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drivingsideways · 4 years

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WIP Wednesday

So @rain-hat said I should post a bit from the latest fic so she can read it (properly formatted and not in a chat window, I think??), so here’s a bit from an as yet untitled fic set post-canon verse TKEM, featuring our favourite cop-who-got-a-different-life and also orphan-who-got-a-different-life thanks to Lee Gon being a total ass.

The White Lily Orphanage isn’t a state organization, instead it’s run by the nuns from the Sisters of the St.Paul of Chartres Convent, one of the earliest established Catholic orders in the Kingdom. It’s not a large home- they have the ability to take in around twenty children at a time, though at the moment they have only half the number. The youngest right now is a three year old ball of sunshine, Jia and the oldest is the lanky fourteen year old Jihun. Hyeon-Min has been attending Mass at the church attached to the convent with eomma since- well, since he was ten.

(God sent Prince Buyeong to us, eomma had said, having found God via the kindness of a stranger, we must be grateful.

Hyeon-min had accepted her explanation then, and now, twenty years later, he doesn’t feel the need to tarnish her faith with his cynicism. He maybe agnostic about God, but he knows that the sisters are kind, that they try to do their best by their young charges, and that’s enough.

He knows enough about the world that he believes that one of its rules should be to pass on the kindness of strangers.)

He parks his bike and grabs his gym bag with the change of clothes, noting a rather beaten up looking sedan in the parking lot. Perhaps there were some potential adopters visiting today, not a very frequent occurrence.

The rates of adoptions in Corea were low, compared to the number of children who needed families. Usually, children who lost their parents were taken in by grandparents, if they were still alive, or the parents’ siblings, if they were not. The ones who ended up in the system- they were truly society’s rejects, the ones who had no one left who cared about them; a patrilineal society obsessed with bloodlines didn’t see them as anything but an inconvenience, or a shameful secret. That their own king was an orphan was not a hypocrisy; Lee Gon was king first, orphan second.

The slack with respect to the less nobly orphaned was picked up by religious or charitable trusts, and only a little by the government. The rules governing adoption were prohibitive- Seo Ryeong had told him about the circles that eomeonim and she had to run to officially take Gyeong-ah into the family. At some point, it had come down to bribery. She’d been tight-lipped and her eyes had glinted in fury, when she’d told him, though it had already been far enough in the past that Gyeong-ah no longer woke up crying from nightmares, and didn’t stuff her food down at each meal as though she didn’t know when she’d next get one, or try to take as little room as possible in their already tiny apartment.

Gyeong-ah usually accompanies him on these visits too, though she couldn’t make it today.

“LET ME SLEEP” she’d texted in all caps, “I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE FOR AT LEAST 24 HRS HYUNGNIM” .

He figured that meant she’d drop by when he wasn’t around.

Jia-ya is the first one to spot him when he enters the common room, which is where the kids are normally, at this hour. She runs toward him, almost tripping on her toes, with her hands already raised high above her head. He drops the bag on the floor and swings her up, twirling her around, while she squeals delightedly. When he lowers her, she throws her arms around his neck, placing a candy-sticky kiss on his cheek.

“Hyungnim, where were you??” she demands. “You’ve gone so long that Chia forgot you”.

Chia is her favourite toy- a rather ratty looking cloth panda.

“Sorry Jia-ya” he says, “I had a lot of work”

She pouts. “Have you got chocolate?”

“Mmmhmm” he replies, nodding, “But let’s share with everyone later, ok?”

He puts her down on the floor, and turns to the others who’ve come up, all grinning, except Jihun, who’s trying to look unconcerned, remaining where he’s seated at one of the two computers, headphones in, fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard.

“Hey everyone” he says, reaching out to ruffle a head, tweak a chin. “Ready for a game?”

They’ve got a small basketball court at the back, not professional, by any means, but enough for the kids to work out some of their energy. For soccer, and other games, Gyeong-ah and he take them to a nearby sports club. Ryeong-ah had been the one who worked out a deal with the local residents association that owned the club when she’d made Assemblywoman; it was her constituency after all, and she had cultivated her relationships at local level, as much as she had in the higher echelons. Thanks to (former) Assemblywoman Koo, the kids now had access on alternate Sundays to the club. Luckily, the Sisters of St.Paul of Chartres weren’t too strict about preserving the holiness of the Sabbath rest; as long as the kids attended Mass in the morning, the rest of the day could be spent as they wished. Today is a Sunday when they don’t have access to the sports club, so Hyeon-Min’s plans are adjusted accordingly- a game, then lunch with everyone, and then piling them all into the small van the orphanage has and taking them for ice cream, before he has to drop back at the station, just to check in on Woo Ji-hyun and Bo-Young who have the day shift today.

“Where’s Sister Lee?” he asks, and twelve-year old Su-bin pipes up “She has a visitor today” and her twin, Yun-seo adds, “He’s a handsome oppa”.

“Is he now?’ Hyeon-min grins down at her.

“Not as cool as you, hyungnim” she assures him earnestly.

“Drop the flattery” he tells her seriously, “You’re not getting an extra scoop later. Everyone go on and get changed.”

The twins and the others- Ming-yu, Jun-ho, Min-su, Seong-min, Min-ji and Eun-ji- dart off.

He picks up his bag again, heading off to the guest room to get changed, calling “Jihun-a, c’mon, let’s go” only to get a shoulder lifted in a shrug, Jihun not even bothering to look at him.

Well, he thought, that was new.

He didn’t press him, confident that Jihun would find his way out later. The problem, perhaps, was that Jihun was a few years older than the others, almost fifteen, ready for high school. The next oldest were the twins, at twelve, and the others fell between nine and eleven, except Jia, who was everybody’s darling at three.

Jihun was preparing to write the same scholarship exam that Hyeon-Min had taken all those years ago, to get into CNA. His grades at the local public school were pretty good, and he excelled especially at art- but it was a tough school to get into, given the sheer number of candidates applying, even more than when Hyeon-Min and Ryeong-ah had given the test.

Hyeon-min thought he could recognize in Jihun the same kind of hunger that he’d seen in Ryeong-ah, all those years ago. And just like all those years ago, one part of him was amazed, and proud; another was just scared for Jihun, for what the world might do to him, outside of the safety of this place. He tried to shrug the fear off- what use could it be to Jihun- and had begun helping him prepare for the test, instead.

Perhaps Jihun was upset because he hadn’t been able to come by for three weeks, although he’d spoken to him a few times on the phone and had checked in with Sister Lee as well.

When he changes into his shorts and t-shirt and comes back to check in, Jihun’s disappeared. Perhaps he’d changed his mind and decided to join the game, after all.

He’s about to duck out of the room, when Sister Lee comes in accompanied by a young man- the “handsome oppa” of Yun-seo’s description, clearly.

“Ah, Inspector Kang” she says, giving him her usual warm smile. “Good morning. You finally have a day off, I see.”

“Good morning, Sister Lee” he greets her, bowing.

She turns to the man with her.

“This is Senior Inspector Kang Hyeon-min from Busan PD” she says, and the man gives him a strangely assessing look, and bows. He’s fair, slightly shorter than Hyeon-Min, a dark eyes and a sharp nose in a square-jawed face. The glasses and the clothes- a light blue button down shirt that’s unbuttoned at the collar over khaki slacks, give him the look of a librarian on vacation. He’s probably a few years younger than Hyeon-Min.

“I’m Kim Jun-Yeong” he says, bowing toward Hyeon-Min.

“Mr.Kim teaches art at the school” she says, meaning the local public school all the kids here attend. “He came by to talk about Jihun.”

“Is something the matter?” Hyeon-min asks, immediately. “Is Jihun in trouble?”

“Nothing like that” Mr.Kim says, with a smile. “In fact, I came by to chat with Sister Lee about Jihun’s future plans. He told me that he was preparing for admission at CNA.”

Hyeon-Min nods. “I’m trying to help out” he says. “When I can.”

“Inspector Kang has been a huge support to the children here for years” Sister Lee says, giving him another warm smile. “And since he’s a CNA alumnus himself, he’s probably the best suited to help Jihun ace the exam.”

“Yes, of course”, Mr.Kim says, adding, “Jihun-a has told me a lot about you already, Senior Inspector Kang.”

“Oh” says Hyeon-Min, politely, “He’s never mentioned you to me.”

Something wry passes over Mr. Kim’s face at that, and it makes Hyeon-min feel a little silly.

“Mr. Kim is of the opinion that Jihun should perhaps try for an art school later” Sister Lee says, “And finish high school at some school less demanding than CNA, Kang-ssi”.

“Did Jihun-a say that’s what he wants to do?” Hyeon-min asks, stunned. Jihun had never mentioned it to him.

There’s an awkward silence.

“He did seem open to the idea” Mr.Kim says, sounding a little apologetic. “He started asking me about art schools and scholarships a while ago. I didn’t know then that you were already preparing him for the CNA entrance.”

‘But” says Hyeon-min, feeling like the rug had been pulled from under his feet.

Sister Lee says, thoughtfully, “Perhaps he was uncomfortable bringing it up with me or you, Kang-ssi.”

“We never forced him”, Hyeon-min feels compelled to protest.

“Jihun-a admires you a lot, Kang-ssi” Mr.Kim murmurs, “It is but natural he would want to follow in your footsteps.”

Hyeon-min looks at him and meets that calmly assessing look again.

“Did he ask you to meet Sister Lee and talk about this?”

“No” says Mr.Kim, “He didn’t. In fact, I think he was a little upset when he saw me today.”

Well, that explained earlier, Hyeon-Min realizes.

“Will you—” starts Sister Lee, nodding toward back, from where they can already here the shouts of the children.

“Yes” Hyeon-Min answers. “I’ll have a chat with him.”

“Good” she says, smiling again at him. “I’ll talk to him later as well.”

She turns to the teacher.

“Mr.Kim, I really appreciate your dropping by. It’s not often we get teachers who are so concerned with the well-being of our students.”

Mr.Kim says, quietly, “I was brought up in a home too- not as good as this one” he adds. “I know what it’s like.”

Oh.

Well, now, Hyeon-Min feels like a total piece of shit.

“Thank you, Kim-ssi” he says, and tries to infuse it with something more than stiff formality.

Mr.Kim gives him a short nod.

“I’d better head over before the fighting starts” Hyeon-min says, giving Sister Lee a smile. “I’ll see you at lunch, Sister Lee.”

They part ways, and when Hyeon-min reaches the court just in time to stop Min-ji from punching Eun-ji in the face, he sees that Jihun is there as well, but sitting on the side-lines, playing with Jia, although he’s changed into game clothes as well.

He darts a glance at Hyeon-min and then quickly looks away, flushing.

Hyeon-min jogs up to him.

“Get in” he says, clapping him on the back, “So I don’t have to keep the peace all by myself”

Jihun looks up at him, uncertain, as though he’d expected Hyeon-min to be- angry- with him.

“Jihun-a” he says, holding out a hand toward him, “ C’mon.”

Jihun takes his hand and lets himself be hauled up, and Hyeon-min even manages to get a one-armed hug in before he scampers off, suddenly cheerful.

It’s a good game, and after, as they’re all chattering at the lunch table, Gyeong-ah comes in and plonks herself down opposite the twins, and they stuff themselves to the gills before piling into the van.

Gyeong-ah’s driving, and as they pull out of the gate, Hyeon-min notices a black Hummer parked in the alley, five cars away, the glasses shaded so dark, he can’t see inside.

He has an idle moment of wondering what a car like that was doing in the neighbourhood but is distracted by Jia-ya climbing into his lap to tell him all about Chia’s adventures in the place she calls “Funderland” (like Wonderland, but fun, she insists).

On the way back, Gyeong-ah drives again, and this time the kids are mostly in a food coma, some of them burping softly, sprawling on the seats, so he gets a chance to talk to Jihun, settling beside him, right at the back.

“So” he says, “art school, huh?”

Jihun glances at him quickly and then away, head bent.

“Do you know which ones you’re interested in?”

Jihun looks up then.

“You’re not angry?” he asks, uncertainty writ large on his young face.

“Just surprised” Hyeon-min admits. “Why didn’t you ever tell me or Sister Lee? You know we wouldn’t have stopped you.”

He shrugs, looking away.

“Everyone’s expecting me to become the first CNA graduate from the home” he says, softly. “All these years”.

“Nobody wants you to be anything other than happy, Jihun-a” Hyeon-min contradicts him, gently. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you any other idea.”

Jihun turns to him.

“I did think I wanted that too” he says, candidly. “But then—I don’t know, hyungnim, frankly, it sounds like an awful place in other ways.”

“Who’ve you been talking to?” Hyeon-min asks, surprised, because he’d never said anything to Jihun about it other than good things about the academics, and the opportunities it would open up for him.

Jihun gives him a pitying look.

“Hyungnim” he says, “You know the internet is a thing right? Or was it not a thing when you were young?”

“Hey” he says, “I’m thirty-one, not a dinosaur.”

Jihun looks unconvinced.

“Student forums” he says, helpfully. “And even Mr.Kim—”

“Mr.Kim went to CNA?” Hyeon-min asks, surprised again.

“No” says Jihun, “But I think he knows people. He’s a teacher, right, he knows this stuff.”

“Hmm” says Hyeon-min, miffed.

Jihun eyes him again. “Are you angry I didn’t tell you, but I told Mr.Kim?”

Wow, Hyeon-min thinks, dissected by a fourteen-year old, wonderful.

“Don’t give me your backchat, Jihun-a” he says, and Jihun grins at him.

Hyeon-min diverts the talk into the art schools he’s interested in, and they spend the rest of the ride like that.

Later, before Gyeong-ah and he head off, they have a talk with Sister Lee.

Sister Lee Jeong-hui- or “Dragon Lady” as Gyeong-ah liked to call her- was a petite woman with delicate wrists, and long fingered hands that poked out of the sleeves of her habit. Unlike most of her contemporaries, she’d joined the Order, not as a young girl, but in her mid-thirties, after making a name for herself as a labour rights lawyer, working up north, in the mining communities. She’d moved to Busan when her health took a downturn- her asthma was something terrible- and she’d been shunted around the diocese until ending up at the orphanage ten years ago. She’d taken one look at the lackadaisical administration of the Orphanage- then run by Sister Pa, who was already in her seventies, taken a deep breath, and got to work. She’d transformed the place, scrounging funding wherever she could- sometimes by just persistently annoying the powers that be- and was currently in a long drawn out battle with the Bishop of the Diocese over her demand that they expand their current home to start a support home for single mothers- the people most likely to abandon their children, for lack of resources and societal stigma.

They talk about her latest efforts in that direction, after Hyeon-min tells her about his conversation with Jihun.

“Thank you Inspector Kang” she says, softly, “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Of course not” he says, staunchly, though perhaps he was, a little. “Jihun’s going to be great at whatever he does.”

“Yes” she agrees, a fond smile transforming her rather grave face into loveliness. “He’s a blessed child”.

“Anyway” she says, sighing, “Perhaps it’s just as well. Even with a scholarship, funding for other expenses would have always been a tension. This way, we have some time to prepare before he goes to art school.”

Gyeong-ah says, “What did the Welfare Association say?”

When the Diocese had hummed-and-hawed about the home for women, Sister Lee had turned elsewhere.

Sister Lee makes a rather un-saintly face. “That government policy doesn’t include- and you won’t believe this, or perhaps you will- doesn’t include subsidizing and rewarding irresponsible behaviour”.

“I thought Ryeong-ah said they had a specific budget for women’s welfare” Gyeong-ah says, hotly. “They can’t deny it only to some women, can they? Plus it’s a discretionary budget.”

Sister Lee sighs. “Child, I don’t know if I have the energy to fight that battle right now. If we had someone on the Committee there- but it’s all bureaucrats who think of it as a sinecure position really…”

She shrugs, and pats Gyeong-ah’s shoulder, comforting.

“I’m not giving up, Seo-Gyeong” she says, “Not yet.”

They bid her goodbye.

As she puts on her helmet and climbs onto the bike, Gyeong-ah says, abruptly, “Sometimes I’m so angry with unnie for what she did- because she fucked up her chance to help people like Sister Lee, who really need her”.

“ Song & Kim will get her out” he says, “Right?”

“But what about after?” she argues, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Her political career is probably over.”

“It’s never over with Ryeong-ah” he reminds her, belting his own helmet, and adjusting the strap of his gym bag over his jacket.

As they drive out of the gate, he sees that the Hummer isn’t there anymore.

#wip wednesday #tkem #this entire section is full of characters #that i have no idea where they came from #they just wrote themselves in #DO NOT BLAME ME #'WRITE A ROM COM ' SHE SAID #' I WILL '#I SAID #AND THEN I DIDN'T

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spookyceph · 5 years

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Comfort Zone, a Shigaraki & Toga WIP

Follows immediately after “Peace Offering”. Find the complete first part here or on my Ao3 account. Shigaraki POV. WARNINGS for disturbing thoughts and anxiety. It’s Tomura, folks. Comes with the territory.

Door opened a crack, Tomura peeked out into the hallway. Not a soul. He cocked his head, listening. Not a whisper or peep. Mindful of every creaky floorboard, he crept out. Slunk upstairs like a thief in his own base of operations. Hardly dared to breathe until he’d shut and locked the door to his room behind him.

Nerves still crawling beneath his skin, Tomura glanced over at the laptop sitting on the small desk against one wall. To the TV mounted on the other, framed by shelves of games to various consoles. He would’ve liked nothing more than to have a glowing screen absorb his attention, but he knew his focus was too scattered to play anything. Scanning the online news feeds would yield nothing but chatter about Stain or All Might—his fingers latched back onto his neck just thinking about it. He couldn’t wear himself out with training since that meant going back downstairs to use the mats and equipment in the basement. No fucking way was he setting foot in the bar for the next few days. Maybe not for years.

He knew he shouldn’t have let anyone stay here. Now he was trapped, a prisoner in his own goddamned room, all because he’d let an overcooked piece of human yakitori put his soft, stapled hands on him, and—

The rising swells of panic dropped and went utterly still as Tomura’s eyes darted to his closet. Of course. Such an obvious answer. He should’ve known what to do from the beginning.

Aah, you poor thing. What are you so afraid of? All you have to do is follow your heart.

As always, Sensei had provided for him.

Sliding one side of the closet open, Tomura picked up a long wooden box from its resting place beneath his neatly hung clothing. He gently set it in the middle of the room before retrieving a cloth from his desk. Sitting on his heels in front of the box, he wiped a few stray specks of dust from its lacquered surface. Though his memory of receiving it (not to mention its contents) remained lost somewhere in the murky haze of his childhood, the familiar action alone reassured him. Sensei had instructed him to care for it and he had, polishing it every week without fail for fifteen years.

Sleeves over the heels of his palms to prevent smudges, Tomura carefully lifted the lid.

The stench of formaldehyde sprang out immediately. It reached straight down his throat and clenched his guts with corrosive fingers. Despite the urge to vomit everything in his body cavity up, a mantle of calm settled over Tomura’s shoulders. As wretched, as vile, as stomach-wringing as they were, the sensations were familiar. They’d woven themselves into his makeup as tightly as his DNA. The same could be said for what lay inside the box.

Paler even than him against their nest of black coffin velvet, fourteen human hands lay in two neat rows. Well, thirteen—one was merely a replica, a replacement. The metal caps on the wrists gleamed sallow gold under the room’s light. Poised on the razor’s edge between sickened and serene, Tomura reached for them in the usual order.

First, the smallest ones, curled around his wrists. A larger pair with aged, wrinkled skin and knobby knuckles clamped to his biceps next. A similar but slimmer version of those followed on his forearms. The hands with the longest, loveliest fingers encircled his neck in fourth place. Two sets of brutish, blocky ones latched onto his shoulders, then his sides just beneath his arms.

Naturally, the best he saved for last.

Tomura fixed the replica to the back of his head almost absently. His attention was reserved for its partner: a left, the largest hand, the father of its macabre little family. He lifted it with the same care a collector would a preserved butterfly. With a fingertip he mapped out the valleys and ridges of bones and strong sinew along the back. Turning it over, he traced the lifeline etched across its palm that had most definitely lied. The way the scar cleaving his lips tingled and burned had nothing to do with the savage grin that split Tomura’s face. He rubbed his chin to be sure the feeling of blood drooling down it was only a phantom from his buried past.

