he felt a pang in his chest. A desire for something. For the first time since he’d broken from the Lich King’s control he found himself wanting to go home. He wanted to see those forests once more, even if only to remind himself that at least some still stood. To remind himself what he still fought for.

#wow #world of warcraft #wow fiction #Zanthaen Darkthorne #Paths Carved in Ice

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sergeant-morozov · 6 years

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PDA of a Stoner #81

We both went back to Dark Valley and Coin was constantly thinking of the whole situation, I really didn't bother with it but still heard everything Coin mumbled. Fishnet and Fox were there to wait us and Fox wasn't looking friendly, he had the same annoyed face before he punched me at Zaton.

"Do you guys have any idea where one of our armored suits have gone? No one else knows." Fox's harsh voice got Coin to shake, I just stood next to him and I really wanted to slap the shit out of Fox but Fishnet looked worried of the theorist. "No, maybe someone lost theirs and won't admit that." I growled at Fox and placed my arm over Coin's shoulders, when trying to walk past them, Fox grabbed me by the jacket's hood and I just attacked him. I punched his face and got his lip split, Fishnet was quick to grab my arm and hold me still. "The fuck is wrong with you? He only asked a question!" Fishnet tried to comfort me but I was furious and I wish I had hit Fox more than once. While Fox was wiping the blood off his face- which he just smeared more.. dumbass.. Coin was shocked and rushed over to me and Fishnet.

Coin made Fishnet to let go of my arm and Fox was ready to hit my ribs in. "You fucking did it!" Fox snarled at me and I really didn't want to end up in Chekhov's office again for his dumb suspicions- so I grabbed Coin's wrist and ran towards the exit while Coin was asking me "What the fuck are you doing? We're gonna be in so much trouble!!" Fishnet and Fox were after us but once getting through the exit, they stopped but I knew for a fact that Fox would get his dog- aka. Madman- and come after us. We stopped near Agroprom entry to take a breather but Coin grabbed me by the collar "Why the fuck did you do that?!" I pushed him away, he was getting back to his nervous self again.

"Just calm down, I'll contact someone and then we both need to shut out devices- batteries out and all." While I was tapping my PDA, I saw Coin shutting his PDA and shakingly ripping out the battery before shoving all of them back into his pockets. I messaged Ilya since he literally was someone- If not the only one- not from Freedom. I could've asked Danila now that we're on a neutral level but I still didn't trust him. Not fully at least, I still remember the Jupiter Plant situation.

-Luka.

#stalker oc #oc stuff

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bleedingcoffee42 · 6 years

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I Know You Do- Carnival AU -Pt2

Late Fictober Prompt #8 “I Know you do”

Continuation of this prompt. Warning: AU, Royai, WIP

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Ed hit the ground coughing and gasping for air. He didn't feel the pain of his shoulder hitting the pavement from the height of the back of the truck until he tried to move. He rubbed his face after feeling something sticky on it and realized he landed in a pile of someone's spit out tobacco chew. He sat up quickly and wiped it off as best he could. Then he looked up at a man who was the source of the discarded tobacco as he chewed and watched him.

“Too scary for you?” The man asked, brown drool dripping from his lip. “Maybe you should try the games. Knock over a beer can with a baseball, how hard can that be?”

Ed stood up and turned away, embarrassed by his not so graceful dismount from the back of the truck and eager to tell his brother of his findings. The delay of the pain of his fall now hit him and he winced. He'd have a bruise later for sure.

However, Al was not standing there. However, the entire carnival has suddenly come to life in his absence.

The parking lot was now alive with lights strung across the midway and booths selling everything from jewelry to games of chance. Where the hell did all this come from? How long had he been out? “Hey, Mister, did you see a giant suit of armor here a few minutes ago?”

“The one the alchemist uses?”

“Yeah, that one.” Ed replied. He wondered what Al got into that made this guy recognize him as an alchemist.

“The Alchemist is getting ready to put on his show so you better get a ticket.”

Ed watched the man spit another lump of wet tobacco out and it hit the ground right next to his boot. He was done talking and decided it was best to just go look for his brother instead of ask questions; it's not like he would be hard to find. He dusted off his coat and pants and wiped his face off again before proceeding to walk towards the largest tent in the parking lot. People were milling about, somewhat normal looking couples out on dates and families with children. It was odd, like they had turned the dial up on aesthetic and were no longer on 'creepy cesspool' but more of the weekend carnival he was expecting.