He didn’t need to know its origins to realize how special Father was.

Revulsion and exhilaration surged up from his center as he pressed the precious memento mori over his face like a mask. His roiling emotions alchemized into something he had yet to name, its crystallized shape strange but stable. At last, the feel of cold, waxen flesh molded to his cheeks, of stiff, dead fingers in his hair, chased away the fantasy of hot, living ones. At last, he could think.

With a relieved sigh, Tomura replaced the box’s lid and stood. After feeling trapped, he needed the reassurance of space. He went to his room’s narrow window, pushed aside the curtains, disarmed the little tripwire surprise he’d rigged, and pushed the bottom pane up so he could slither out onto the fire escape.

The night air reeked of the refuse piled in the alley below. This definitely wasn’t high on his list of favored spots, but it was better than nothing. At least the temperature was being kind to his skin, not too warm or humid, not to cool or dry. The rusty skeleton of the fire escape squeaked as he settled himself on the mesh bottom, hugging his knees. Staring up at the void of the sky, a few stars visible through Father’s embalmed fingers, wasn’t so bad either. Everything he could see was warped, discarded, halfway down the path to total ruin. It almost made him feel at home.

A home with dynamics that had changed overnight. But…like it or not he had two new roommates—with more to come, according to Giran. Tomura didn’t have the kind of power to reduce hero society to rubble and ash on his own. Not yet. In the meantime, he had to make do with the next best thing: strength in numbers. It was just…he got so anxious. The concept of living with anyone aside from Kurogiri was bizarre, the thought of having to interact daily with strangers unsettling.

Yet even someone as powerful, as feared and dreaded as Sensei didn’t work alone. If his mentor hadn’t turned his nose up to cooperating with select people, who was Tomura to? He grimaced behind Father, but he could already feel resolve seeping between the seams in his thoughts. One way or another, he’d learn to tolerate his houseguests and how best to use their skills for the greater goal.

Maybe it was his years martial arts training that picked up on some subtle shift in the air. Déjà vu prickled along the back of Tomura’s neck. His head snapped toward the perceived threat on his right.

He caught a flash of a blonde-haired head just before it ducked back inside the next window over.

I’m Toga! Toga Himiko! It’s hard to live!

“Wait,” came from Tomura’s mouth before his conscious mind registered the action. “I’m sorry. About how I acted earlier.” The surprise of those words, in that order, coming from him fell flat compared to the shock of realizing he wasn’t lying.

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irisvseyelash · 4 years

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[Part 1] Aww good luck for your revisions and exam, Iris! Wish you have successful exams and getting all good&satisfying grades. Amiin.. 🙏💕💖 About sideblog, I'll encourage you to make that! You could post some of your drawings along with hcs or snippets of your fic/draft, as a way to vent or practicing your skills. You have my support! 😤👍✨ Yeah same, I also feel too insecure to make a fic when I had no writing skill. Making random hc is my specialty, not writing fic *hands up in surrender*.

[Part 2] Btw, have you seen Garou's promo art for chinese edition of Road to Hero game? It has Garou in Highschool uniform! 😳💖 Last week I wrote Batarou HS AU and today there's this Highschooler Garou promo art, what a coincidence! Now I imagine Badd has Garou as his senior in my HS AU with an appearance like this: twitter(.)com(/)dailygarou(/)status(/)1297020663530696704 👀✨ No wonder Badd will fallen in love with him, he'd be swooning (internally, ofc), aww.. 😍😩💗💘

[Part 3] Consider: Badd secretly had a huge crush for his senior prior the tutoring event begin, he's attracted by Garou's style and handsomeness (also his reputation as both troublemaker and school prodigy, whoaa, Badd's truly respected him!) but quickly pissed off by his bastard personality once Garou opened his mouth, lmaoo! But soon enough, once they both warmed on eachother, Badd could see Garou's soft side and kindness. Plus his family already welcomed Garou, even adored him.. 😚

[Part 4] Speaking of Batarou HS AU, it's still WIP for I still working on the main event. Already writing the bonus part of it, instead, lol what is this randomness I can't anymore with myself 😜😅😂 Anyways, I'm preparing something for the fandom on the next month, and it's including you, too! It's nothing big and idk if it's good, but I hope it will keep you all entertained 😚💕 Just wish me luck to not become a procrastinator and piling my planned WIPs in discontinued works again 😞😔😅

Ameen.. Thanks again Dyan 😭💓💓💓💓 Oh yeah! Happy Belated Awal Muharram to you! I totally forgot about that astaghfirullah😂😂

👀👀👀 should I? I think I'll link it up in the reblog of this post, that blog. Tbh, lately it's been feeling like I have lesser and lesser time for writing fics or shots and more and more AUs and HCs keep popping up, like one of my recent HCs of Tareo being Orochi's son :/

But heck *waves white handkerchief* I don't do AUs and HCs as well as you either.

Oh my god About Garou's promo pic forgive me lord for I have sinned 💦💦💦 He has no right to even wear his uniform like that. pFT IMAGINE IIDA TENYA NYOOMING TOWARDS HIM FROM THE SCHOOL GATE—

*cough* anyway, Yes I've seen the promo pic and holy heck I would be lying if I said I didn't squeak when Ruby first showed it to the discord server 😂😂😂 It was... Interesting, I guess. Okayyyyy Iris stop exposing yourself 😂

Okay but tell me that Garou wouldn't make any straight guy to not fall for him, platonically or romantically. I mean heck the school probably loves him but he's just such a dick that the faculty and the student body just dislikes him.

Awwwwwww my goodness imagine Badd bumping into him on the first day of school and just— *rereads part 3* HOLd on this is kinda similar to the plot of a Breddy fanfic I read on Wattpad 'You had me at Watch It' or something. Okay anyway but Garou just opening his mouth as a bad first impression would be canon fight me 😂😂😂 if it wasn't for his intimidating, rbf expression, it would be the way he talks or the way he acts

And BABY SOFTGAROU YES AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA where else can you get a cunning and bright troublemaker like him to only add on to your already effed up family who all probably have the same taste in others but only have the goddamn troublemaker be a babey and a cloud aafnfnfhdn

Oh yeah, your HS AU! Can I has a teeny weeny snippet before you totally post it??? Pleaaaase *insert doggo eyes* and oH RANDOMNESS MY FAVOURITE 😂😂😂 (ignore the begging, I was listening to Vivaldi's 4 seasons and was being dramatic)

Gassssp you're including me??!?!? I hope it doesn't have a deadline, cause my studies and exams schedules will never be tolerable at any rate in time ( TДT)

Let's all just pray that procrastination doesn't catch up to us and whack us in the head ≥﹏≤

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theincompetentgenius · 5 years

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Hello 😄 Life generator is totally awesome idea! I already love it and would like to request one for Arcana world. I hope it won’t be too much of a problem, and thank you in advance ❤️

I’m a big science nerd, especially good in math, hungry for knowledge, with unsatiable curiosity. But at the same time, i radiate dumbass energy. Most of the time i’m silent, because i don’t really know what to say, since my mind is tv static. I enjoy creating, my hobbies are singing, drawing, painting, scupting, embroidery and other forms of crafting. But i really don’t have any creativeness on my own. And i lack in artistic skills, but i substitute it with persistence. I’m really patient and can go over one place hundreds times until i’m satisfied, and i’m never giving up on any wips, they just wait for their turn (..same about people, even if have no contact with them anymore i still consider them as friends, i don’t cut ties). Even if they pile up and there’s probably no way to finish it up in one lifetime. Damn, i wish i was immortal. There’s so many knowledge and skills to learn, and art to consume and create in the world. But i don’t really have any passion or hiperfixation, i’m just all over the place, a jade of all trades and master of none. Most of the time is spend resting, on internet, because i run out of energy far too quick, especially physical and social. The problems of being contained in a body that wants to rest at all costs xd Physically i’m really weak, even though i work out regularly, my super low endurance doesn’t improve. I’m so quickly drained and need to recharge that for long so it looks like i’m lazy. Basically i’m never bored, but i can get frustraded when i’m wasting time.

I’m pretty open and honest person and have no brakes, i overshare whenever i have occasion (as you can see xD). I’m not hiding my emotions, except showing that someone hurt me (because i’m too proud to do that if that was meancingly, or i don’t want them to feel bad if it wasn’t). I’m friendly, very empathetic, eager to help if approached. I can easily put myself into other people’s shoes and always try to understand where others come from, their reasoning. And i care about others’ well being. But i’m quite a hermit, i barely have any social needs, and never approach people first. I’m fine on my own. Since i can remember, i only lived inside my own world in my head. Being around people is nice too though, but i’m pretty socially clueless. I don’t really experience loneliness, unless i miss certain people. And that happens super rarely too, i don’t get that attached to even closest people. But it happens, i can get really attached.

I can get anxious and uncertain around people, because i don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, cross boundaries or face any sort of negative consequences. But i don’t care what people think of me n my actions, especially if i don’t know them. Social norms are only chains. There’s no reason to follow them. I prefer my order of doing things. Order is really important to me, i need it for my things, my actions, my plans. My free time is dictated by algorithms i make, that get more and more complicated with each update. Most of the time i’m in neutral state, pretty apathetic. Emotions can be easily triggered, but die as fast and i go back to the state of nirvana. I rarely get stressed and don’t care too much about issues, life always works out in one way or another. That’s why i’m chill, patient and calm.

I love cute and pretty things, sweets, plushies, hugs, cats. When it comes to nature, sure i like it and it is interesting, but i don’t really like being close to it because of bugs. They’re yucky >.> I’m hesistant about a lot of stuff and super cautious about things that could cause physical harm, which i guess makes me a coward. And i don’t enjoy travelling. I mean it is okay, but doesn’t spark any emotion, besides maybe knowledge seeking. Instead, i’m big fan of magic and powers. Not that boring stuff like astrology, but rather like you k'now, superheroes or wizards things. Wish that kind of stuff existed irl, and wish i had it all, just like with irl skills xd Also i’m really, really picky eater.

Thank you for your interest in the world of The Arcana. You will be reborn into your new life shortly. The simulation will begin in 3…….. 2……. 1……..

B A C K G R O U N D

Your mother had left you in front of the doorsteps of a poor orphanage when you were only months old. She felt that she was unfit to take care of you because she was not financially stable, but she could only hope for the best for you. Fortunately, you were left at the hands of caring and understanding individuals who supported you through your childhood. However, your scattered interests in the arts, sciences, and magic had left many people confused. They couldn’t wrap their heads around the concept that a young girl could explore such complex concepts, but that never mattered to you. Your interests were in your newfound magic. While you wouldn’t practice magic in public, you would use it when necessary or convenient. Yet these few moments caused panic within your town. You were becoming too smart, too powerful, and too curious. The townsmen felt threatened by your mere presence, so they banished you from the city under the pretense that you were a “threat to their well-being.” Yet you never saw the bursting potential buried within you.

F R I E N D S

Julian

Now that you had been kicked out of your hometown, you had absolutely no idea where to go. There weren’t too many cities near your own and you weren’t sure if you had enough supplies to last you through your entire trip. Although you were sure that you could find a small village nearby, you still felt the need to check over your supplies to prevent excessive spending. The fact that you had to travel through the heat didn’t make things any better.

You aimlessly wandered through the leafy forests, hoping that the direction of winds, clouds, and the sun would give you some indication as to where you were. Unfortunately, you had crossed the same dead lizard five times. You were moving in circles. A sigh escaped your lips as you trudged through the forest. Your mind had gone blank and you couldn’t think of a plan to get yourself out of this mess. Your calm demeanor was wearing thin as all your plans had begun to fall apart. The thought of blasting yourself into the sky with air magic had crossed your mind, but you knew that you were incapable of landing safely.

In the midst of your thoughts, you bumped into a tall, brooding figure. You instinctively elongated the vines from the plants, preparing to attack whatever was in front of you.

“Don’t hurt me with those vine things! I’m just a traveler!” A man with cooper hair and an eyepatch yelled.

You did a quick lookover and dropped the vines from your grasp. The man let out a sigh of relief and scrambled to his feet. He looked back at you and collected his things. Although you did not want to speak to him, he probably knew the jungle better than you and was your possible ticket to getting out of this mess. You mustered the courage in your chest to call out to him.

“Wait! I’m sorry that I shot those vines at you. I thought you were a monster, but that’s beside the point. Do you know where we are?”

He looked around with a suspicious glance. “I have a general idea. Can’t you use your magic to get yourself out of here?”

“If only I could, then I wouldn’t be wandering around with a loaf of bread and a flask of water.”

The stranger let out a chuckle. “I suppose you’re right. How did you get stuck in this place?”

And so you told him your story and your woes as an exile. You looked away, expecting him to make a rude remark but he chuckled and shook his head.

“Maybe we’re not so different, Magician. I happen to be an informally-exiled doctor for murdering a Count.”

You raised your eyebrow. For a murderer, he was rather friendly. Before you could ask any more questions, he told you his story (or whatever he remembered from it). There seemed to be many holes, but you were fairly entertained by them.

“Is Vesuvia close by?” You asked.

“Yeah, just a little down south. I’m going there to get some answers about myself. Are you going to join me?”

Other friends: Nadia, Muriel

R O M A N C E

Asra

Once you arrived at Vesuvia with Julian, the two of you went separate ways. Not that any altercation had taken place, but Julian was more focused on uncovering his past while you needed a place to stay. So you went about, searching for possible adobes for shelter. They were either too expensive or in terrible quality. But you didn’t give up, there had to be something you could find.

As you passed through the unfamiliar streets, you looked for possible places to sleep for the night. The pillar looked too stiff, the grass was too moist, and sleeping next to a building would hurt your back. Things were looking rough for you.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a tap on your shoulder. You spun around to see a handsome young man with fluffy, white hair and a soft smile. “You look a little lost and I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Are you new here?”

You let out a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I’m just looking for a place to stay. Do you know any place that’s inexpensive but sanitary?”

The man placed his hand on his chin, presumably to think of an answer to your question. After a moment, he responded. “You can stay at my place for the night. It’s not big, but it has a cozy feel to it.”

You shook your head. “You’re too kind, but I can’t infringe on your privacy like that. After all, you must have better things to do than help a random vagabond.”

“Well I used to be a vagabond myself, so I know the pain of wandering around with no place to go.” A snake slithered from his sleeve and cocked its head. “See? Even Faust thinks you should stay over.”

“You’re too kind!” You were about to accept his offer, but a new thought crossed your mind. What if he was trying to lure you to his home for dangerous reasons? There was no way to verify that he wasn’t a kidnapper or someone with ill intentions.

The stranger noticed your sudden discomfort. “If you’re worried about ill intentions, that was probably the furthest thing from my mind. How about you I show you around Vesuvia instead? If you feel more relaxed, you can stay at my place. But I’m not pressuring you if you don’t want to.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“By the way, my name is Asra. Shall we get started on this tour?” The two of you wander through the colorful stalls of the city, examining the golden trinkets and wooden toys. There were racks of fruit neatly organized based on size and color with shelves of pastries next to them. Asra bought you a few desserts despite your protests. Although most products were overpriced, there was a rustic charm to them all.

By the end of the tour, you felt more comfortable around him. The two of you had spent the time exploring and talking about anything and everything. You even told him about your exile from your hometown. As he heard the story, he placed his hand on your shoulder.

“You know, I’m a magician too. If you ever need help with anything, just let me know.” He gave another one of his angelic smiles.

“Thanks. I think I’m mentally okay, but I do need to strengthen my magic.”

“I have an idea to fix that. Would you like to become my apprentice?”

F I N A L F A T E

Originally posted by autumncozy

You had taken Asra on his offer to become his apprentice and ended up staying at the shop for convenience purposes. It didn’t matter because most of your time was spent with Asra to improve your magic. Although you claimed to not have an affinity towards any type of magic, Asra would say that you were the best at everything you attempted. With each practice session, you grew better and more skilled in your magic. It was only a matter of time before the apprentice had become the master. Asra was amazed at your progress, but you weren’t so confident in your own abilities. There was always room for improvement in your eyes.

Word had spread that another talented magician had entered the Vesuvia, but that never bothered you. If they could accept Asra, there was no reason for them to mistreat you. Not everyone was as biased and prejudiced as the people of your hometown, yet you were cautious when performing your magic in public. When you did, you were surprised when receiving compliments and paid jobs from the public. And to make things better, Asra was always there to help.

Soon, the two of you felt that the shop’s business wasn’t doing too great and decided to close it down. After all, it gave you more living space so it wasn’t the worst feeling in the world. Instead, you came up with the idea to teach other aspiring magicians so they would not be stranded like you were. At first, Asra was unsure since he wanted to live alone together in a cottage further north from the city. But when you made the compromise to teach magic only during the summer in a remote location, he couldn’t refuse. He’d still have you all to himself during the spring, fall, and winter. Well, as long as Faust didn’t steal you away from him.

As time went by, you went on to train some of the most powerful magicians in the following generation. Some had gone to save other countries from treacherous monstrous while others had become the monsters themselves. There was regret harbored in your heart for you could not have the one who turned towards the dark path, but some people could not be saved. Nevertheless, you will be remembered as one of the pioneers of magic; it’s influence spread across the globe

T H E E N D

#I'm so sorry about the uglyass emojis #idk how tf they got there #plz dont kill me #life simulation #submission #the arcana #asra #julian

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agent-absinthe · 6 years

Text

Warmth

(Just somethin’ cute that I found in my old WIP’s that I ended up revising and finishing!)

“Fuck!” Absinthe yelped as the car suddenly swerved on the icy road.

Merlin’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel from gripping it and he put the car in park, tapping his glasses to get in contact with Harry.

“Harry, I’m afraid Absinthe and myself will not be able to make it back to HQ, the blizzard is getting too strong.”

It was a freak storm that came out of nowhere and one of the strongest that Scotland had seen since the 1930’s. The two had gone on a bit of a road trip to retrieve a drop done by an informant a few hours from the facility and now it seemed that they were stranded. The wind softly whipping the car side to side.

“Yes, yes hold on let me see where we are. Mhmm, yes my place isn’t too far from here I think we could make it. I’ll let y’know when we arrive safely.”

“Oh, a sleep over, how exciting.” Elise tried to make the best of the situation and felt accomplished when Merlin gave a smile.

“I haven’t been to the house in quite some time, hopefully everything is functioning. I’ll getcha some clothes to sleep in and I know I’ve got some tea there.”

“As long as its warm.”

She was jittery with excitement, she had the biggest crush on the techie. It was the reason she had volunteered to come with him in the first place and now they would have to stay at his personal home? Fantastic. By some miracle of god they had managed to make it the last couple of miles, almost sliding into a ditch twice. It was a small, rustic style cottage that screamed look at how comfy and cute I am! Come stay here! When they finally made it in Elise was surprised to see that the interior had been remodeled as modernized and tech savvy, all except for the obnoxious tartan décor and stone fireplace.

“F-f-fuck it’s cold in here.” Elise was shaking as she piled wood into the fireplace and lit it while Merlin attempted to get the heater working.

“The house may look modern, but don’t let it fool you because it’s old and rickety.” Merlin cursed typing on a wall monitor.

Elise held back the snort of laughter that threatened to bubble out of her mouth.

“Yes, like me.” It was like he had read her mind.

“Honey, I didn’t say that!”

“No, but y’where thinking of it weren’t y’?” He teased.

The home suddenly whirred to life and they could hear the heater kicking up. Absinthe followed him to the kitchen as he put on a kettle, pouring a good fingers worth of scotch into each waiting and chipped mug. The tea and alcohol helped to warm them as they stood huddled in the kitchen and chatting till both had their fill, a shot or two from the bottle included.

“It’ll take some time for the whole house to get warm. Follow me love, let’s get ya some clothes to sleep in.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the pet name and she followed him down the narrow hallway. Unlike Harry’s/Eggsy’s home that was riddled with small collections the walls of the cottage were bare except for a few pieces of art and pictures, the scheme was a mix of modernist slate and fucking green tartan. Merlin’s room was of no surprise with it’s beige comforter and a suspended flatscreen being the only thing gracing the walls. He opened some drawers and pulled out several pairs of sweatpants, socks, and opened the closet door to find a sweatshirt or jumper.

“I’ll take these grey ones and ohhh so many sweaters-”

“Jumpers.” He corrected.

Absinthe let out an over the top sigh at being corrected, but took the dark blue one he handed her with a smile and left to go change in front of the fire place where it would be warm. When she came back in the room Hamish was talking to Harry over the flat screen, the connection fuzzy and slow.

“Ah, glad to see both of you are in one piece, if the storm lets up tomorrow we’ll send someone out. Until then try to stay warm, maybe cuddle a bit?” Harry Hart laughed at his own suggestion and cut the connection.

“I turned the bed warmer on and the blanket is weighted-”

“Wait, wait, wait. You aren’t giving me the master bed are you?”

“Of course, yer my guest, I’ve fallen asleep on that couch loads of times.”

“No! I’m not gonna steal your bed. For fuck sake we’re adults, we can sleep in the same bed without making it a-a-awkward.” Absinthe’s teeth began clacking on the last word as she shivered.

“Y’alright there, lass?”

“Ya, it’s just fucking freezing in here.”

Merlin shifted his weight before sighing and lifting up the blankets, “c’mere then. I’ll stay with you until the house heats up.”

“See? I knew you wanted to cuddle.”

“Huddle,” He corrected, “and y’better get over here before I change my mind.”

Elise didn’t waste any time and crawled into the bed, quickly making herself at home and giggling when Merlin slid in awkwardly. She saved him the embarrassment of trying to figure out how to lay by wiggling into his side, nose pressed into his shoulder, and arms wrapped around his torso.

“Wow.” She mumbled, surprised by how defined his arms felt through the sweatshirt.

“Hmm?”

“You’re just, well a lot more solidly built than I originally thought, especially since you’re so gangly.”

“Excuse me? Gangly?” He turned over to face her.

“Oh come on you know what I mean! Tall and gangly.”

“I let ya come into my bed and y’ insult me in my own home-”

She rolled her eyes and began scooting away, “Oh my god I didn’t mean it in a bad way! I’m sorry!”

He let out a deep laugh and pulled her back to him.

“Oh stop and come here, I’m kidding.” Merlin felt one of her legs curled around his side bringing their bodies impossibly close.

It was making him nervous.

“So, Tequila won’t be upset by this right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I just heard- I thought y’two were a thing.”

“No, we had a fling awhile back but we’re too good of friends to take it anywhere serious. Just the occasional fuck if we both need it.”

Another silence that was only interrupted by the howling wind and snow outside followed.

“What about you? I mean you totally don’t have to tell me, I just never hear anything about you around HQ.”

“No. As sad as it sounds I don’t think I remember the last time I had someone in my bed wearing my clothes.”

His breath hit her neck and Absinthe shivered at the deep sound of his voice which prompted him to pull her closer. Close enough to feel the outline of his hardening cock in the sweats he was wearing.

“What? You’re so handsome that’s ridiculous.”

“Handsome, huh?” He chuckled.

“Oh I’m so sorry do compliments make you uneasy?” Elise rolled her eyes.

“Are you sassing me? In my own bed?”

“Aye. M’ sassin’ ye.” Absinthe snapped in an over exaggerated Scottish accent.

Merlin looked like he had never been more insulted in his life, “ye are such a brat.”

“Brat?!”

“Mhmm, a cheeky, little American brat”

“I’m anything but little and I don’t take kindly to taunts from bullying Scots.”

There was no semblance of chill in the bed or room any longer, only the tingle in their bodies that came from getting soaked in cold and then warmed back up quickly. If either had been wearing their glasses they would have fogged from the heat of their mingled breathing, the flirting eased Merlin’s nerves and he let his hand that was spread between her shoulder blades slide down dangerously close to her ass.

“Ye gonna do somethin’ about it then?”

“Mhmm, something...so...awful” Elise angled her face closer to the Quartermaster’s as a distraction, inching her fingers under his jumper to press her still cold hand to his lower abdomen.

Hamish hissed and jerked from the cold sensation, grabbing for Elise’s wrist as she cackled at his response, her laughter dying when she found that one wrist was pinned to her side as the other lay trapped under Merlin. He looked pretty smug about the situation and leaned over her, enjoying the halfhearted struggle she made to free her wrist.

“And jus’ like a Statesman it seems ye didn’t quite think everythin’ through now, did ye? Or maybe this is how y’wanted to end up all along?”

Elise grinned and tipped her hips up slightly to rub against the stiff line in his sweatpants she was aching to get at, “seems like you’re enjoying this just as much as I am, Quartermaster.”

He suddenly flushed with embarrassment and released her mumbling apologies, trying to save a little bit of his dignity. There was a mutual attraction and Merlin would be lying if he said he didn’t slightly hope this was how the night would turn out, but he was beginning to lose his nerve. It had been awhile and he had heard rumors regarding the agent currently under him, that she got around and then acted like it never happened. Hamish did have a nasty habit of developing feelings when it came to sexual interactions, although his rational train of thought was quickly losing track as she held him in place with a leg hooked around his.

“Like I said, we’re both adults here and if you have no interest in me I completely understand. You do seem like the buttoned up, wait till marriage with a skinny blonde kinda guy so I won’t be offended, but I am going to be straight up with you and say that I’ve wanted to be in this position since we first met.”

“Really?” It came out a bit more surprised and breathless than the Kingsman would have liked.

“Mhmm, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly shy about my signals. But again, I won’t be offended if I’m not your type.”

“Ah, fuck lass I think yer gorgeous. Jus’ as soft as I thought ya would be and even better lookin’ in my clothes than I imagined.” He returned to his previous position on her, resting his forehead on hers and rocking his hips in earnest now.

“Ya?” Absinthe replied in a high voice and finally brought their lips together.

Much like the storm outside- it did not start out soft, but rather immediately went into a ravaging. Teeth clanking together and lips bitten before pausing for Hamish to eagerly push the jumper over her head, he pulled back slightly to get in the full view of her torso- round hips and all. Thumb rubbing over a nipple hardened by the cold and pleasure before his mouth descended on it, flicking his tongue in a way that made her quake.

His hand also made quick work of her sweats so he could get to what he wanted and Elise screeched, “no no no you’re hands are still so- COLD! Cold!”

“But you’re so warm- and so fucking soaked already.” The crudeness was accompanied by his warming fingers gliding over and opening her lips so he could circle her clit.

The foreplay was making Absinthe grow impatient and she took matters into her own hands using her feet to push down Merlin’s pants and wrap a hand around his cock. She had not had the pleasure of seeing it yet, but the weight and swell of it in her palm let her know that he was going to fill her to the brim. He took her wrist again with a shaky grip to stop her rhythm, resting his face in her neck and chuckling.

“Love, if y’keep doin’ that I won’t make it much longer. Ye do have me quite wound up.”

“Fuck me, then.” and softer, “please?”

Hamish found that his hips fit against hers quite nicely and despite being on the edge already he took the time to rub himself against her cunt until a high-pitched whine made him take pity and finally fill her up. His full body lying on hers as he began with slow, deep thrusts like he had all the time in the world.

“Oh, fuck Hamish.” Elise hadn’t been quite ready for how deep he could get nor the lovely feeling of being stretched just enough for satisfaction.

“I know, I know. Fuck, we should’ve done this ages ago- is this alrigh’?”

“God yes, I want more though. I can take your cock, I promise.”

The movement got sharper as he moved to his elbows for leverage and kneed her legs open wider, “aye, I bet I could bend y’over and do with ya as I please and you’d jus’ take it like a good girl.”

This was too much too fast for both of them, but Hamish was determined not to embarrass himself by finishing so quickly and alternated between slow thrusts accompanied with deep kisses and nipple play and the quicker, harder ones that made her keen, his own moans filling the room when she kept constricting around his cock. Elise looked up at him with flushed cheeks and swollen lips- oh he was so fucked.

“Fuck, lass m’sorry but ya feel to fucking good and m’not gonna be able to hold back much longer.”

“Please don’t hold it back, I want you to cum for me.”

Her begging for it was too much and Hamish jerked back, dotting her thighs and his hand with cum, gasps muffled in her hair and neck. Elise held him as he recovered, scratching his back and bringing his hand up to her mouth so she could lick it clean.

“Ye ok?”

“Me? I’m fucking great, a little uh- wet, but great.”

“Let me get ya somethin’ to clean up with. In the mornin we can shower and maybe go another round if yer feelin’ up for it?”

After the required clean up, which to Elise’s surprise included Hamish slipping under the covers and devouring her to orgasm till she begged him to let up, they returned to a cuddling position and drifted off between soft kisses. She wasn’t sure how the Kingsman would act in the morning, half expecting to wake up and find that he was already dressed and waiting for a recovery vehicle trying to ignore her as much as possible- after all it had happened before. That wasn’t the case with Hamish.

“G’morning.” The Scots accent was rougher with sleep and so were his chapped lips as he placed kisses along her shoulder.

“Mmm, good morning.”

“Harry called and said we’ve got a few hours before they’ll send anyone out to get us. Snarky bastard dinnae overlook the clothes we seemed to have thrown about the room, so m’sure there’ll be talk when we get back.”

“Does that upset you? We can always deny it.” It was true, they could, but her stomach dropped at the thought of Hamish not wanting to be associated with her.

“Let em talk. Now how about that shower? I’m dyin’ to see ye properly and from how sweetly you begged last night M’sure you’d be just as happy to see my cock.”

Elise stretched and turned to face him, “Only if you promise I can get on my knees in the shower.”

“Anythin’ for you, love.”

#kingsman #merlin kingsman x reader #kingsman imagine #fanfiction #soft #cuddling #agent absinthe #hamish kingsman #statesman #smut

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fanfictrashdump · 3 years

Text

Queening a Pawn, 21

If you’re new: this is my procrastination fic. It is what I drabble around with when I’m being my worst self, and ignoring all my other WIPs and responsibilities! Enjoy!

Summary: During the Time Heist, Loki stole the Tesseract and escaped. He did not expect, however, to be pulled through a Time Loop that delivered him to a Midgard more than a decade older, wiser, and bitterer. Having just lived through his unsuccessful attack in New York, Loki must learn to live in Midgard after the defeat of Thanos (post-Endgame). The question is, who is Loki without a quest for a throne or total domination?

Pairings: Loki x OC

Warnings: Language, suggestive themes, one (1) stuck shapeshifter, threat of stabbing, and flooooff

"Hey, Reindeer Games. How's the amplifier working?" Tony asked, his hologram joining Loki as he carried a covered bundle towards the trash shoot.

"I destroyed the toaster."

Tony scrunched up his nose, lowering his yellow-tinted glasses to stare at the bundle which turned out to be the defunct toaster. "What? How?"

"I gestured to press the lever, like I do every morning and it exploded," he explained, carefully. A large grin blossomed on his face. "It's bloody brilliant."

"Er… does Honeybun know you're blowing stuff up around the compound, or…?"

"She's scrubbing out the scorch marks from the granite, as we speak." Opening the shoot door, he tossed the hunk of metal into the metal recycling pile. "It's a lot more intuitive than I was expecting. I think I might have to work on subtlety of intent."

"You do that. Just… try not to burn down the place and maybe don't accidentally kill your girl." Tony called after Loki who turned around, walking backwards with a mischievous smirk until disappearing from view.

He turned the corner and waltzed into Delilah's apartment, stopping to rest against the wall to observe her. She had gotten up onto the countertop on her hands and knees and was scrubbing the surface within an inch of its life to lift the dark grey singed streaks. Loki's grin only grew wider as he watched her body cant back and forth with the scrubbing of her brush.

"Stop looking at my ass and help, Mischief." Delilah had yet to turn around to gaze at him.

"Stop distracting me, then," he complained, pouting just the slightest, considering the possibility of using his magic to erase away–

"What did you do?" The scrubbing had stopped and Lilah sat up on her heels.

Loki's face pinched in a frown, cutting the space between them in two long strides. "Pardon?"

"It's gone. What did you do?" She watched Loki flounder for about a minute for an explanation before she sighed. "Maybe you should take the amplifier off whenever you aren't specifically using it."

The Asgardian snorted, rolling his eyes. "My wedding band? Sure, you can pry it out of my cold, dead hands when I'm done with it."

"And here I thought you wouldn't take the suggestion seriously," she retorted, deadpan.

His thumb and forefinger took hold of her chin, forcing her eyes on him. "I am deadly serious. You can take it off when I'm due for Valhalla and not a moment sooner." He eased away the frown on her lips with a kiss. It was a simple gesture, but he was fairly confident that she couldn't technically be angry with him if he was being cute. "Shall I make you breakfast now, darling?"

"Can you keep from burning down my apartment?"

Loki rolled his eyes, every bit a petulant child. "Even if I did, we both know there is no reason for us to have separate residences." His easy confidence shrunk significantly at her look. "Never mind," he mumbled with a pout, turning to dig through the refrigerator for eggs, butter and milk.

Delilah pulled out a large metal prep bowl and a griddle. Setting the bowl next to Loki, she put the griddle on the stove and set it to heat. Loki smiled to himself, a small shiver of delight running down his spine at their familiarity. They never had a problem operating around each other, to begin with. Still, Loki liked to think that as their relationship evolved, the way they danced around with one another also improved. He quietly whisked at the batter he was preparing, adding flour bit by bit while he distractedly watched her wash and cut a bunch of fruit with sharp, precise knifework.

Einherjar wandered into the kitchen, jumping into one of the stools at the kitchen island to watch his humans cook. He mewled delicately and Loki smirked. "No, Einherjar. How dare you suggest that your mother's angry?" Another mewl. Loki feigned a surprised gasp. "Are you saying that she is being difficult for the hell of it? Bad kitten!" The kitten pawed at Loki, as if he was protesting the use of his meows to wind his caretaker up. "I cannot believe you, Ein. This woman has given you a home, a warm bed, food–and this is how you treat her!"

"Leave him alone, Lo," she admonished, though there was a grin poised on her lips. She leaned her face close to the kitten's, giggling when the massively fluffy face rubbed against her own with a loud purr. "Good baby."

"I can purr, too, you know." He glanced over his shoulder at them as he ladled pancake batter onto the warmed griddle.

Only a delighted giggle came as response. Einherjar was licking a long stripe on her cheek, one of his paws balancing him against her shoulder. "Oh, I know, baby. Loki is just grumpy."

"I am not!" He muttered under his breath, flipping the first round of pancakes.

"Case and point," she whispered, running her fingers through the kitten's fur and smiling. "Go give your dad some love," she whispered and the kitten wasted no time in trailing over the countertop before taking a flying leap onto Loki's back, scaling his jumper and onto his shoulder.

The loud rumble tickled at Loki's ear, and he could not keep the feigned frown on his face for very long. He surrendered to a chuckle, reaching up with his free hand to scratch the kitten under the chin and say soft things to it under his breath. The duo remained in their positions, much to Delilah's delight, for as long as it took Loki to make several pancakes for the both of them.

It had surprised her the first time he had shown any sort of prowess in the kitchen, but cooking was as much of an art as it was a science. And Loki was nothing if not careful and precise. Nowadays, he commanded the kitchen with such an ease that she could have sworn that he had been a Midgardian in another life.

Taking hold of a platter stacked high with cakes, he turned back to the kitchen island. The pancakes were placed next to the fruit and warmed syrup at once. Loki clicked his tongue twice, and Einherjar leapt into his open arms without a hint of hesitation before the god set him down on the floor.

"Good boy, Einherjar," he muttered, a piece of bacon mysteriously making its way to the floor with a smirk.

"Then you dare say I'm the one spoiling him."

"You are the one spoiling him. I simply reward good behavior."

"Making him a special piece of bacon requires premeditation, Loki Odinson." Her tone was deadpan, though there was a tender edge to her voice and sparkling gaze.

He didn't respond, opting instead for dropping into one of the stools and dragging her into his lap. Lately, it had not been uncommon for them to choose to stay in during meal times, enjoying the quiet and as sitting close together as they wished. More often than not, that meant she ended up in his lap and they would share a plate of food between them and kiss lazily until either of them was needed at work.

"Pygmy puff?" Tony's voice over the PA system sounded apologetic.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"When you're done with breakfast, can you deal with the shambles that is Receiving's. They messed up their ledgers, again and even I can't figure out what the fuck they were trying to do." He sighed, resigned. "No need to rush, though. I know you and Bambi are doing the whole cutesy thing."

Delilah giggled through a mouthful of pancakes and strawberries. "I'll deal with it. I think I've got their system figured out by now." A bit of syrup dribbled from the fork she was offering Loki over her shoulder, and he promptly licked it off her neck with a satisfied hum, making her gasp.

"Thanks, babe!" There was an awkward stretch of silence. "Are you two…?"

"No, but I would like to, Stark," Loki interrupted with a wicked grin.

"Understood. Use protection!"

"Oh, shut up!" Delilah irrupted. "I'll be by Receivings in a bit if you want to warn them to get their shit together before I get there."

"I thought we were spending the day together."

She sighed, smoothing her hand down the sharp planes of his cheekbones and trying to lessen the valleys that formed with the dejected question. "We are. This will only take a few minutes, I promise." The sea glass of his eyes had lost a bit of lustre. "Ten minutes, babe. Twenty, tops."

"That's alright. You have a job to do. I understand." His accompanying smile looked more like a grimace. Delilah caught her breath several times, as if she was poising herself to speak, but opted for slanting her lips to his and hopping off his lap.

When she left the bathroom, free of syrup and pancake bits, her living room was eerily empty. On the floor, Einherjar hopped around a bundle, gently pawing at the dark material as he purred loudly. It wasn't until she was near enough the bundle that an angular head, a little smaller than her fist, twisted toward her and tasted the air with forked tongue.

With a gasp, she snatched the kitten away, stumbling backwards onto the carpet and scrambling back. Her widened eyes remained glued on the snake as she shuffled. It wasn't obscenely large–it was about the average size you would get from a pet store. Its scales were an opalescent charcoal, though it bore a ring of deep golden on its neck that looked vaguely familiar, as did its bright jade eyes.

Delilah felt insane when the question bubbled past her lips. "Loki?" The snake tilted its head in what she could only imagine was amusement. The beast slowly uncoiled, slithering steadily up to her leg and starting to climb onto her cherry red Doc Marten boots before twisting around her leg. When she whimpered, it stopped completely, resting its head down on her thigh and waiting patiently for her approval. "Loki!" She called a little louder, in case he was hiding somewhere else. There was no response, other than the snake brushing its muzzle against her thigh and Einherjar's struggle to get loose and rub against the reptile.

Heart in her throat, she shuffled onto her feet, smoothing down the old My Chemical Romance t-shirt over herself with shaking hands. The snake ventured upwards, winding up around her arm to pull itself to a more comfortable spot. Though still terrified, Delilah could not help but appreciate the delicate skill it took for the creature to wind up her body and rest itself around her shoulders.

"I suppose this means you want to come with me," she whispered, and the snake responded with a tickle of its forked tongue over her neck. "You better behave, Lo."

No one had really batted an eye at the fact that she was walking the halls with a rather large snake twined round her neck, but she could tell it made the men in Receivings uncomfortable. Still, she had not acknowledged the new addition when she greeted the four older gentlemen who dealt with the incoming packages and goods.

The head of the department, Frank, was the first to crack. "Cute. You got a problem with cats and dogs, Lilah?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "No. I like them just fine. I have a kitten. Why do you ask?"

"New pet?"

A smirk graced her lips and she shrugged. "Of sorts, I guess." Carl, one of the newer employees, reached out to stroke the snake's tail. Delilah caught Loki's head when she felt him twitch to strike and blindly rubbed her thumb under his chin. He settled down immediately, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. "Done soon," she whispered.

"When are you going to leave that Asgardian clown and let me treat you like a real lady?" It was Frank again. He had a bad habit of shamelessly flirting with her whenever she had to come fix their issues. She secretly thought that they mucked up their ledgers every other week just to get Delilah to come over. Thankfully, she had long learned the pattern of their disruption, and fixing the books was a piece of cake.

Loki had not dared attack the man for the comment, but his face had migrated to the shoulder nearest the old man. His green gaze had become fixed to his, to the point that it was making the other uncomfortable.

"That a gift from him? I hear he can talk to creatures. Maybe that's why that thing is so freaky."

"Lady Lilah! There you are!" Thor's friendly voice boomed down the corridor as he bounded over. "You look radiant as ever!" He patted her back and made her sway forward indelicately, but his infectious smile drew one of her own.