How long had he been in that truck for this transformation to take place?

He saw there was a line forming by the tent that had a sign over the entrance announcing it as “The Alchemist” tent. A little tacky for Al really, this was something he would have done. Maybe in some effort to buy him some time or investigate a lead, Al had decided to roll with that mistaken identity thing and pretend to be him. It didn't matter, it was basically a huge sign saying “Look in here” meant for him. He went past the line forming and pushed back the curtain.

“Hey kid, where the hell do you think you're going without a ticket?”

Ed rolled his eyes as a huge man put his hand out and grabbed him by the shoulder. He pulled out his pocket watch and showed it to the guy. “This is my ticket.”

“Listen kid, if you need money you have to go to the Sacrificial Pawn booth over there. He'll appraise your watch and give you some tickets. Until you get a ticket, shove off.”

Ed was abruptly shoved out of the way and given a bunch a cold glares from people in the line who he had cut in front of. The watch didn't have it's usual effect of awe and respect he was accustomed to seeing. Just a bunch of people rolling their eyes and pushing forward to hand in their tickets.

He put the watch away and walked around the side of the tent, ducking between boxes and crates to weave his way to the back where he'd just sneak in when nobody was looking. He'd given enough money to this scam, he wasn't buying a damned ticket just to see what Al's impersonation of his was.

He found a place he could slip under the tent and sneak a peak, and did so. The tent was filling with people taking seats and a stage that was covered with a velvet curtain. No Al. So he slipped back out from under the tent and walked behind it to find the stage entrance. Pushing back the tent, he same a meager stage with a table and some boxes. Nobody there either. So he looked around and found another tent that looked promising and walked right in.

He wasn't expecting to walk in on Lieutenant Hawkeye wearing a corset, miniskirt, fishnet stockings and heels. She was looking in a mirror and putting a feather in her hair. She looked like a magician's assistant. “Lieu....Lieutenant?”

“Kid, you're not supposed to be back here.”

Ed was frozen in place. It sounded like Hawkeye but she was not wearing a lot of clothes. “I wanted to see if...”

“I know you do.” She said and walked over to him and gave him a sympathetic smile. “They all do. Everyone just wants to ask the alchemist a question before the show starts.”

Ed was paralyzed as she put her hands on his shoulder and leaned over to look him in the eye. There was a lot of cleavage....

“However, you need to buy your ticket and just go enjoy the show with everyone else.” She smiled at him and spun him around using his shoulders and pushed him to the door.

“No!” Ed finally regained his motor skills. “What the hell are you doing? I thought you were shutting this place down and now you're undercover? Is Al involved in this? Is Mustang?”

“Riza, it's fine.”

It was the Colonel's voice and he turned around to look at a man pushing a curtain away from a tiny bed. He was buttoning up his vest and was not in uniform. He was wearing some black tuxedo. Dated black tuxedo. Like he was really trying to bring back the 1880s. Mustang wanting to dress up was not a surprise, him wearing some vintage fashion was another. What...the fuck.

“He's just a young fan who has probably heard that this is our last tour with the show.” Mustang moved over to the mirror to make sure he tied his bow-tie perfectly. Then he donned his top hat and grabbed his cape to place over his shoulder and affix around his neck. “No reason to panic young man, we're just taking some time off. My lovely assistant there is pregnant and we're having a baby.”

Ed watched Mustang turn around, dramatic as always with his stupid cape fetish....but there was a smile on his face that said this wasn't some joke. There was no recognition in his eyes of who Ed was, no mocking spark of amusement that Ed knew Mustang wouldn't be able to hide. Mustang cracking a joke about Hawkeye having his baby was plausible but Hawkeye would have set him straight immediately. He looked at Hawkeye and she was glowing, smiling like his own mother used to when she held baby Al. She said nothing, didn't threaten Mustang at all, and then she put her hand on her belly and looked at Mustang with pride and Ed suddenly felt queasy, light headed and passed out.

#fic #fictober 2018 prompts #carnival #royai

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