"Thank you, Thor. What can I help you with?"

"Can Barnes and I acquire permission to take the children to the outer grounds?"

Delilah nodded, putting down the StarkPad containing the Receivings ledger, after all its contents got uploaded into the cloud. "Anywhere you want, as long as they are on facility grounds. So, no forest, OK?"

"Many thanks," he offered, rustling her hair. The shift of her hair brought attention to the glistening black scales across her shoulders. "Oh, brother, I had not seen you there! It's been years since you've opted for a snake's form!"

Frank, whose eyes were still hostage to Loki's, blanched. "What!?"

"Oh, he's a snake now? I thought he was still a chameleon!" She fibbed, finally turning her neck to watch Loki dance slightly on her shoulder. Her hand ran up the shiny scales of his spine and rubbed his head until he lolled sideways in satisfaction. There was a little feeling of mischief that resonated within her that was not entirely her own. It felt good to throw the weight of their combined power around, and it felt even better to know that Frank would think twice in the future before making an inappropriate remark. Afterall, he had just been getting started, if experienced served her right.

"You know we was jokin', rig–" Loki's hiss cut whatever excuse Frank was cooking up, short.

"Behave, my love, or else," she admonished, though the threat was empty. She felt a little like a real snake charmer–nimble and good at her job, but knew full well it was the snake who was in charge. "Well, gentlemen, I'll write a code to make your ledger making a little more seamless. Should take a few days before I get it going, but I think I can make it automated. No more worrying about audits," she remarked. The group did not look as excited as she secretly felt. "I'll get out of your hair. See you later."

Delilah sauntered back into the corridors, enjoying the cool glide of Loki's scales across her shoulders and the gentle nudges of his head against her neck. "What would you like to do now, babe?" There was no response, other than the odd flicker of his tongue on her skin. He didn't seem terribly bothered by the world beyond his perch.

With half a shrug, she walked out the double doors to the outer training fields, enjoying the crisp spring sunshine bearing down on them. Everything was green and new, and the air smelled of freshly cut grass and wildflowers. One lungful of air made her feel considerably more calm. She assumed it did the same for Loki, who had not really attempted to venture out into the wilderness other than the occasional jog around the facility. In theory, there was currently nothing keeping Loki from taking to the streets and disappearing into the sunset. Well, apart from her presence…

The sun glittered high above their heads, instantly warming the air-conditioned chill away from their bones and replacing it with exquisite incandescence. The snake's muscles rippled and shuddered at the temperature change, something like a sigh leaving his angled mouth. When Delilah twisted her neck to press a kiss against the smooth skin, he offered no protest or skittish reaction, as a regular animal would. "Let me know if you get too hot, OK?" The murmur was received with a flick of the tongue on her cheek, causing her to giggle.

Picking out a spot near a great big oak tree, she settled onto a dense patch of grass overlooking an obstacle course. On any other day, current and new hopeful SHIELD recruits would be working on their physical skills. Skills that Delilah did not care for, but that were important to agents. She did not know how to carry twice her weight in supplies when she A) spent most of her day behind a computer, and B) had a life partner who seemed more than excited to do the heavy lifting for her. At the moment, though, the obstacle course was being used by tiny seven year old's, a demigod, and a super soldier. All of whom were more interested in Bucky's silly detachable arm antics than they were on climbing a rope ladder.

Sighing, she lay back on the ground, giving Loki enough time to slither out from beneath her head to twine over her arm, and ultimately curl on her chest. The angular head rested heavily on her sternum and when he tasted the air, his forked tongue would barely graze her warmed skin. He was very still, and a lot better behaved than she would have ever assumed him to be. At this point, she assumed he would have been trying to scare crowds or hissing at strangers going past. He looked so content to simply be, he hadn't even bothered turning to stare at the sky, as she was or at the children. Instead, his head angled slightly to keep a watchful eye on her.

"Wonderful day for training outside, yes?" Thor asked happily as he dropped beside her. Delilah swore the ground shook with his momentum. Loki remained undisturbed.

"Mmm. I'm not much for training, but it is a beautiful day," she responded dreamily. Her fingers skimmed black scales, feeling them just short of feverish. "I might have to take Loki to the shade in a bit, though."

Thor frowned. "His Aesir form is not as sensitive to heat. Why does he not simply transform back?"

Delilah snorted. "Oh, he is one hundred percent stuck and thinks I haven't noticed." The snake rose up sharply to look at her. After a minute or two of blankly staring and neither yielding, he huffed and settled back down. "He'll figure it out, eventually." She added, running her fingers down his back. "Or I'll put him out of his misery and help him."

Thor chuckled, giving them both an affectionate look. "I must admit, not being able to talk suits him." Loki bared his fangs at the god of thunder, only to be laughed at, once more.

Delilah shifted when the bed sunk beside her at half past midnight. She had spent the majority of the day taking Loki wherever she pleased, snake wrapped around her shoulders. It appeared, though, that he had finally figured out how to ease back out of his reptile form. He patted himself down before sighing in relief. Almost immediately, he pressed himself against Delilah's body.

"Welcome back."

"Good to be here," he rumbled against her neck. "When did you notice I was stuck?"

"When you didn't stab Frank. Or Thor."

"Right." Loki remained silent for a long while and she assumed he had drifted asleep. "Don't make me give it up, please." His voice was so soft she almost assumed it had been a rustle of sheets that had made the noise.

"I'm not going to make you give up your ring."

"I'll get it to work. I had a lot of time to think when I was a snake. I think... I think I have to rely more heavily on my instincts."

"Why's that?"

"Because you do. And you made it. And whenever something happens it's always because of something I did because of you." Delilah made a noise of curiosity. "I wanted to make you breakfast before you woke. Then I wanted a way to stay with you all day without getting in the way. And now I wanted to hold you," he whispered, tightly circling her waist with his hands.

"See? I knew you'd figure it out. Though I did love having snake you around. You were gorgeous."

"Thank you, darling. I'll make it a point to use the form more often."

"Good. I did miss you like this, though. I love you like this the second-most."

"What's the first?"

"As a frost giant. Just as you," she responded through a yawn.

The breath caught in his throat at the confession. Despite himself, his Asgardian form drifted away, leaving her to shudder in her arms. He went to make some distance between them only to lock her arms with his and hold him fast to her body. Loki could feel the goosebumps prickling up on her skin, but she was adamant about keeping him close.

"Back to slumber, doll," he murmured against her hair.

"Mm-hmm. I love you, Loki."

"And I love you, sweet."

#Loki #Loki MCU #Loki (Marvel)#MCU #MCU fanfiction #Loki fanfiction #Loki x oc #Loki x ofc #alternate timeline #time heist #fix it #sometimes Loki gets stuck and that's OK #Queening a pawn

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praximeter · 7 years

Note

Any stucky classics I can read. I am new to the fandom n all.

Hi nonnie! Welcome to the greatest fandom on earth. 😉 And thanks for writing in!

I sure do have some fic recs for you. Not sure what your jam is, so I’m gonna list out a couple of my favorites and you can go to town. Also, check out my fic recs tag!

Classic Stucky Fic Recs under the cut! And also, you should definitely check out the Influential Fics for New Readers post over at @thestuckylibrary.

to memory now I can’t recall by Etharei

Rating: Explicit | Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Additional Tags: Time Travel, World War II, Memory Loss, Time Loop, Alien Technology, Identity Porn

Summary: While on a mission storming a HYDRA facility, James Buchanan Barnes touches one of the many strange alien devices collected by the Red Skull. He does this, in fact, twice— in the past, and in the future.

Next thing he knows, Bucky Barnes is opening his eyes in the 21st century, which is full of great gadgets and coffee, and at least includes his old pal Steve. (And, inexplicably, a different Stark.) Meanwhile, the Winter Soldier finds himself in the middle of World War Two, helping Captain America hunt down HYDRA (which is at least familiar), pretending to be Bucky Barnes (which is not), and figuring out the very noisy group of soldiers who call themselves the Howling Commandos.

Comments: This is my one of my absolute favorite longfics in this fandom. It has everything: recovering!Bucky, time travel, tragic comparisons of Bucky’s past and current self, somewhat of a twist on outsider POV (in a weird way), and it is beautifully written and plotted.

This, You Protect by owlet

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Humor, I hope humor anyway, cursing, Protection, Strong feelings about coffee, slightly off-canon, Steve is sassy, sam is sassy, Bucky is sassy, Everyone has their sassy pants on, just accept that grilled cheese is the perfect food, old people are Team Bucky

Summary: The mission resets abruptly, from objective: kill to objective: protect

Comments: This is typically most people’s entry for the “if you read one fic from this fandom” contest. Funny, clever, sweet, and a totally unique take on Bucky’s post-TWS mindset. Great fun and great sequels.

Ain’t No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) by spitandvinegar

Rating: Mature | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Drug Abuse, Homelessness, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Catholic Steve Rogers, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Artist Steve Rogers, Identity Issues, POV Alternating, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, because I am a desert pony that runs as wild and free as the wind, Period Typical Attitudes, Masturbation, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, original kid characters, a coupla goddamn kids, Pinkberry, Past Rape/Non-con

Summary: It’s six in the morning, and Steve is heading out on a run when he nearly trips over a bouquet of sunflowers on the front steps of his brownstone.

For a second paranoia takes over, and he kicks the flowers a little, waiting for them to explode. They don’t. They also came with a card, which he picks up. The front of the card has a tasteful picture of the Brooklyn bridge at sunset. It’s very nice and sedate, like the kind of card you would buy to give to your boss. On the inside someone has written a short message in big, shaky block letters.

I AM SORRY FOR SHOOTING YOU.

Steve sits down hard on the steps.

Comments: A really inventive take on Recovering!Bucky, with a super rich backstory and a daring characterization.

4 Minute Window by Speranza (@cesperanza)

Rating: Explicit | Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Additional Tags: Surveillance, It’s Like Grand Central Station In Here, Brooklyn Boys, Power Couple, People Are Sick of Conceptual Art

Summary: “Look, if they catch me,” Bucky muttered, “they’re either going to kill me or they’re going to put me in a box with a little window and—Steve, I can’t.”

Comments: Okay, so if you don’t know @cesperanza, you are in for a treat. Her characterization of Bucky is one of my absolute favorites - he is competent and cool, and she writes him and everything he does so convincingly. That’s the hallmark of a speranza fic: you believe every word of it, and it always feels real. It’s a totally immersive story that continues out into a delightful series. Honestly, you should read everything that speranza has written for this fandom - especially 20th Century Limited.

Silent thunder, as of a thousand wings by kaasknot (@kaasknot)

Rating: Mature | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Angels, angel!bucky, Religious Imagery, (Now with bonus sacrilege), Angst, Pining, Consent Issues, Agency issues, Gore typical of wartime, Period-Typical Ableism, Racism and racial slurs, PTSD, Flashbacks, Period-typical ignorance of PTSD, attempted suicide, Here there be Google translations, Bucky Barnes is a dirty liar, Steve is a chihuahua with aggression issues, thor is not an idiot, Everyone’s a grade-A potty mouth, Torture

Summary: A theologian once said that angels are constructs of love and holy rage, and chained to obedience through both. Or maybe a theologian hadn’t said that. Maybe it was the Bright One himself, or just Uriel being grumpy.

But Bucky knows that he loves Steve, and he loves his taskmaster of a boss even as he gripes about him over beers after work, and he loves the dames with their red, red lips and smooth, soft curves (and he loves the guys, loves their strength and the tall, proud lines of them), and he loves old Mrs. Greene even when her rheumatism acts up and she turns mean as a wet cat. But he loves Steve most of all, and if Bucky is shackled to mindless obedience because of it, he calls it a good trade, because Steven Grant Rogers is the best person he knows. When it comes down to it, he figures his desire only adds a new dimension to a love that was already there, glowing hot enough to burn.

He was sent to Earth in a cage of mortal flesh to watch over Steve, and Bucky can do no less than love him with all his heart.

Comments: A great, creative alternative universe story that that takes a difficult premise and executed it perfectly. The changes made to canon are so smart and it maintains the urgency and emotion and tragedy of canon while transforming it completely. And the OCs are amazing.

i need a forest fire by tomorrowsrain

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences | Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Road Trip, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Reconciliation, Recovery, Past Torture, Fugitives, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Deaf Clint Barton, Fix-It, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, On the Run, Developing Friendship, Healing, Past Brainwashing, Talking, some humor hopefully, Character Study

Summary: "The past beats inside me like a second heart. These fragments I have shored against my ruins."

In which Tony Stark makes a reckless decision, becomes a wanted fugitive, goes on the run with the former Winter Soldier, and learns how to forgive. For his part, Bucky Barnes is just trying to hold himself together. AU, post-Civil War.

(sequel of sorts to après nous le déluge, but can be read alone)

Comments: Love, love, love this story because it’s got Stucky AND Tony & Bucky friendship as well as a really smart characterization of Steve and Bucky.

The Crucible by Dreadnought (@dreadnought-dear-captain)

Rating: Explicit | Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Additional Tags: Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Psychological Trauma, Brainwashing, Teamwork, Science, Bucky Barnes-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Internalized Homophobia, Bad Parenting, Intergenerational Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Past Bucky Barnes/Various Female Characters, Sexual Content, Medical Torture, Psychology, POV Bucky Barnes, Hydra (Marvel), Emotional Roller Coaster, Stockholm Syndrome, Introspection, Unreliable Narrator, Trust Issues, Lots and lots of psychotherapy, Homophobic Language, Period-Typical Homophobia, Heavy Angst, Vomiting, Gaslighting, Anxiety, Depression, Recovery, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, parasuicidal behavior, Therapy, therapy fic

Summary: Therapy's a bitch, but PTSD is worse. An in-depth character study of Bucky Barnes as he reconciles his years with Hydra in the wake of Civil War.

------

I don’t really know who I am. I do know that James Buchanan Barnes is dead. He’s a pile of bones at the bottom of a ravine. He’s a side bar in some other guy’s museum exhibit that might not even exist anymore. James Barnes would puke if he could see what he became. His parents and sister and friends would cry.

I don’t know what’s left over now, but I know it’s not good. And I don’t think it can ever be good.

Comments: This is the therapy fic. Dreadnought knows his stuff like nobody else and it hurts and it’s so good. You should definitely read this and then jump into his other fic, a WIP called Baghdad Waltz which will tear your heart out like nobody’s business. It’s a modern military AU, and 100% the best one ever written for this fandom.

#Anonymous #asks #fic recs

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bookwyrmling · 7 years

Text

Those Time Forgot

As part of @wipweek Day 1: Oldest WIP, here is the next chapter of TTF.

Fandom: Prince of Tennis Characters: Echizen Ryoma, Fuji Yumiko Notes: Gen, Fantasy AU

Previous Chapters

Chapter 7

The temperature decreased rapidly once the prince escaped the boundaries of the fire’s effect, but he still had not expected the hallways to leave him shuddering as he rubbed at his goosefleshed arms.The size of the Great Hall took up much of the Keep’s first floor. At Ryoma’s estimation, there would be little of interest to him to be found in ground floor rooms, so when he stumbled across the stairs leading up, he took them, his hand pressed hard against the rough, cold stone wall as he climbed. There was little light here cast on the staircase with naught but a torch at each curve, spaced just close enough to not drop any part of the flight into total darkness.

But as old as they were, the stairs remained solid and even and, upon reaching the next level, the prince grabbed the torch and continued on. A quick study of the second floor proved it to be the guard’s quarter and garderobe. There were weapons kept here, but Ryoma trusted his own sword far greater than anything he would find here. He knew its balance and its build, its length an extension of his own arm, giving him an awareness to the very tip as if he were noting his fingers, instead.

It was the third floor that proved to be the solar, surprisingly, rather than the top. Ryoma found the king’s sleeping quarters easily, but the room seemed even more abandoned than most of the other locations, dust covering everything in an opaque layer of grey and time having eaten through even the rich brocade of the bedcovers now a mess on the floor from whenever the wood frame had finally eroded and the mattress’s filling decomposed.

Looking through the sleeping and living chambers, the torch placed in a bracket on a wall that lit the main room, Ryoma found little of interest save a portrait of what must have been the king, an elderly but refined gentleman with judgmental eyes. Ryoma stared at the image, surprised at its vivid liveliness considering how far art had come even in the last century. It felt almost as if the king was in the painting, staring him down, and Ryoma turned it back around to face the wall as it had once been.

There were two other smaller portraits he found after, one of a family: the king surrounded by what was likely his ilk: a young couple and two small boys, the older of which looked very familiar and the prince’s eyes narrowed and mouth tightened; the other of a young man, not much older than Ryoma was now, but with familiar brilliant blue eyes and dressed in royal garb. A new king? An heir? If anything, it seemed the youngest of the portraits, though only because the colors were a little more vibrant, so it could not be a picture of the old king when younger—especially since the old king’s eyes had been brown. Ryoma stared at the portrait for a long while before recognizing some small similarities between this young man and the younger child in the family portrait. But for the younger child to have received the title rather than the elder? Ryoma’s eyebrows knit together, but footsteps pattered on the floor behind him, tearing him from his thoughts.

Ryoma spun, hands on his sword. That he heard footsteps told him, at the very least, it was not another ghost that he could not hit—or whatever form of apparition Kunimitsu had taken on while traveling with him in the forest since he was here in the castle in the flesh—but that also meant it was a creature of the physical realm that could attack him, as well.

It was a woman.

More likely, it was the woman. The one he was looking for.

She was certainly what his father would consider a beauty. With pale skin and white dress and dun hair waving past her shoulders, she appeared light itself in the darkness of the castle. In the torchlight and flickering shadows, her body shone, ethereal and insubstantial as a moonbeam and yet she was still clearly physically present.

She was closer than he had thought, her light body and bare feet apparently helping her to move with less noise than most, and Ryoma frowned at her smile and the way it hid her eyes. Something about her presence made him believe they would hold that same glowing, jewelled quality his now did.

They remained shuttered behind demure eyelids, however, and, instead, she spoke: “I’m glad to see you safely here, good Prince.” Ryoma decided he should probably say something in reply, but all he could think of was that he was disappointed she was not a pile of bleached bones as he had originally thought to find—if he had indeed found anything—when he was first sent on this quest.

A disappointment, but that did not mean he would not do what he had to.

Her eyes opened to blue the depth of a clear spring and aquamarine and the prince suddenly remembered where he had seen this form bathed in light before. “The nixe,” he mentioned and the princess’s laughter swelled like bells though she silenced herself just as quickly.

“You remember me,” she cooed, “Good. It was for such a short time...Though, as I told you then: I’m not a nixe. I hope you believe me now.” The smile was back once more—the one that hid her eyes and seemed far too relaxed given the situation, but Ryoma sighed and released his sword as it appeared the woman had no interest in attacking. He had seen her eyes and knew the truth of what they spoke of now, after all, and faie and faie-touched, as Ryoma now knew, could at least be trusted not to lie. She was not a nixe.

But that did beg the question: “If you had told me who you were before, we could have run then.” So why had she not?

“I wasn’t physically there,” she chuckled, “It would have made it a little hard for me.”

It was a simple answer, but one the prince could not understand. “You filled my canteen,” he argued, brows knit together in confusion as he realized Momo must have been the one to move his boots from the fire that night. That had been done in his sleep, but only earlier that day he had taken his canteen from her directly—and nearly dropped it when she had pulled her hand away faster than he had realized she would. But logic stated that, as they had physically interacted, she should have been physically there, unlike Kunimitsu who must have been using similar magic yet appeared a ghost.

“I have a strong connection to that pond which, along with its highly magical source gives me greater control and power in its vicinity,” the woman explained as she walked past the prince and to the portrait of the heir he had let slam back into place leaning against the wall. Her fingers brushed against it picking up smears of the heavy dust coating its surface and she frowned in annoyance before brushing it away and turning back to send a wry smile at the prince’s disbelieving expression.

“Is it so impossible to believe,” she continued, drawing near, “that I wanted to meet the one who had come to save me?” A cold, thin hand, promising delicacy that would break on contact but with long, manicured nails hinting danger to those who earned its wrath, caressed the prince’s cheek as fathomless blue eyes stared into his, leaving a smear of ash on ivory in its wake. “To see what he was like?” Fingernails brushed against his jaw and a bucket of ice ran down his spine, numbing his fingers and making it hard to breathe. “I was very happy with what I saw and I am glad beyond words that it is you who has come to rescue me.”

Ryoma took a step back and the woman’s hand fell back to her side once more.

“It shouldn’t be so much of a surprise,” she explained, returning to the earlier topic of her physical presence at the pond, “the dragon did the same during your travels, did he not?”

“My sword went right through him when we first met,” the prince deadpanned, pointing out the major differences in his experiences between the two, “and I could see through him.”

It was not the bell laugh, but a deeper, throatier chuckle that the woman released this time. Ryoma stared at its sound, finding it to be one of true amusement, especially in comparison to her earlier peals. “That must have been quite the sight to see,” she said from behind her hand, risen to cover her mouth, but he could see the wry grin in her eyes all the same. Just as he saw it fade into remnants when she dropped her hand and the polite smile was back in place, “but it would be expected from him—a dragon whose strength lies elsewhere.”

His eyebrows furrowed at what she said. “Is he truly a dragon, then?” Ryoma asked, having heard her use the term twice now. While Kunimitsu had confirmed there was a woman confined by a creature of great power, and even admitted to being the dragon of lore himself, Ryoma had simply believed him to be a sorcerer and the story had simply flagrated over time—or, quite possibly, the title was simply due to the snake he had barely defeated guarding the door. “With his form, I thought—”

“That is not a question I can answer.”

The air felt heavier with those words and that tone and there was no smile—polite or otherwise—to be found on the woman’s lips or in her eyes. Instead, each edge of her face seemed set to cut and her gaze was as sharp as his blade’s. “A dragon in human form or a human in dragon form...I don’t think even he knows which is true anymore,” she explained in a slow staccato. Her eyes glowed and the prince found it hard to breathe. “He likely considers himself both and neither and I do not doubt he questions the very truth of his existence,” her eyes dropped and her hair fell over her shoulder to block her face. Ryoma’s eyes fell, then, too. He could finally breathe again: a rattled inhale and steadying exhale.

“You know him well, then?”

“I do,” the woman’s polite smile returned and her bell-laughter that spoke of women at court and spiders spinning silken webs. “How long do you think I have been locked away here with him?” she queried, “I had to have someone to talk to in order to pass the time.”

But he was the one holding her captive. “You get along with him?” the prince asked.

“Well, he is a bit dull, and far too serious, but there is a lot of history between us,” she admitted with a shake of her head, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to leave. We have both been stuck here for too long and, until he is killed, this farce will only continue.”

“But you can end this,” she continued, reaching into a bag at her side, “You can release us and this land from our curse.” The woman brandished a wooden box carved with ancient glyphs and mistletoe and sealed with red string she quickly loosed and let fall away. “That sword of yours, it won’t do any good against him,” she said pointedly before removing the lead and holding out the box, “Use this.”

Within the box lay a piece of leather and, once unwrapped, within the leather lay a dagger. A full tang blade sat housed in a whitethorn handle with blackthorn crossguards and inlay. In the torchlight, the white wood shone a dull and grainy ivory like bone while the black reminded the prince of rotted flesh clinging to an abandoned kill—strips even the carrion would no longer eat—and it turned his stomach. Ryoma threw the leather covering back over and looked away.

“It’s too small,” he refused, feeling something crawling under his skin at the thought of touching the blade, “There’s no way a dagger is going to help when a sword won’t.”

“It’s cold iron,” the woman responded, replacing the lid and holding it out, “All you have to do is aim it at his heart.”

Ryoma again refused the offer and while the lid’s replacement took away the feel of ice in his veins and needles pricking at his skin, the trepidation of the weapon’s use remained. “Why can’t we just leave now?” he pressed. They could sneak away while the dragon, Kunimitsu, was elsewhere and be gone from the castle grounds and into the forest within minutes. He was only a ghost there and if he did follow it could only be by foot in those woods. He would not catch up.

“Because I cannot,” the woman declared as she pressed the box into his hands, “In his watch’s vigilance, he has used his very life as a seal on these lands. So long as he lives, I cannot leave.”

When she released her hold, Ryoma nearly dropped the box, his grip tightening and pressing the item against his body as it began to fall. It was in reflex, though, and the shock on the prince’s face was due not to his possession of the dagger he had been refusing, but due to the woman’s words themselves. “Why would a dragon tie his own life to a seal?”

“To keep me inside, of course.”

“But why?” Dragons were notably selfish creatures with an insatiable appetite for treasure. Their hordes were told to grow large enough to feed an entire kingdom for ten years and they were jealous of that which they held, prepared to defend it against any intruders. And yet, Ryoma had heard of very few dragons that put their own lives down for their hordes. Treasure could be replaced and hordes could be replenished; life could not. And yet this dragon gave warning to Ryoma who had encroached on his territory and even now offered him safe passage out. He did not seem to hide any treasure, either, from the prince’s quick survey of the castle so far, and, by this woman’s claim, she and she alone was what he was hoarding.

Why?

“He loved me too much.”

It was a straightforward answer and the mark of the faie the woman held within her eyes told him this, too, could not be a lie, and yet the prince bit at the inside of his cheek as his brows furrowed.

“Do you doubt dragons have the capability to love?”

The prince did not doubt that dragons had the ability to covet or desire, but love? Could such a selfish creature exhibit such a selfless emotion? Or, if a dragon could exhibit it, was love as selfless an ideal as it was made out to be? His father’s actions and the existence of his half-brother, a bastard with no right to the throne despite his greater number of years, would suggest as much and yet love was something Ryoma had given little thought to outside of that for his horse or that which his mother showed him. The woman smiled at his confusion. “If anything,” she explained, “dragons love too fiercely and too loyally.”

It fit, the prince decided as he thought on the dragon they now spoke of. Kunimitsu had displayed patience, forethought and mercy and yet his protectiveness of his territory and, more importantly, this woman, drove him to fight and to kill for its sanctity. “But I will be trapped here forever with him if you do not slay him,” the woman continued, pressing her hands against his and shoving the corner of the box into his gut as a reminder of its presence. Ryoma looked down at it and frowned, still unwilling to take it, but the flash of a hand against his lips and a secretive smile on pink lips silenced him.

“I leave this to you, strong prince.”

She backed away, out of the torch’s light and into shadows, her moonlight skin and white dress glowing in the intermittent flicker and Ryoma remembered the most important question he had yet to ask.

“Your name?”

The woman paused, half-turned away from him, before smiling back at him. As if she had been waiting for the question all along, she laughed that bells and spider laugh and replied, “Call me Yumiko.”

Even though he had been staring right at her, the prince would not be able to say just when the shadows had swallowed her whole. With her departure, the room suddenly felt warmer, however, save for the box he now held in his hands.

#tenipuri #fanfic #those time forgot #linnea writes stuff #wipweek #echizen ryoma #A NAME FOR THE MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER #and i don't even know if this gives more questions or more answers lol #i promise stuff will start making sense soon #there's only a small handful of chapters left

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silentstep · 7 years

Text

WIP Tag Meme

List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on: writing, art, gifsets, whatever.

Tagged by @elsajeni (thank you)! She split hers into “active” and “abandoned,” which I’m... only sort of going to do, because everything aside from The Fic (y’all know the one by now) gets ruthlessly forced to the eternal backburner to languish the second it starts looking like it’d be enough work that it’d interfere with The Fic. Work/family life/social life/my goddamn brainweasels all interfere hard enough with the fic as it is.

Active WIPs, or: The Fic, The Magnum Opus, The Giant Sprawling Hobbit Fix-It (that @rakshasi-sue says I am not allowed to call a fix-it despite its happy ending due to all the horrible whumpy nonsense I gleefully pile onto the characters in the meantime)

Chapter Seven is happening! I have no idea yet what chapter seven will actually be about! Dunlendings with salt mines! Stonefoots with massive self-contained chemosynthesis-based cave ecoystems! My ill-advised tendency to let the fact that I personally think dicks are hilarious influence my actual writing! (I definitely called my local library and asked the poor librarian how the fuck I was supposed to research methods of salt mining in medieval Europe though! “Is this for school” she asked! And I had to stutter my way through “nnooo this is for a... uh... a fantasy novel...”!)

chapter 7 is ~5,600 words so far, bringing the fic’s total up to ~263,500 words. (FINALLY BEATING ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, HAH.)

Not Abandoned, Hopefully Will Not Take Me Much Longer

@setnet asked “POV” for the fic meme so I’m planning to scribble out the dwarven perspective on the Daeron thing (though @setnet, please feel free to request a POV of something else specifically if you’d prefer)

Probably Abandoned, At Least Until The Hobbit Fic Is Done (In Approximately 50 Years At This Rate, Ugh)

a.) Yoda dies fighting Sidious, Obi-Wan takes Luke & Leia and runs away with Dexter Jettster post-Order 66 to raise them as Jedi as best he can on a merchant freighter (meanwhile, Katooni joins the Ohnaka Gang) (meanwhile, an injured-but-definitely-alive Mace Windu finds his tiny grandpadawan Caleb Dume and they start searching the galaxy for other surviving Jedi while helping the fledgeling Rebellion)

b.) an even-by-my-standards-stunningly self-indulgent fic where Ned Stark receives a whole slew of prophetic dreams (and a dæmon direwolf) the night Aerys murders his father and brother, successfully convinces Jon and Robert that the rebellion should not be about seating someone new on the Iron Throne but rather breaking the kingdoms back into seven, and then rescues Elia and her children ostensibly as bargaining chips to get Lyanna back from her captors (but also because Ned is Ned and Ned thinks killing children is bad to do because hes not a horrible monster)

c.) ah yes, the Damerons

d.) Obi-Wan Leaves The Jedi Over A Misunderstanding; Jedi Apprentice!verse, could also be titled Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan Talk Past Each Other: The Fic (don’t worry Qui-Gon manages to straighten things out and bring him back but only after a contrivedly long series of adventures that feature truly ridiculous amounts of Missed Him by That Much)

e.) Obi-Wan/Satine year-on-Mandalore (can I even call myself an Obitine shipper if I don’t have at least one of these I mean honestly)

f.) Obi-Wan/Commander Cody, Fake/Pretend Relationship For Purposes of Undercover Work (doylistically it’s also for the excuse to have Obi-Wan wear pretty skirts & show lots of skin)

g.) When Sidious commands Dooku to kill Ventress to prove his loyalty, Dooku agrees to his face then immediately comms Ventress, orders her home RIGHT NOW YOUNG LADY, reveals the whole plot to the Senate, helps the Jedi overthrow Sidious & de-chip the clones, then looks really smug when the Republic agrees to recognise the Confederacy as an independent body and there’s peace in the galaxy and the Jedi aren’t allowed to hunt him down as a Sith because he’s out of their judisdiction now, and in fact they have to stand there next to Republic dignitaries at diplomatic functions between the two political entities and furiously grind their teeth at his existence (meanwhile he hasn’t noticed how much lighter his and Ventress’ auras are slowly getting oops) (meanwhile Ventress and Obi-Wan keep meeting at these same diplomatic functions and dancing incredible Force-assisted tangoes together (meanwhile in a 20 mile radius of this event bodices ripping men turning bisexual it was amazing the end))

h.) listen unfortunately I’m probably going to write a “while living in the Blue Mnts the Ereboreans encounter a dark-haired Noldo with a very sad, very beautiful voice who’s just wandering up and down the shoreline spilling haunting laments all over the landscape & they eventually get fed up & just kidnap him underground and use sacred hospitality as an excuse to be very stern about one’s need to eat” because please someone take care of my poor precious kinslaying baby

i.) I’m not realistically planning to write this one but. Stratford Festival did a production of The Changeling by Thomas Middleton and it was very good and the ending was a good ending, it was perfect and cathartic and I am so glad of it but Have You Considered A Version Where The Bad Guys Win, Sincerely, SilentStep

(it’s so easy, listen, when Alcemero locks Joanna in the room and confronts De Flores with his knowledge of the murders right outside, within earshot, De Flores hears enough and then, breathing heavily, shouts Joanna! Permission! and there’s a two-and-a-half-second extremely charged silence before she cries Granted! in a voice that nearly breaks-- and De Flores leaps forward and kills Alcemero. And then the others come in but the two of them don’t even need to discuss their story to get it straight: O, Lord de Piracquo, here is the body of the man who murdered your brother, we are so sorry you could not kill him yourself but when Joanna found Lord Alonzo’s ring in her husband’s medicine-chest and confronted him he threatened her but she had already told De Flores as insurance so he locked her up and tried to kill De Flores intending to kill her afterward but De Flores killed him in self-defense-- oh, right, sure, he had an alibi for the time of the murder, but that was because he’d paid Antonio to actually do the deed & then disappear.

The innocent Tony is put to death. Jasperino flees in the night. Tomazo departs with some closure. And for his services, Joanna manages to suggest in such a way that her father thinks it was his own idea, De Flores gets her hand in marriage.

She turns up pregnant quick enough that rumors start that her son is actually Alcemero’s-- he does resemble De Flores, but it’s hard for people who won’t look past his father’s birthmark to tell. eventually the kid goes to his mother and asks her, shaky-voiced, if she’s sure he’s his father’s son, what if he’s not, what if he’s really the son of a murderer--

and Joanna goes to her knees and takes his shoulders in her hands and looks him steadily in the eyes and says, low-voiced and sure, An thou wert the son of two murderers, it could not make thee other than thou art, nor would we love thee less.)

I mean uh..................... I have morals

unfortunately I’m... actually unsure who of you guys are writing stuff! @ravensrising, @setnet, @edgewitch, @rubyredboots, @sandovers, @notbecauseofvictories, come on anyone who writes stuff pls do this meme & pretend I tagged you I want to know what you’re working on

#ask meme #answered ask #elsajeni #kvetching like a nudnik #my first love #spoilers for the silmarillion #roger roger #(zahn books excepted)#force ascending #ah yes the damerons #the collection of half truths and hyperbole known as obi wan kenobi #extraordinary gaze such as is bent on sunlike majesty #if any pairing in my shipping repertoire is truly starcrossed it's these dutiful fucks #codywan #let's hear it for the 212th!#so hard to know whom to trust these days isn't it #listen I'm sorry but I grew up and got saruman feels and apparently that's just going to extend to dooku now #things are fine #obi wan flirting with every single enemy gives me life #perhaps I killed a jedi and took it from him #*pounds fists on desk* POST ORDER 66 OHNAKA GANG KATOONI #lovely Mace Windu and his gorgeous fucking purple lightsaber #I'm not coming down until Ned and Cat and all the Starks are happy #fucking feanorians #things that make maedhros sad make me sad #within my chest beats the heart of a person who loves Edmund from Lear without reserve

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solivar · 7 years

Text

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one in which Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate student of the Fine Arts, attending college in what he assumes to be a reasonably sedate corner of the American southwest. Jesse McCree is an occasionally leather-clad NPS ranger whose duties extend somewhat further than shooing lost tourists back onto the clearly marked hiking trails. Something weird is going on in the desert south of Santa Fe and their lives unexpectedly come together in the middle of it.

Entertaining mythological notes!

* In Navajo legends, Coyote occupies the cosmological slots that include “the Chaos necessary to give Order its contrast and meaning” and “complete asshole who is totally more trouble than he’s worth” and “cultural hero who may or may not be more trouble than he’s worth but, in any case, trouble.” Great Wolf is a protector but Coyote is his cousin -- in fact, the Navajo word for “coyote” literally means “little wolf” -- and Fox is cousin to them both.

* There are no coyote subspecies native to Japan but in Shinto cosmology, Wolves and Foxes are guardians, tricksters, and teachers, kin to each other, and servants/messengers of the gods when they’re not gods in disguise themselves.

The light that enfolded him faded slowly to gray and then to dark. The warmth that enfolded him faded slowly to cool, and it was the touch of something far colder on his eyelids that prompted him to open them. The wind that kissed his face also lifted the hair from his shoulders, heavier against his scalp than it had been in years, shining a pure and perfect white in the light shed by the river of stars arching across the sky overhead, bowing down to touch the peak of the mountain looming far in the distance before him. A cloak of red and gold lay over his shoulders and a glittering silver path lay at his feet and he stepped upon it and began walking. He did not look back; he knew that there would be nothing for him if he did.

He walked for perhaps forever or perhaps less, and came to a place where the path became a narrow pass between two high cliffs. The shadows lay deep between the walls of stone but in those places where the starlight touched, the white of age-bleached bone shone among the drifting sand, here the unmistakable curve of a shattered human skull, there the fragments of broken human ribs. He sensed within those high bloodstained cliffs a cruelty and malice beyond even humanity, a hunger for blood and flesh that could never be sated. He sensed also that it slept, bound by a will both ancient and strong, and so he walked through the Rock-Monster Pass unharmed.

He walked again for long or perhaps not long at all, and came to a broad plain that extended as far as he could see and beyond even that. In reeds the plain was covered, as tall as a man with great leaves upon them. The wind sang through them and the leaves struck against one another with a sound like the ringing edges of knives, from their tips blew tassels of dried human skin, sere human flesh. He sensed within those waving reeds a savagery and bloodthirst beyond even humanity, a hunger for blood and flesh that could never be sated. He sensed also that it slept, bound by a will both ancient and strong, and so he walked along the Slashing-Reed Path unharmed.

He walked and before he knew that time or distance had passed, he came to an open valley. Cane cactus grew along its sides and across its flat, crowned in masses of sweet-smelling flowers and limned in thorns the length of a man’s hand, glistening with poison. Long strands of human hair hung from their hundreds of barbs and at their bases lay a tumbled scree of many fallen bones. He sensed within those spiny branches a hatred and spite beyond even humanity, a hunger for blood and flesh that could never be sated. He sensed also that it slept, bound by a will both ancient and strong, and so he walked through the Poison Cactus Country unharmed.

He walked what only seemed a few minutes before he came to a barren land of rolling dunes, sand piled in waves taller than a tall man’s head. The wind whistled along them and stirred from beneath them the ashen remains of many who had struggled to escape and burned, shriveled to nothing. He sensed within those sparkling sands a wrath and wickedness beyond even humanity, a hunger for blood and flesh that could never be sated. He sensed also that it slept, bound by a will both ancient and strong, and so he walked through Burning Sands Desert unharmed.

And so it was that he made the rest of his journey towards the far star-touched mountain and came at last to the forest that gathered at its feet. There in the shadow of the pines, just off the path itself, he saw a flicker of firelight and heard the sound of a sweet voice singing and all at once the cold and weariness of his long journey fell upon him and he found he could go no further.

Another traveler sat in the shadow of the pines feeding sweet-smelling wood to a gentle, warming fire and, coming closer, he found that he knew the traveler’s face but could not say why. The traveler looked up as he approached, a smile more warming than the flames curving his mouth, and his eyes shone golden in the dark. “You’ve come a long way just to see me, cousin.”

“I...have?” Hanzo asked, and for the first time realized his journey had a purpose. “Who are you?”

“A friendly face in the cold and lonely dark, I hope.” The traveler said, lightly, and Hanzo knew the name belonging to that face, but not the name of what looked out through his unnaturally bright eyes.

“You are not Jes -- the ranger that I know.” Hanzo replied and stayed where he was on the far side of the fire. “Who are you?”

“Will you not join me by the fire, cousin?” The traveler murmured, and stirred the pot sitting in the coals, releasing a fragrant burst of steam. “You are cold and weary, and I have warmth and comfort to offer you.”

“You call me cousin but you are no kin of mine that I know.” Hanzo replied and held his ground. “Who are you?”

“Ah, Hanzo Shimada, the things you don’t know yet could fill an ocean.” The traveler grinned and caught Hanzo’s eyes with his own and he felt himself touched by a will both ancient and strong -- touched, but not bound. “I think, my stubborn young friend, that the more important question here is who are you?”

“I...do not know what you mean.” Hanzo whispered and shivered as the cold settled into his bones.

“Oh, I think you do.” The traveler stirred the pot again, and poured a stream of fragrant liquid into the bowl he held. “Sit, child. Warm yourself and drink. Stop thinking of all those faery tales you heard as a boy and attend to the here and now.”

Hanzo came closer and sank down next to the fire, gathering the red and gold cloak that was not his closer around himself, and accepting the bowl the traveler handed to him. It was sweeter than the sweetest honey and more bitter than the ashes of ten thousand broken dreams and he knew, as he drank it, he would never taste anything like it again. He sat silently for a long moment, and allowed the warmth of the fire and the warmth of the drink soak into him, and when he spoke it was softly. “I know who I am, stranger.”

“No. I think you do not.” The traveler stretched his long body out on the ground on his side of the fire, and for the first time Hanzo saw that the tips of his fingers ended in claws. “I think you know who you thought you were -- who you thought you were meant to be. You came here to this place you had only read about it books because you thought you would find it as barren and blasted and empty as you felt in your own soul...and instead the desert is alive in ways you never could have guessed. You came here to wither alone into the nothing you thought you were.”

“I am nothing.” Hanzo replied, and gazed down, his reflection dark in the surface of the traveler’s strange drink. “I could do nothing to protect myself. I endangered the lives of my friends and my brother and could do nothing to help them. Minamikaze was correct -- I am not a dragon, and I will never be one.”

“There are more things in this world than dragons and nothing, my cousin. There is more in you than that.” The traveler’s hand cupped his chin, claws gentle against the skin of his cheek. “And, for the record, Minamikaze is a judgmental asshole who’s been right exactly twice in his entire existence and when next you see him, you can tell him I told you that.”

Hanzo choked on something halfway between a laugh and a sob, and the traveler’s fingers brushed the tears from his face.

“You do not know who you are, cousin. But you have chosen the path that will lead you to the where and the when that you will.” Warm lips brushed his forehead. “You need only the courage to walk it.”

“I -- “

In the distance, a howl rose, sharp as the edge of a knife and cold as death. The wind stilled before it and fled, the boughs of the pines overhead and the ground beneath them shivered, and the flames of the fire itself lost their warmth.

“The Serpent-Wolf hunts you still, hungry as only a thing that has tasted of your soul and now your flesh can be. For the sake of the one who lent you this, I think you should, perhaps, not meet him just now.” The traveler stroked his hand down the golden border of the cloak and seized his wrist in a taloned hand. “Wake up, cousin. We shall speak again.”

The traveler’s claws bit deep, drawing blood.

Hanzo jerked awake and the first coherent through to crawl out of the swirling morass of inchoate madness that was his mind was, I know that ceiling.

He did, in fact, know it: large wooden beams, carved their lengths with repeating geometric motifs painted particularly vivid shades of red and gold, white and ocher, paler latillas perpendicular and he was totally looking up at the ranger’s bedroom ceiling for the second time that week and his head spun savagely with the disorientation of it. He was looking up at the ranger’s ceiling. He was laying in the ranger’s bed, wrapped in the ranger’s wonderfully soft and warm sheets and comforter, his head resting on the ranger’s pillows, and he had absolutely no memory whatsoever of how he came to be there. In fact, the very last thing he could consciously recall was the sensation of being shot.

He lay perfectly still for a moment and took stock of the contents of his mind. Yes, that was a rather vivid and unmistakable memory of catching a couple very real and sincere bullets in the midst of an otherwise surreally horrific dinner hour at the Student Union. Moving slowly, he peeled back the covers and pulled up the hem of the tee he was wearing, expecting blood and pain and bloody pain to ambush him at any moment and found, to his pure and perfect astonishment, absolutely no physical suggestion of anything untoward whatsoever. No bandages, no blood, not even a powder burn where the ranger had held the barrel almost flush with his body and pulled the trigger. His arm, on the other hand, was wrapped in lengths of cloth dressing -- each finger individually, feeling too thick and clumsy to use properly, and up beyond the hem of the sleeve, the skin feeling prickly enough as he moved to discourage even thinking about unwinding any of it.

A sound caught his ear: something halfway between a deep breath and a gentle almost-snore. Given the precise gravity of recent events, it was with only a relatively small amount of surprise that he turned his head and found Zenyatta laid out next to him, deeply and comfortably asleep from the quality of his breathing. Beyond him, half-sitting, half-slouching in one of the ranger’s heavy old wooden chairs, his feet propped up on the far side of the bed, was Genji, his head thrown back and his neck crooked at an angle incompatible with human contentment. One of the ranger’s ceramic mugs, probably containing the world’s most powerful sedative tea, sat on the bedside table at his elbow, or possibly four times the average dosage of pharmaceutical-grade ketamine, or possibly both.

For an instant the relief of seeing them both there, safe and unharmed, rose up in his chest and made his head spin, and it was all he could do breathe around it.

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66 #This chapter is for all of you #You know who you are #Who want Hanzo to be safe #And also for me to hurt him #You've been warned

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

Text

The Dark Horizon: Chapter XXXVIII

summary: AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious “pirates’ republic” of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they’re getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXXVII

The moment the incoming ship cleared the breakwater of the harbor, she opened fire. Liam stood dumbly on the deck for a split second longer, spyglass pressed to his face in some misbegotten hope that one more inspection would somehow prove it to not be who it was, and then whirled away with a roar, pushing Regina down, as the battery struck, sending up a hail of splinters and cracking a beam. They were still just that bit out of range, preventing them from taking the full bore of the cannon, but that would not last more than a few minutes. The Jolly Roger was only lightly gunned, the wind was with the newcomer, and even if they managed to get up enough canvas to run for it, there was nowhere that they would not be chased. The account was far too long, and far too terrible, for that. They had to make their stand here, and fight Captain Henry Jennings for what, Liam knew coldly in his gut, would be the final time. For which of them, there was no way to say, but death hung tangibly in the air, over the burned city of Charlestown, over Miranda pale and lifeless in the cabin, in the remorseless approach of the Bathsheba, as her bow-chasers blazed brightly again, and the air whistled and hissed, the water splashed, the hull thumped. By the next volley, they’d be dead to rights.

“Go!” Breaking out of his reverie, Liam spun around, grabbing Regina by the arm. “Get the nurse, get Geneva and Henry, and get below, into the hold! Now! Don’t come up until I find you!”

“As if the hold’s going to be safe, if Jennings scores a direct hit!” Of course, even now, Regina would have to argue with him. “We’ll be trapped by the water before we have a chance to escape!”

“If we sink, we’re all dead. It’s the safest place for now, we can’t let him get the children, go!”

Regina opened her mouth, thought better of it as a cannonball screamed just past the shrouds, and darted inside, emerging shortly with the nurse, a petrified-looking Henry trying very hard to be brave, and a squalling Geneva. She steered them across the deck and down the hatch as Liam shouted at the crew to prepare for action. They carried only minimal stores of powder and shot, as they knew that any gun battle would end poorly for them anyway, and they hadn’t wanted the extra weight to slow them down on the crossing to France. There was no way they were blasting their way out of this, and Liam looked around wildly for something else. If there were wrecked or burned ships in the harbor, if he could trick Jennings into fetching up on one of those – he could not let that mad animal on here with Regina and the children and Miranda, he could not –

Briefly and uselessly, Liam hoped that Jennings was actually dead, and that this was just another enterprising captain who had taken over his ship and his crew, but he already knew that he wasn’t. Perhaps all along, this had been inevitable. That it always had to end like this. One last battle, one last time. Only one would walk away from it.

The Bathsheba was running up hard on their fore port quarter, clearly intending to prevent them from getting any space to slip free, and Liam dashed to the helm, driving them for the vee of open water just beyond. If they were boxed in here, it would be like shooting ducks in a gallery – at least if he made it out and down the Carolina coastline, he could find some convenient sandbar or shallow reef. The art, of course, would be only tearing out the Bathsheba’s hull and not their own, and as both vessels were of comparable size and draft, anything that jeopardized Jennings would endanger the Roger as well. But there was no other choice.

The next bombardment chewed through one of the foresails on the spar, as the two ships were now almost level broadside, and Liam bellowed at the men to load and light one of their precious volleys. The five-gun array was nothing near enough to daunt the Bathsheba permanently, but it might get their attention, and he felt the deck kick and sway under his feet as they spoke. Eat shit, you son of a bitch. Liam had a sword and a pistol, which felt like very slender surety in any hand-to-hand fight. He had of course taken two serious wounds, which – even mostly healed – would unavoidably slow him up as well, and while Jennings might be somewhat damaged, at least cosmetically, from whatever Miranda had done to his face with the oar, this would only have made him angrier. I cannot let him get on board. I cannot.

When the smoke cleared, however, Liam saw a direly unpromising sight. The Bathsheba was still closing, the Roger’s measly six-pounders appeared to have irritated rather than impeded them in any significant fashion, and the Charlestown headland was coming up fast to starboard. It was clear that Jennings intended to crush them against the rocks if he could, rendering the Roger helpless and prime for boarding, and then – no, what came next was too horrible to imagine. Why is he here? Not that it mattered, not really, and all Liam could come up with was that Jennings had probably been sent after Vane, his former partner in crime and co-robber of the Spanish wrecks, upon receiving word that Vane (and Flint, of course) had done their worst to the city. That he should stumble upon the chance to have his final confrontation and vengeance upon Liam, Regina, and Miranda as well was mere and morbid serendipity.

“MORE SAIL!” It was a symbolic order at best; their foresail was torn, their topgallants were already flying, and the wind was against them, but Liam couldn’t stand watching this, the way the two ships were veering inexorably closer and closer, like a catastrophe in slow motion, like a nightmare from which he could not wake. The water purled and frothed white, the Bathsheba’s starboard battery boomed like the drums of hell, and he felt a horrifying scrape and jolt from the keel. The Roger’s draft was eleven feet, and here by the headland, they must quickly be getting shallower than that. In a minute more, they’d be stranded, aground, and completely defenseless.

Liam wrestled the wheel once more, feeling them swing and snap and struggle against what seemed to be the crushing fist of fate itself, and managed to buy them a few more yards, just clear of the shoals. Still the Bathsheba was closing, and he could see men on the other deck with throwing grapnels. There was only one order left to give, one final stand to be made. Fine, then. Fine. If nothing else, William Raleigh Jones would do his duty to the last.

“PREPARE FOR BOARDERS!”

The next moment, hooks came flying out of the night and mist – hooks, Liam thought, hooks, how bloodily, fittingly, perversely appropriate – and latched onto the railing, biting out sharp divots of wood and trailing ropes like Medusa’s snakes. They were followed almost instantly by the hooting, hollering hordes of Jennings’ men, piling over and bristling with every sort of deadly weaponry. Oddly enough, however, none of them seemed to be using it – yet. They were holding in check, arrogant in the knowledge of their superior numbers and armaments, over the Roger’s valiant but tiny crew and almost total lack of resources for an extended fight. They’re toying with us. Jennings has been waiting too long. He doesn’t want us dead before he enjoys himself. The very fate they had gone overboard to escape in Jamaica, now, here.

The last figure, the tallest, the most casual and vindictive of the lot, emerged from the mist like the Devil stepping from the clouds of brimstone, loosed from a crack in hell to visit mere anarchy upon the world. His shaggy sun-white hair was tied back from his face, as if to give Liam the best inspection of its new look. Twisted and scarred and hideous down the left side, lip pulled back over his teeth, eye milky and bloodshot, as if Ulysses had tried to blind the Cyclops and not quite succeeded. It was clear, however, that Jennings had suffered absolutely no impediment to his marksmanship, if the pistol he drew and pointed dead at Liam was any indication. “Good evening, Captain Jones. Just caught up with your little brother recently. So lovely to see you again as well.”

“Killian?” Liam knew that he shouldn’t say anything, that this was already enough of a disaster and would only get worse, but as ever, the mention of his brother caught him hard under the chin. “What the fuck did you do to Killian, you sick bastard?”

Jennings grinned broadly, rendering his disfigurement even more ghastly. “Just got to see if he was interested in talking, alongside Governor Rogers. He wasn’t, you’ll be proud to know. Though since it got his arse skelped raw, I’m not sure that was the smartest decision.”

“You what – you tortured him?” Liam felt his fists clenching, his anger rising in his chest like a cutting black tide. All he could think of, any way to head Jennings off from finding their precious passengers, was the same. “Fine, well. You must have plenty of the same you want to do to me. Don’t you want to fight me? Hurt me? Come on, take me.”

“And why would you be in such a hurry for that?” Jennings studied him thoughtfully, head to toe, with that same amused ease with which he did everything. He rested a hand on the hilt of his cutlass, and Liam saw the gleam of his old ring, the one Jennings had taken from Emma so long ago and never given back. “You and I know each other too well, Liam. As I’ve told you so many times, we’re all but the same. Who are you protecting? Who else is here?”

“Nobody.”

“Oddly enough, I think you’re lying.” Jennings raised a hand, beckoning to his men. “Search the ship. Stem to stern. Anyone you find, I want them brought up here. Alive, for the moment.”

Liam lunged at the first of them, throwing his shoulder into them hard, and while it knocked them back on their heels, it clearly confirmed to Jennings beyond a doubt that his hunch was correct. He cocked his pistol, twisting it into Liam’s skull behind the back of his ear. “Not yet, Jones,” he said lazily. “You’re not going to die for quite a while, I’m afraid.”

Liam grabbed at the muzzle, twisting it aside and almost getting up enough leverage to rip it out of Jennings’ hand, but Jennings punched him viciously with the other, making his teeth clack and his breath choke as he stumbled back. Still he tried to reach Jennings, not caring if he was shot, as anything in the entire world would be easier to bear than what was about to happen, but Jennings dodged adroitly away. Then he gestured to more of his men, who had had their hands full with subduing the Roger’s crew. “Tie him.”

Liam kept fighting as they lashed him to the mainmast, biting and kicking, until another blow full across the face stunned him and left him briefly unable to resist as they finished the knots. Blood was dripping in his eyes as he heard the hatch creak, and saw Will, Regina, Henry, and the nursemaid with Geneva marched out before Jennings, who wore an expression as if Christmas had come early. A moment later, another few crewmen emerged from the cabin, dragging Miranda’s body, which they dumped on the boards. “Her too! Can you even bloody believe it, Cap’n? All of ‘em!”

“So I see.” Jennings licked his lips, considering his tantalizing options, as Geneva continued to scream and he looked briefly aggravated. “Silence the brat, or I will.”

The nursemaid joggled Geneva frantically, face white; she clearly had not expected to walk into the middle of hell on earth (escaping the other hell of Charlestown, that was) when she agreed to come aboard and feed a hungry child. Jennings paced deliberately down the deck, stopping to dig the toe of his boot into Miranda’s side. “This,” he announced, “was the cunt who made me so very pretty, lads. But then, we knew her well, didn’t we? Seems she’s been paid back for that mistake, but surely there’s more to be done?”

“Don’t.” Liam knew he was begging, knew there wasn’t much he could do, there was nothing he could do, but he would have wanted to have his shoulder annihilated by a falling spar, or to be stabbed by his half-brother, a hundred, a thousand times before enduring this. “You can have me, Jennings, you can bloody do whatever you want to me! I’m your enemy, fuck you! Fight me!”

Jennings eyed him up and down, slowly and insolently, then turned to the nursemaid, putting a finger beneath Geneva’s chin. “Pretty child. Not yours, I’m wagering?”

The nursemaid opened and shut her mouth in terror, clutching the baby closer, as Will Scarlet decided just then that he had had more than bloody enough. He broke free from the crewman holding his arms, whirled and kneed him in the balls hard enough to bend him double, and ran straight at Jennings, who turned an instant too late. Will tackled him flat to the deck, punching every inch of him he could reach, as Regina took advantage of the abrupt confusion to likewise stamp on the foot of her captor, slam him in the face with her elbow, and race toward Liam. She pulled the boat hook off its mount – the same kind of hook that Killian had made into his namesake and replacement hand – and slashed at the knots with them, unraveling the ropes as they fell with a slap. Liam wrenched free, drew his sword, and sheathed it in the belly of the first privateer to lunge at him, so far that it burst in an explosion of blood out his back.

The chaos was complete for an insane thirty seconds, as the nursemaid shielded Geneva and Henry against the capstan – whatever they had been planning to pay her, it was clearly not enough. Then Jennings rolled off to one side, managed to grasp his pistol as it skidded away on the boards, and – as Will leapt at him – shot him at point-blank range.

Will’s leap turned into a stumble as he went down hard, clutching at the bloodied hole in his side. Jennings fumbled for another pistol, clearly intending to finish the job, but at that moment, a second gunshot stunned everyone, and they looked around madly for its source. Henry, leaning out around the capstan, had somehow managed to get his hands on a gun, aim it at Jennings through the melee, and score a glancing hit, tearing through his coat sleeve and leaving a bloody streak. Not a serious wound by any means, but still a wound, and Liam felt a sudden, blazing pride in his foster son. It was followed at once by even more consuming terror.

Will was down, still alive but losing blood fast, as Regina made for him, dragging him away, as she tore her skirt and struggled to stanch the wound. Jennings, for his part, seemed briefly thrown, raising a hand to touch the gash on his arm. “You,” he said. “You shot me.”

Henry looked as if he wanted to answer defiantly, but he was just an eleven-year-old lad, and this elder Henry was the most terrifying individual to ever walk God’s green earth. Man and boy remained frozen, staring at each other, until Jennings looked away with a jerk, sweeping his loosened hair out of his eyes. “I’ll let you choose, Liam,” he said, almost pleasantly. “Which one dies first, which one keeps you company, and which one the crew gets for their sport.”

“Go to hell.” Liam took a better grip on his sweat-soaked sword. “Go to hell.”

“There isn’t one, if you ask me.” Jennings turned to face him, one eye that unsettling pale color and the other more bloodshot than ever, half in the glow from the ship’s lanterns and half in absolute darkness. “Nor heaven either. It’s a queer sort of god that would permit men like me to flourish, don’t you think, and men like you with your poor, useless decency to wither? In fact if there is a god, I rather suspect He is exactly bloody like the rest of us. And there’s no devil either. Nothing beyond this life but the void. How unfortunate for all those addled sheep who live their lives under the thumb of tyrants, thinking it will get them a fine prize in the hereafter. There’s only silence beyond. Only darkness. Hell is now. Hell is here.”

Their gazes remained locked on each other for a moment longer, as they circled like lions at the kill. Jennings’ hand went again to the hilt of his cutlass, and he drew the heavy blade with barely a flick of his wrist. “Come on, Liam,” he said, almost tenderly, with the insane rictus of a smile. “Let’s finish this.”

That, at last, was the one thing Jennings had ever said that Liam could unequivocally agree with. They took half a step forward, half back, and then rushed at each other at once, Liam slamming his sword down in a vicious two-handed sweep. Jennings knocked it off contemptuously and flicked his at Liam’s chest, as Liam had to move quickly to avoid it, driving down and keeping up the attack with all the fury of months, of years, of their entire sordid history. Of watching Jennings cut off Killian’s hand, of hearing that he had sunk the Blackbird and taken Emma and Miranda prisoner, of their fraught interview in Boston, of Regina trying to drug him, of Jennings grinning as Liam Junior stabbed his elder brother, of Liam then hearing what Jennings had done to him in turn. Of Jamaica, their captivity on the Bathsheba, of fighting for their lives in the boat until Miranda brained him with the oar. Of hearing that Jennings had tortured Killian one more time, to this, to now, to the flashing, flaring, crashing edges of their swords, to the looming loss of everything, everyone, the rest of Liam’s family that Jennings had not already managed to take from him. It gave him a wild strength beyond even desperation as they dueled, darting in and out among the helm and the deck and the splinters from the bombardment, over and under and side to side, low and high and everything in between, blades whirring and tumbling in lethal Catherine-wheels of steel. Sparks flew where the edges kissed, and Jennings bared his teeth. “Come on,” he said again, in a serpent’s hiss. “You wanted this, Jones. Fight me.”

Liam did not waste his breath in a reply, swinging his sword at Jennings so hard that when the other man twisted out of the way just in time, it bit several inches deep into the aft mast. He pulled it out and ducked Jennings’ retaliatory blow, as neither the Bathsheba’s men nor the Roger’s made any move to interfere, mesmerized by the beauty and terror of the spectacle. It was understood, word unspoken, that this was Liam and Jennings’ battle, and they alone had any right to finish it.

Liam could feel his shoulders – especially his bad one – starting to burn with the exertion, wearing down under the relentless, crashing force of Jennings’ attacks, the point of the cutlass biting constantly for his face, for his heart, for his stomach, and he had to keep summoning up everything he had to turn it away. I am losing. He knew it with a terror to pierce his very soul. Whatever he had, everything he had, everything he was giving, it wasn’t enough. Jennings was still stronger than him, and he was slowly but steadily gaining the upper hand. A blow slashed the side of Liam’s sleeve, and then caught him briefly on the hip, sparking brief and breathtaking flares of pain in each. Then Jennings’ knee came up, slammed Liam hard in the belly, and he lost hold of his sword, staggering backward. The next thing he knew, he was down.

There was a moment in which all the world held its breath, and then the bloody tip of Jennings’ cutlass lifted Liam’s chin. “Look up, Jones,” he said. “Unless you want to meet your death cowering like a fucking craven.”

Liam had nothing left, no trick up his sleeve, no clever move, no sleight of hand. He was breathless, disarmed, bad shoulder ablaze with agony, and his sword was six feet away. He’d never get to it before Jennings gutted him like a fish – he thought briefly and madly of deboning herrings on the Pandora, of the smell when they came to Boston, of doing it for Killian, trying not to let him get hurt – and this, then, was it. Jennings would kill or at least seriously maim him, render him unable to interfere in his leisurely torture and disposal of the others. After this. After so long, after everything, Liam Jones had failed, and all he could do was watch the sword descend toward his face with almost hypnotic slowness. Smite him, and –

And then, for the third time, a gunshot cracked across the deck, taking everybody utterly off their guard. The sword veered off, as Jennings took a stumbling step backward, mildly perturbed more than anything. Looked down at the spreading crimson stain between his ribs, and then up at Regina, still holding the smoking pistol with both hands. “You,” he said again. “You shot me.”

Regina didn’t answer, white to the lips, as Jennings took a step toward her, reeled and had to steady himself, and in that moment, Liam lurched to his feet. Didn’t think of anything but his sword, of reaching it, even as everything seemed, once more, to be moving impossibly slowly. Then it was there before him, and he was bending to grasp hold of it, and Jennings was turning toward him, and this was the only chance, this was all, this was everything. Liam swung it back with both hands, and drove it into Jennings with every bit of his strength.

He felt the other man convulse, even as their faces were close enough to kiss, as they stared directly into each other’s eyes. Liam pulled the blade back, feeling it scraping against bone, not trusting that this was close to enough, and plunged it into Jennings again. This time he went down, pulling Liam with him, still trying to fumble for his own dagger, but couldn’t summon the strength to draw it. Liam wrenched the blade out, yelled at Regina and the nursemaid, “DON’T LET THEM LOOK!” and had to hope that they turned Geneva and Henry’s heads away, that they didn’t see. There was no time to be sure. He took one final, almighty swing, and parted Captain Henry Jennings’ head from his shoulders in an explosion of blood that was, in the torchlight, black as the very deepest hell. Now. Here. It was true, then. It was true.

Jennings’ body folded slowly to its knees, still twitching, reaching for its weapons in a final act of defiance. Then it slammed into the deck, crimson rivers coursing from the stump of its neck, as the head rolled away. Even then, Liam raised the sword with both hands and drove it ferociously into the corpse’s chest, stabbing once and then again, until there was nothing but a mangled mess. He was soaked in Jennings’ blood, could taste it metallic on his lips, sweet as spring rain. Saw his dead half-brother’s face before him, smiling sadly. I’m sorry, Liam Junior whispered. Forgive me, brother. Forgive me.

Liam stabbed again. I’m sorry, he thought back, burning. I’m sorry. I failed you and Killian. I couldn’t protect you. Not enough. Not in time. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

It was finally Regina who had to get to him, to force the sword out of his hand, to grab his face and make him look at her, to make him surface from the depths of the drowning sea. “He’s dead,” she was saying, over and over, half in tears. “Liam. Do you hear me? He’s dead.”

Liam could not be sure. Jennings would rise again. He always rose, would always hunt them, even from beyond the grave. They would never be free, he would never be free, of the possibility of it, of the return. Nonetheless, his fingers opened, and the sword fell from his hand to the sodden deck, alongside the butchered remnants of the Caribbean’s most feared privateer. The mist had turned to a light rain, pattering Liam’s face and the bloody deck, making the lanterns spit and hiss. His hands were shaking, and he could not make them stop.

Jennings’ crew remained where they were, staring at the fallen body of their immortal, invulnerable, inexorable captain. Then, one by one at first and then faster, they began to back away, panicking and scrambling over the lines back to the Bathsheba, none of them with any thought in their head but flight. They cut loose from the Roger and took the wind, as Liam himself could not remotely summon up the wherewithal to give the order to pursue. He sank slowly to his knees alongside Jennings, thought about taking his ring back from the man’s finger at last. How angry he had been to see it on Jennings’ hand, the first time in Boston. Thought of how he had given it to Killian as a promise that they would be slaves no more. The symbol of a lie. Of his infernal bargain with Plouton, of the deaths of the entire Benjamin Gunn, of the sinking and the sack and the sundering. Cowering like a fucking craven. Jennings’ last words burned into him. As I’ve told you so many times, we’re all but the same.

Liam did not want it. He did not want it. He sat back on his knees, still in shock, as the rain kept falling. Then Regina was kneeling next to him, gripping his hand hard, trying to steady him, familiar enough with the darkness herself to know exactly what he was going through. “He’s gone, Liam,” she said again. “He’s gone. It’s done. It’s done.”

Liam didn’t trust himself to agree. Instead he leaned to one side, was briefly and comprehensively sick, and remained crouched and gasping when it was over. Then he managed to look up at the Roger’s crewmen, who were all staring at him. “Get that thing off my ship,” he managed. “Sew it in sailcloth. Three cannonballs. I want it away.”

They scuttled to comply, hauling Jennings’ corpse off the deck and retrieving the head; there was no point in the last stitch going through the nose, the traditional way of ensuring that a seaman was really dead before he was dumped, but they did it anyway. Others were tending to Will, who was in very precarious estate indeed. “We need to go back,” Liam said, staring at his wound. “Back to Charlestown, he can’t sail like this, he – ”

“No,” Will managed, coughing. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare go back to that fuckin’ place on account of me, Liam. Fish out the ball and sew me up – one way or another – but we go to France. You know we can’t turn back. We can’t lose everything. Not now.”

Liam didn’t answer, couldn’t bring himself to, even as he was academically aware that Will was right. Now that they had a wet nurse for Geneva, and now that the final battle with Jennings was done, they had to get out of here. They couldn’t render all the sacrifices that Emma and Killian had made, trusting them with their children, in vain. They couldn’t go back to Charlestown one more time, that transparently cursed and forsaken and burned place, already knowing what it had cost them. At best, they could tarry a few hours under cover of darkness, to see if Will pulled through or if he didn’t, and then set out for the long Atlantic crossing at dawn. They could not turn away from what was before them. They could not look back.

Liam’s grief was too deep and savage for words, twisting him in half until he was not sure he would ever be able to breathe properly again in his life, to stand up straight, to remember his name. He heard a splash as the crew tipped Jennings’ body over the gunwale, watched it swirl and eddy in the tide rush, had a brief and horrible impression that it was trying to swim back to the ship. Then it dipped, once and then again, and slowly, finally, went under.

Dully, Liam knew that Miranda had to be sewn up and put overboard as well, that there was no way her body would keep for a six-week-long voyage, even if he might have wanted to grant her the dignity of a final resting place in France. Yet once again, he could not quite bring himself to it. He rinsed the blood off in the rain barrel, then turned to the nursemaid, intending to instruct her to get Geneva and Henry away from this horror. Instead, rather to his own confusion, he said very quietly, “Can I have my niece, please?”

The nursemaid – he had to ask her name, but not quite yet – looked startled, but did so, and Liam lifted the baby into his arms, still feeling a faint tremble in his fingers and momentarily afraid that he would drop her. She had exhausted herself with terror and somehow managed to fall asleep, and he felt tears spring to his eyes as he braced her against his shoulder, assuring himself that she was solid, still breathing, alive. Then, not knowing exactly what he was doing, only that he had to, he carried the tiny girl to her grandmother, and laid her gently on Miranda’s chest.

“Liam – ?” Regina, who had gone to get the medicines she had unsuccessfully tried on Miranda earlier, and was now administering them to Will, looked up with a start. “What are you – ?”

He shook his head, holding up a hand. Kept staring at them, had a sense of a coin tossed in the air, flashing and spinning, spinning. On what side it would fall, and how, he had no notion. Life and death and life and death and death and life again. The price was paid. Oh God, it was paid.

For a moment, a few moments, still nothing. Geneva’s small fist clutched the filthy fabric of Miranda’s torn dress, and she slept on. Then, so faintly that Liam was sure he had imagined it, her body stirred ever so slightly. Up and down. As if riding on the wake of a slow-drawn breath.

Regina caught it as well, and stared. Neither of them moved, tense beyond words, waiting for it not to come again, until it did. And then, after the same nerve-wracking interval, a third.

There were many prayers Liam Jones could have uttered then, if he still believed in God, and yet, he did not know that he did. Too much had burned for that, too much had fallen, until he was not at all sure that Jennings was not right. Yet he stood there under the cold and empty stars, and saw what seemed no less than a miracle, and perhaps, for a stolen moment, he did. No way to say if it would last. No way to say if Miranda would wake again, or if Will would survive. If this was only the reprieve before they had to part ways for good, a brief spark of hope to make the final loss more crushing. But just now, that did not matter. Nothing else did.

Liam turned away, and straightened up, and faced his crew.

“Raise canvas,” he said. “We sail for France.”

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

Nearly all of the voyage back to Nassau was a blur. Emma did not want to believe that David Nolan’s terrible news was right, that Flint and Miranda were dead, but she also knew that she had no luxury to pretend otherwise. On a coldly practical level, there was also no way to say what had happened to the Walrus, and if they were down a third of their impromptu pirate fleet, it raised their already-stiff odds to all but impossible levels. They could still hope that David made it to Antigua without, say, being destroyed by Blackbeard, and delivered the charges and proof of Gold’s treason, but that did them no good in the short term, and could just as well end up going nowhere. Emma had to fill her head with these logistics, determinedly occupy her thoughts and her time, or otherwise she would have to face the staggering reality of having lost both her daughter and her mother at once – as well as, in Flint, the remotely closest thing to a father she ever really remembered having. If she wept a single tear, the dam would break, and she could not let it. Not now. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

Killian could clearly tell that she was suffering, but he also seemed to sense her desperate need to keep herself together, and did not directly ask her how she was, all too well aware of the answer. As before, the Whydah’s crew did not require much attention or direction from them to sail the ship, but both of them kept stubbornly persisting at it anyway, as the only alternative was to sit and drown in their thoughts. Driven hard on the back of the trades, they managed to return in just a bit under two days, dearly hoping that Woodes Rogers had not managed to execute another catastrophe in even this comparatively short span of time. They had to take extreme care on the approach, to avoid being spotted by any wandering Navy ships, and finally made it back to their more or less sheltered anchorage on the leeward side of the island. There they found the Jolie, still loaded with Vane’s stolen Spanish gold, and a very nervous Rackham waiting for them.

“Flint’s dead?” was the first thing out of Jack’s mouth, once they had acquainted him with the account of their most recent misfortunes. “Bugger me if I believe that. Any word of Charles?”

“No,” Emma said tightly. “All Captain Nolan said was that Lord Peter Ashe had held Flint and Miranda prisoner, and that they were dead. We don’t know what else happened, or where Vane is. We don’t know if it’s true, or what we’d do even if it wasn’t.”

“Fuck,” Jack said, which nobody could argue with as a way to sum up the situation. “Well. That does leave us rather literally between a rock and Woodes Rogers, doesn’t it? Not to mention that we still can’t risk going far with the gold, if Charles would come back and find it missing.”

Charles Vane’s feelings about the safety of his treasure haul were, in Emma’s opinion, the least of their concerns at the moment. “Did Sam and Lancelot go inland to the plantations? Make any headway on possibly recruiting slaves?”

“They did.” A crease linked Rackham’s brows. “Go to the plantations, that is. And haven’t come back yet, in fact. So either they’re doing so riotously well with volunteers that they can’t handle them all at once, or something, somewhere, with a nearly innumerable possibility of potential causes, went regrettably sideways. Given the general state of our fortunes thus far, one would find no difficulty at all in wagering on the latter.”

“Bloody hell.” Killian raked his fingers through his hair, which was beginning to get rather long, tousled dark locks ruffling in the wind. “And Rogers? Still hanging pirates?”

“We sent a few scouts out. They say he’s stopped for now, but they don’t trust it.” Jack sat down on the hatch cover next to Anne, who from her windblown appearance had been doing most of the scouting. “We’re fairly sure that he still thinks the Halifax made it safely off to Antigua to alert Gold to the situation, but either way, he is certain to be preparing some spectacular reprisal. That man does not like to lose, or to be humiliated, and over the past several days, we have done both. And Jennings is gone, that can’t be good. Likely went after Vane, so. . .”

Killian and Emma absorbed this in communal grim silence. While on one hand it was always at least something of a relief to hear that Jennings was no longer in the immediate vicinity, they were all too aware of the damage he could do anywhere else he had gone. No immediate solution to their dilemmas had thence appeared to them, so they bid Jack and Anne good night and went back to the Whydah, crawling into Sam’s bed and staring at the ceiling. Both of them were exhausted to the bone, but sleep felt very far away. And as well, something else. Something that neither of them could quite put their finger on, but disturbed them further.

“Something’s wrong,” Emma said at last, sitting up. Her hair fell loose around her face, her heart pounding fast and short. “Geneva and Henry. They’re in danger.”

Killian had been having rather the same sense himself, with absolutely nothing rational to explain it, and had been hoping it was just an extension of the general feeling of doom which seemed to have fallen over them. He could feel something just as ominous and unexplainable about Liam, and did not want to countenance even the possibility of it being real, of what else they could still have left to lose. He sat up and put his arms around Emma, pulling her close, as if he could somehow shield her from a peril that neither of them could even properly name. A storm at sea? One of Gold’s ships catching up to the Jolly Roger? Something still worse? Whatever it was, it wrapped strangler’s fingers around their hearts, pulling tighter and tighter, until neither of them thought they could stand it a moment longer – and then, as they were still holding each other as hard as they could, it broke over their heads like a crashing wave, washed into shore from the tumult of the tempest, fetching up on the sand among all the other flotsam and jetsam. They both gulped raw, ragged breaths as if coming up for air from the deepest of dives, and Emma clutched at his shirt. “Are they – ?”

“I don’t know.” Killian rested his chin on her hair, heart hammering. “I don’t know what just happened. Only that. . . something did.”

Emma made an inarticulate noise against his shoulder, tucked into his neck, as Killian tried to steady himself. He somehow thought he would know if it was wrong, if their family was dead, but then again, perhaps he wouldn’t. He only had the sense of a great and powerful change, some fulcrum shifted, as if whatever the world had been a few hours before was no longer what it was now. After a few moments, he leaned down and kissed Emma’s forehead. “Sleep if you can, love,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

She pressed herself closer, knuckles white with holding onto him, as he could finally glimpse the sheer agony beneath the fragile façade she had ever more tenuously been holding together. Then another breath shuddered out of her, and she settled almost bonelessly against him, their weary, battered bodies sinking into the comfort of the bed, the quiet of the night. There was some sort of peace, almost, as if in the wake of the storm passing, sweeping all clean. Killian Jones did not know what. He did not ask. All that mattered to him was that Emma Swan breathed.

Sam and Lancelot returned shortly before sunrise. Killian and Emma found this out when they were startled from a shallow sleep by the sound of the cabin door opening, and Sam ducked through, looking even more tired than them, clothes worn with dust and salt. Upon seeing them try to sit up, he firmly waved them down, shucked his boots and jacket, and crossed the floor to climb into bed with them, settling on Emma’s other side so he and Killian could both hold her. They lay there in the silence of the pearly grey predawn, listening to the Whydah creak softly beneath them, until Killian asked quietly, “What about the slaves?”

“I don’t know.” Sam blew a long strand of black hair out of his face. “Lancelot and I made it into a few plantations – barely made it out, in more than one case – and gave them our pitch, but we’ve had no miraculous uprising. Not that I can blame them. There is far too much at stake for them to risk it without complete assurance of success, and that, of course, is one thing we cannot give them. A few did seem interested, aye, but that will not make an army.”

“Ah.” Killian struggled to control his dismay, knowing that this had only been a slight possibility in the first place. “So. . . not much help to be expected from that quarter?”

“I wouldn’t think so.” Sam sighed. “We did everything we could, I swear.”

“Of course you did. I’d never blame you for it, you know that.”

Sam smiled at him over Emma’s head, but his eyes remained drowned. He clearly did hold himself responsible, as if there was something else he could have done to make a difference in their fight, as if it would be his fault if he had not found it. After a moment, he said, “Did you hear anything about Flint and Miranda?”

Killian grimaced. “We. . . did.”

Sam seemed to understand at once from the look on his face that whatever they had, it was nothing good. His lips went white, and he glanced away, clearly unable to press just yet for details. After a long pause he said, “We’ll have to come up with something. Rogers is getting his feet under him, he’s garrisoning Nassau to within an inch of its life, and the hangings will start again at any moment. With Flint or without him, we still have the Jolie and the Whydah. Either we make another attack with those, or we find help elsewhere. Did you deliver the message about Gold to David, I’m guessing?”

“Aye. Who knows what comes of that, but we did.” Killian wished it felt like more. “And the Jolie still has Vane’s gold on it, so if we take it into battle and it sinks – ”

“We can’t afford to keep it out of action just to serve as a treasury vault,” Sam pointed out. “As well, between that and my own recent rather remarkable success, we have all the money we could possibly spend in several lifetimes. There are swords and sails for hire. Jennings and his scabrous bunch aren’t the only mercenaries in the Caribbean. French flibustiers, my old mate Olivier La Buse if we could find him, and for that matter, plenty in the colonies. I’ve been thinking about making a trip back to Massachusetts for a while. It’s my old haunts up there, Williams and I know plenty of men willing to sail with us for a little coin, and there are no shortage of ships on Cape Cod. With just some of the treasure, I could get us an actual fleet.”

“Could you make it there and back in time?” Killian asked, frowning. “Be at least a fortnight, even assuming the best weather. If Rogers moved on us before then – ”

“The war won’t be over in a fortnight,” Sam said decidedly. “For better or worse.”

“Aye, but – ”

“We’ll keep it in mind, eh?” Sam put a finger to his lips. “Have to do something.”

Killian supposed this was true, and subsided as gracefully as he could, though still with a faint misgiving he could not quite wish away. The three of them slept for another few hours, and then woke up, put back on whatever bits of clothing they had taken off, and trudged topside. The day was fine and warm and clear, but their situation was growing increasingly urgent. Lancelot had returned to the Jolie to relay the same news to Jack and Anne, that they could not count on any support from the slaves, and while their current spot was more or less out of the way of potential discovery by the English forces, it also meant they were doing exactly bugger-all of good. It sat well with nobody to keep hiding while the occupation grew stronger, and it was finally decided that Sam, Emma, and Killian would take the Whydah up the coast, while Jack, Anne, and the Jolie stayed behind to hold their position. The Whydah was the faster and more maneuverable of the two, and while she did not run quite as many guns, she still could take anything the Navy felt like throwing at them. As well, everyone felt in need of a few straight answers.

They made their way cautiously up the eastern side of New Providence, sailing just in sight of land, double lookouts posted to warn of approach from any direction. Most of the day passed with nothing, and the three of them were just debating whether they could risk a closer venture to Nassau, when a shout went up from the forecastle. “Sails!”

They crowded to the rail, Sam and Killian clicked open their spyglasses at once, and stared – then stared again. “Christ,” Killian said. “I don’t believe it. Is that – is that the bloody Walrus?”

“Looks like it.” Sam’s face lit with a brief, fierce joy, as all of them felt their innards turn over at this merciful twist of fate at long last. None of them, however, expected this reunion to be pleasant, and they made as much sail as possible, hastening out to meet their battered compatriot, which looked rather literally to have been through hell. It was blackened and smoke-scarred, gunports still open, a stark and menacing death’s head. When Sam shouted up at the deck, Killian found himself briefly wondering who – or rather what – was going to emerge. Didn’t know that he was entirely ready to see it – to see, he greatly feared, himself. A man driven beyond all endurance and all restraint and any and all flicker of hope, a man in the darkest place of his life, and who saw no means of getting out. Who was not at all sure he should even bother.

The man who stepped onto the deck, therefore, bore a passing resemblance to James Flint, enough to be recognized as him, but who looked like nothing that Sam, Killian, or Emma had ever quite seen. He regarded them with no apparent interest or disinterest, gritted and bloodied and grim and raw as an open wound. Then he said, “You lot.”

“Aye, it’s us.” Emma’s relief to see him was plain, but she could also clearly tell by his face that half the news had, at least, been true. “You’re. . . you’re alive.”

Flint snorted, as if to say that was debatable. His fists tightened white on the railing, as if stopping himself from breaking it only with a terrible effort of will. “Was I dead before?”

“We’d heard so.” Killian looked up at the older man, sensing the pain and rage and heartbreak boiling off him as tangibly as poison. “Mate, what did – ”

“Does it matter?” Flint’s voice growled at the very edge of control. “What’s happened on Nassau?”

“It. . . it, well. . .” Nothing but absolutely horrendous news all around, it seemed. As briefly as he could, Killian explained the circumstances, the blockade of the harbor and the ever-increasing grip of Woodes Rogers’ war on the pirates, from pardons to punishments, to worse. He downplayed his own part in this transformation, noting only that Rogers and Jennings had unsuccessfully tried to make him talk, that Anne may have shot the governor in the course of the rescue attempt, and that Vane’s fiery blitz of the Navy ships had made him even more sorely aggrieved. It was, in short, a spectacular clusterfuck.

Flint listened without speaking, a muscle going in his cheek. Then he glanced at the man standing to his side – it was, Killian was surprised and disquieted to see, John Silver, leaning on a crutch and not quite entirely restored from having his leg brutally hacked off in Jamaica, but still surviving, evidently. “You tell them,” Flint ordered. “You’re the fucking talker.”

With that, clearly barely holding himself together, he whirled on his heel and vanished into the cabin, as it was left to Silver to elucidate the full extent of the past few weeks’ catastrophes. He crossed to the Whydah, as he did not want to shout over the decks of both ships, and that at least afforded them more privacy. Once they had retired to the cabin, he told them everything. In sum: Flint and Miranda had arrived in Charlestown, managed to obtain an audience with Ashe, and then confronted him with their knowledge of his treachery. Silver was unclear on the details, as only those three had been present, but it had exploded like a barrel of Greek fire. Miranda was shot, Flint had been taken prisoner, and held in preparation for public execution, until Vane arrived in the nick of time. The pair of them ripped Charlestown to shreds, Flint killed Ashe, and sailed off blindly, attacking the first ship he came across and killing everyone aboard, then taking the Walrus into the heart of a monster storm. Blown far off course and set adrift in doldrums, they finally fetched on a remote island that was home to another settlement of Maroons, who had not been inclined to appreciate the invasion. It had taken a lot of work from both Flint and Silver, but they managed to talk themselves, and the entire crew, out of being killed. As a matter of fact, they had also proposed an alliance, and several members of the colony were presently on board, under the leadership of their chieftainess’ daughter, Madi.

This unexpected piece of moderately hopeful news, after the disappointment of recruiting the slaves of New Providence, briefly plucked up sorely downtrodden spirits, and the sight of Sam bolstered the case; these Maroons were in contact with their brethren on the island led by Poseidon, and knew of his reputation as a friend to their kind. It was plain, however, that none of them trusted the other pirates as far as they could throw them, and that Flint’s mental state was, to say the least, extremely precarious. Silver said he had been having nightmares and terrors and worse, and that while he had pulled himself together sufficiently to deal with the Maroons, that was only a flimsy bandage on a gaping heart wound. “Not that he’s said so. He can’t. But I think the poor bastard would rather be dead, and with Miranda, than try to live without her.”

At that, Emma flinched as if she had been the one shot. She had been hanging for dear life onto Killian’s hand during this entire story, and this final confirmation that Miranda was dead seemed to snap her spine. She searched Silver’s face as if desperate for him to tell her that there was a mistake, but he only looked down, uncharacteristically grim and serious. A monstrous silence reigned over all of them, until at last Silver turned to Sam. “On the ship we took,” he said, “there was, as it happens, a letter for you. Flint didn’t know, and didn’t care – he shot both the captain and his wife, and most of the crew. I have it, if you want it.”

“A letter for me?” Sam was clearly surprised, and more than slightly wary. “Who’d risk their skin writing to a convicted pirate captain?”

“No idea. But the ship’s log said she was out of Boston, and if I recall, you have a number of acquaintances there. Presumably one of them heard that the ship was making for the West Indies, figured that would be close enough for it to somehow find its way to you, and got it aboard.”

Sam still looked wary, but nodded once and held out his hand, as Silver fished the battered letter from his jacket. Killian expected him to name his price, as this man so rarely traded valuable information (or anything, really) without a favor obtained in return, but for once, Silver simply gave it over. Sam slit the seal, unfolded it, and read it through. Then without a word, he leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and did not move.

“Sam?” Startled from her own grief by this unexpected reaction, Emma frowned at him. “Sam, are you all right?”

“Hey.” Killian, equally concerned, leaned over. “Sam. Sam, what is it?”

Sam still did not stir for another long moment. Neither Killian nor Emma wanted to read what was clearly a most upsetting and personal letter without his permission, and they were also not sure that they wanted Silver privy to the information, but as he was the one who had brought it, they could hardly throw him peremptorily out on the spot. The silence remained acute. Then Sam straightened up and said, “Those fucking Puritan bastards.”

“What – ?”

“Mariah.” The word was punched out of Sam as if at a blow. “Mariah Hallett, remember her? My lass in Eastham, in Massachusetts, with the fucking father who wouldn’t let us be married? She – she was. . .” He looked down at the table, gripping it hard. “She fell with child, evidently, after my visit there last summer, the one where I met you, Emma, and took you aboard the Whydah. But it. . . it was born too early. In a fucking stable, where Mariah had to take refuge after her most-holy parents threw her out of the house. It is – was – a boy. A lad. He lived only a few hours.”

“Jesus Christ.” Killian felt punched himself. “Sam. Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“After all I did for them.” Sam rocked back in his chair, eyes unseeing. “After all the money I gave them, the disputes I settled, the friends I made along Cape Cod, the time I spent there – the fine folk of Eastham shunned Mariah, threw her in jail for unlawful fornication outside of marriage, and would not even let her bury her son – our son – properly. I’m surprised they didn’t burn her at the fucking stake, unless they’re saving that for the grand finale. Jesus. Fuck those people. Fuck them!”

“Sam. . .” Emma reached out, face crumpled with pain, trying to put her hand over his, but he jerked it back. “Sam, I. . .”

He didn’t answer, continuing to stare fixedly at nothing, as the horrible irony and tragedy of it hit both of them broadside: that Sam had given up so much, fought so hard, been so steadfast and so generous in so many ways so that Killian and Emma’s child could live, that Geneva Elizabeth Jones had even had a chance to be born, and as a result, he had lost his own, never even knowing it until it was too late. They couldn’t ask him if he was angry, if he regretted it, if he wished he had done differently, because either way, it would be too unbearable. For once, even Silver had nothing to say, tactfully pretending not to be there, as it seemed as if the dragon of loss and tragedy would spare no one from the grip of its jaws. First Flint with Miranda, and now Sam with Mariah and their unnamed son, and Killian and Emma with whatever they had endured with their own missing children last night. On and on, inexorable.

“I have to go,” Sam said at last, roughly. “I’ll take my treasure, I’ll try to recruit men and ships for the cause, as I was planning earlier. But I have to go. I have to at least apologize to Mariah, even if she wants nothing to do with me ever again. I wouldn’t blame her. But I – Jesus. I can’t leave it like this. Jesus.”

Killian and Emma looked at each other, then back at him, unable to deny him. They knew if it was either of them, they would have been desperate to do the same thing, even as their own hearts broke with the need to try to put it right for him, when it was so far beyond their power to do. Sam had already faced so much and barely come through it – but he had, he had, he was somehow still struggling forward, the kindest and bravest and best of them, even if he could no longer believe in it himself. He did not deserve this. He did not deserve any of it.

“All right,” Killian said at last, quietly. “If you wanted just to go to see her, and to hell with trying to recruit reinforcements, I’m sure nobody would blame you. Or – ”

“No,” Sam said. “I made a promise to you, that I’d fight with you until the war was done. It’s not. And if anything good can come out of this, anything at fucking all, then I’d be twice as much a fool to let it slip away. I’m doing it.”

Killian looked at him wordlessly. “Sam,” he said at last, very quietly. “I love you. We love you. Come back to us, all right?”

Sam considered him, then nodded once. “I’ll leave Charlie,” he said to Emma. “Whatever happens in Massachusetts, I don’t want you to have to worry about your brother too, on top of everything else. If you two want to take him and return with Mr. Silver here to the Walrus, I intend to leave at once. No point in wasting time.”

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

The Whydah set sail at twilight. After he had bid farewell to Killian and Emma with a long hug and a quick kiss for each, doing a better job of holding himself together for their benefit than he at all felt, Sam ordered the canvas raised and the course charted, grateful for the distraction of the work. He did not blame them, as he loved them too much and knew it was not their fault, that they had had no more pleasant fate in having to give Geneva up with no certainty of ever seeing her again. Nonetheless, he wanted to be away from them. He already had the whole of the voyage to be alone with his turbulent thoughts, so perhaps it was jumping the gun a bit to get started just now, but he couldn’t stop himself. Jesus. Whenever he stopped being stunned, it was likely to hurt even more. Or worse, it wouldn’t.

Sam had loved Mariah, as he loved most people when he came to know them, and he still had meant to go back for her when the war was over, even though her father was not likely to have changed his opinions at all on the suitability of his nice Puritan daughter marrying a pirate. But at the same time, Sam could not have given up either Killian or Emma, or Flint and Miranda, in the different ways that all of them mattered to him – Miranda, at any rate, seemed to have been settled for him – and that he would have been all right if he had not, in fact, seen Mariah again. That guilt, that knowledge, was almost worse than the grief. That she had given up so much for him, that he had taken her presence and her love and her ability to be returned to whenever convenient for granted, and he had done this to her as a result. With the best of intentions, and with his own cursed inability not to connect too deeply with this, with everyone, he was the person who bore the most responsibility for Mariah Hallett’s current predicament, not the Puritans. They might have thrown her from her home, forced her to give birth in a stable only to see her child die, and imprisoned her for fornication and carnality, but Sam was the one who had left her there.

They sailed all night and all the next day without a halt, changing the crew shifts and taking advantage of a favorable wind. It was just over a thousand nautical miles from Nassau to Boston, and while they did not have the trades to speed things up, that was, strictly reckoned, not much further than the distance between Antigua and Jamaica in the Caribbean. It still worked out to a journey of at least a week in most cases, but then, most merchants and traders did not sail as if the Devil was after them, flying every scrap of canvas for as long as they could and running their crew to the brink of collapse from exhaustion. Sam worked harder than all of them, trying to shut up his yammering head. Whenever he did snatch a few winks of sleep, Hume had a disturbing tendency to appear in his dreams.

It was the morning of the fifth day out when the waters began looking somewhat familiar, and Sam reckoned they had to be close to the Nantucket Shoals, which was a tricky and dangerous bit of ocean that took careful negotiation. Numerous ships had been wrecked here, and he did not intend to add his name to the list. On the other hand, Nantucket was only about thirty miles south of Cape Cod, and if the weather held up, they could be there by nightfall.

Here, the Whydah happened across an apparent happy stroke of luck, in the form of a two-masted ship that surrendered quickly after a warning shot across the bow: the Mary Anne, bound from Boston to New York with a cargo of wine. Sam knew that he had been running his crew ragged, and that they deserved a spot of reward for all their exertion, so he ordered the spoils divided up and the drink passed around. For the time being, they were limited to the five bottles in the captain’s cabin, as the Mary Anne’s anchor cables barred access to the hold, so they drew her alongside, took her into tow, and decided to make full investigation of her delights later.

Sam checked the charts again and took a heading. He reckoned they could make it to Provincetown, the largest settlement of any size on the Cape, as the Whydah could stand to take on fresh supplies after all her venturing, and it was not far to Eastham from there. He sent a small crew over to take command of the Mary Anne, and they set out again.

For the next few hours, the weather was miraculously cooperative, the seas gentle and the wind steady, and they made good time north, despite the contrary currents from the shoals. Around three in the afternoon, however, one of those pernicious New England sea fogs arrived from nowhere and dropped over them like a ghostly shroud, so that the Whydah and her captive lost sight of each other at more than a few lengths apart. Sam ordered them to halt, checking the mercury in the glass. It had held level earlier, but now it was falling, and fast.

“Fuck,” Sam muttered to himself, already regretting his decision to be so munificent in taking the Mary Anne along. He had barely started to chew over what to do, however, when they were interrupted by a third ship sailing into the middle of things: a small trading sloop, the Fisher, with a captain who promised he knew the area well, and would help guide them around the hook of the Cape to Provincetown. Whether he felt this was preferable to being robbed by pirates was unclear, but no need to look a gift horse in the mouth.

A few hours later, however, Sam was cursing his rash capture of the Mary Anne more than ever. It was now fully dark, the wind and weather were getting worse, and the wine-sozzled eight men of his crew aboard the prize had caused her to fall well behind, obliging him to once more slow up and wait. “Hey, you lazy sons of whores!” he yelled, having to raise his voice considerably over the crash and thunder of the waves. “Sail the bloody ship, then drink!”

It was hard to see what, if any, response this evoked, and Sam felt a brief, unpleasant flicker of fear. The wind was shifting on them, coming from south by southeast, and what with the seas as high as they were, that meant they were being shoved hard toward the uncharted coast of Cape Cod, which was not the friendliest of places in the best of times. As well, the mercury was still plunging. This is not good. Sam had idly wondered if the captains of the Mary Anne and the Fisher might be interested in donating their vessels to the pirate cause, but at this rate, he was going to be lucky to keep any of them afloat. He could have made more speed in the Whydah, gotten out and away, but he was hampered by the need to keep his captured ships, and the men on each, together in the rising storm. I’m not leaving them behind.

By ten at night, the long-brewing gale had turned nasty. Rain pounded the deck and the sheets, lashing sideways, and bolts of lightning as bright as Zeus’ heavenly darts scalded the ink-black sky, followed by booms of thunder that rattled Sam’s teeth in his head. The seas kept climbing, waves twenty or thirty feet, so that despite all his best intentions, he had lost sight of the Mary Anne and the Fisher altogether. Huge, violent blasts of frothing white spray kept breaking over the deck and in towering sheets at the foot of the – cliffs?

Oh, fucking hell.

In the completest of all imaginable ironies, Sam realized all at once that he knew exactly where he was: precisely where he had meant to go, the village of Eastham on Cape Cod, the place where he had drawn Jennings away from Boston so Flint could have a go at rescuing the captives, the place where he met Emma for the first time and they became fast friends. The raging wind and water had driven them here, down the coast and toward the high sea cliffs that bracketed each side of the beach. If they could make it there, there might be some hope of a safe landing, though it would involve deliberately running the Whydah aground. If not –

Sam shook his soaking hair out of his face, spinning around on the deck. They were being tossed and slammed like a spoiled giant’s plaything, and there was only one possibility of salvation that he could see. “HEY!” he bellowed, yelling at the top of his lungs and still barely heard over the screaming madness. “LOWER THE ANCHORS!”

His men slipped and struggled toward the capstan, fighting the bucking braces with all their might to get the half-ton anchors free. The Whydah’s bow pitched and plunged into the trough of a seemingly endless wave, and Sam had a moment to be desperately grateful that he had not brought Charlie Swan along. He did not fancy explaining this to Emma if – when, damn it, when – they made it back to Nassau.

There was another splash as the anchors went under and their lines paid out, jerking and catching them to a croaking, straining halt. There was a moment of almost perfect silence and stillness in the heart of the storm, when they did not budge at all, locked in place as the ocean continued to throw its fit to every side. For that time, just that alone, Sam breathed.

Then he felt a jerk. Then another one. And then another, and that one did not stop. The anchors were dragging. They were on a direct collision course with the cliffs whether they liked it or not, and picking up speed with every writhe and thrash of the sea.

“CUT THE CABLES!” There was only one chance left, one small hope. They were currently being bashed backwards, stern-first, and if they could get swung around and go aground bow-first, there was some small hope of keeping the Whydah intact, of giving the men enough chance to swim for it. “WE’RE GOING ASHORE, LADS, HANG ON!”

Sam grabbed an axe with the others and hacked madly at the straining cables, fighting the sodden hemp with every blow, until finally they split and parted. Then he whirled on the helmsman. “TURN HER! TURN HER!”

The helmsman hauled on the wheel with all his strength, trying to fight the Whydah through the slamming, screaming, snarling tempest. But they weren’t turning. They kept plunging, helpless as a leaf on the wind, toward the mighty cliffs of Eastham, faster and faster, heading in stern-first and completely out of control. Sails tore loose, ropes snapped, and Sam could hear the sound of cannon breaking their mounts belowdecks and rolling like juggernauts. The ship tipped violently as the cargo in its heavy-laden hold broke loose, all the spoils of their weeks of wildly successful plundering, all the treasure he meant to use to purchase reinforcements for their cause. There was only this, now. Only inevitability.

There was no way to brace for it. One moment the cliffs were looming directly overhead, and the next, the mountainous waves slammed the Whydah into them with a force great enough to launch men clean off the deck and rigging and into the howling sea like bullets. Sam felt something snap in his shoulder, a blazing pain raced up it, and then he was engulfed in the blackness of seething saltwater to every side. He thrashed at it with his good hand, kicking and swimming as hard as he could, utterly unaware which way was up, until he broke the surface seemingly by chance. The deck of the Whydah was there, yes, but now it was over his head. It had no bloody business being over his head.

Sam sucked a desperate breath, clawing at the slick wood, then twisted out of the way in the barest nick of time as a cannon fell out of the next wave and crushed the man next to him into bloody pulp. Jesus, Jesus, no, not the Whydah, not his beautiful girl. Not his treasure, not his crew, not this, not this. He had meant to go back to Mariah and beg forgiveness for his sins, and yet by the looks of things, he had not started to be appropriately punished for them. He could see Robert Gold in his head, and Josiah fucking Hume, and all the leering faces watching him being marched to the gallows on Antigua. Whatever great cosmic debt he had incurred to the universe for his survival then, it seemed about to be paid in full.

Dimly, Sam heard an almighty, shattering crack, and twisted his head around just in time to see the Whydah’s mainmast split, plummeting into the frothing abyss of whitewater and taking the full rig of its sails with it. The hull couldn’t be far behind. The ship was barely recognizable as a ship, pounded into matchwood by the unforgiving might of the tempest, and Sam realized, in a very calm way, that he was about to die.

Very well, then. He did not want to die thinking about Gold and Hume and the sight of Robin Locksley dead in his arms, of grief and pain and darkness. He wanted to die thinking of Emma Swan’s smile, and Killian Jones’s strength, and the night he had kissed James Flint and Miranda Barlow and taken them to bed to breathe for the first time in ten years. He wanted to die thinking of Mariah Hallett, who had loved him despite the terrible injustice he had done to her, and he wanted to die thinking of a clear and perfect night under the Caribbean stars, and rum on a beach with his friends, with his family. He wanted to think of little Geneva Elizabeth Jones, and even her stubborn uncle Liam, and David Nolan. He wanted to think of home, and his sisters. Remembered their kisses and their tears as he left their poor farm in Hittisleigh, in rural Devonshire, a boy from nowhere who meant to be a man that everyone would know, and told them that he was going to make his fortune.

Another wave slammed him down, down and down, such a long way down, into the blackness of the undertow, and the crushing force of the submerged boulders. Sam was aware of the pain, but only distantly. He was not coming up this time, he knew, and he felt his air begin to run out, his mouth fill with salt and sand. He breathed one last time, and only water rushed into his lungs. But in his head, brilliant as a burning star until it began to fade, until all the lights went out, he was air, and sun, and fire, and there was no defeat, no death, no sundering. Only him, and the darkness that moved over the face of the deep, and the soft arms of the sea.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #jewel queen #sam bellamy #the dark horizon #black sails #ngl you will want to brace yourself for this one #maybe a drink #so yes you have been warned

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