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snowbellewells · 4 years

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“The Case of the Heart in Armor” {Part Five}

Wow, it’s hard to believe that I started this fic last fall for @csrolereversal and am just now getting close to the conclusion. A lot of other things have jumped in line ahead of it, but I am still really enjoying this one, and I hope those who are still reading it will continue to as well. Only one more part to go after this!

Thank you once again for the patience of @courtorderedcake for the lovely and inspiring art which birthed the idea and started it all!

Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog…

From the Beginning: on Tumblr HERE or on AO3 HERE

Part Five

The next morning found Inspector David Nolan once more within his well-appointed office at the Yard; this time not fruitlessly scrutinizing scattered photos for missed details, but pacing the length of the room with the restless energy of a caged beast. His walk to headquarters through a chill drizzle as dawn was just beginning to lighten the grey English morning, had been wet and cold, but nothing out of the ordinary for rainy London weather. Granted, he had barely slept that night, surely disturbing his sweet, compassionate wife. She had risen earlier than was her wont as well, making him a hearty breakfast and holding on more tightly than usual as she saw him on his way. He had been at work long before it was necessary, but it still did not explain why his second-in-command and his sister had not arrived for their meeting as scheduled; Emma to report anything she might have noticed on the streets in her previous evening’s scouting work, and David then intended to share with them both the clue he and Jones had uncovered.

Of course, he tried to recognize that his frustration was heightened, his patience not at the level he would normally attempt to exercise, and that they were merely a scant few minutes late. All the same, it was completely unlike Watson to be anything but prompt, following his superior’s orders to the letter (often even anticipating David’s wishes or going above and beyond in fulfilling them). It went against all established character for Graham to be tardy or forgetful, and though he did have a pleasant and more relaxed side to his personality once he grew comfortable with others, Watson was never careless. The fact that he had been meant to swing by Emma’s building and accompany her in, made Nolan’s already high tension all the more volatile. Though he knew his adopted sister could handle herself - had more than one permanent scar upon his person to attest to the fact - David Nolan would not be appeased until both Graham and Emma were present before him.

Even as he was thinking that very thing, pacing back over to the window to peer out upon the dreary sidewalk and damp grass in front of the imposing building in which he stood, Nolan heard the quick flurry of rushing footsteps at his door before it was flung open to admit his lieutenant’s abrupt entrance.

Whirling with all senses on the alert, David’s shoulders only lowered a bit in relief to find Watson standing in the doorway. Eyes wide and searching as they scanned the office anxiously, Graham panted slightly from clear exertion, his face worried and paler than usual. The deputy’s wheaten curls were riotously mussed and in disarray from his hands raking through them, as he proceeded to do once more upon seeing his boss was the only person in the room. “Isn’t she here?” he asked worriedly.

David shook his head tersely. “No, she isn’t. I thought you were going by there to walk in with her?” He tried to keep the bite of recrimination from his words, but winced internally at the way Graham dipped his head to avoid his eyes, knowing he must not have succeeded.

“I did go by her building. Rang for her several times, in fact. I got no answer and wasn’t sure how to proceed. Eventually, the building’s landlady came to the main door and let me in, but even going directly to her door, knocking and calling for her repeatedly brought no response. I couldn’t very well pick the lock and break in with the matron standing right there. I assumed - well, hoped really - that she had gotten an early start and was already here with you.” His words died out on the obvious conclusion that, not only was Emma not present, but she clearly had not been at her home either, or if so, was somehow unable to answer. The implication was chilling, to say the least. Their plan for the morning had been concocted between the two of them to see Emma safe but not make her feel coddled, doubted, kept on a leash, or watched like a child. All the same, now something might well be wrong, and they had been none the wiser.

“Send a runner to Jones’ residence. Holmes was here late last night; he saw Emma home from her undercover work, then wanted to discuss the last victim. We found something I was anxious to share with you. I’ll fill you in on the way, but we should get moving and figure out where Emma’s gotten off to. Have him meet us at her building as soon as possible - at least it’s a place to start.”

Graham gave a bob of the head and stepped into the lobby to flag down the needed messenger. Then both men were out the door and on their way again within moments; concern lending speed to their steps amidst hopes they were not too late. What neither man wanted to say was that Emma had likely not gone anywhere on her own - at least not of her own free will.

~~~~~~~~~~***

‘Holmes’ Jones met the Inspector and his friend Watson at Miss Nolan’s apartment, looking more rattled and concerned than David Nolan ever remembered witnessing; of course, he had done some research on the gentleman detective before reaching out to consult him in official police business. He had looked into the other man’s affairs well enough to know that there had been early abandonment, a less than savory romantic entanglement ended abruptly in a suspicious death, and a past proclivity to drown the memory of said losses in drink before his elder brother had lured him into an undersecretary position a few years back and seemingly given Killian Jones the rudder he needed to steady his course and once more find purpose. Said gentleman had eventually quit the position with his only known kin to go into his current private investigative endeavors, but it appeared that since his point of turnabout, Jones had maintained utter control of his more tempestuous impulses from the past. In fact, Nolan had often thought him rather cool and detached in his manner, unless he was employing charm and his handsome face to coax a witness into talking or to trip up a suspect. The inspector realized now that perhaps Jones’ business-like, emotionless distance had been a carefully arranged mask that was slipping away.

Killian Jones, for his part, could not help cursing his own negligence at simply walking away and leaving Emma at her doorstep the previous night, as if there were not a care in their worlds. Granted, she had been fine when they parted company; no doubt she would have balked at him insisting to see her all the way up to her private apartments as though it had been some blushing first date. The place had seemed normal and undisturbed - no signs of commotion or threat, no uneasy tingling at his nape (which once he could have depended on to give fair warning) - and so he had let it go, not wanting to push the tentative peace between himself and the prickly beauty.

However, fear for her safety and rampant self-loathing licked at the edges of his mind like ravenous ghouls in the changed circumstances of morning light. Had someone been lying in wait for her return home? How would said person have gained entrance? Or did a villain watch and wait until she was alone, asleep and off her guard, to break in and overpower her? Suddenly, Killian knew all too many details and statistics of this case and uncounted others to let that train of thought travel further without losing all composure.

The three men stood in Emma’s living room searching for anything which might provide a clue as to what had happened and how she had been accosted. Neither her door nor windows showed any sign of forced entry. The apartment reflected the comfortable clutter of a lived-in home, but it was free of the broken and scattered shambles that would indicate a struggle. Had Emma been overwhelmed before she could even attempt to fight back? Just as they had all feared, she seemed to have disappeared without a fight, in the midst of a case - something the feisty blonde they all held dear would never have allowed to happen without scratching and clawing and raising an alarm in her own defense if she were able.

That coupled with the discovery he and Nolan had made the night before was more than enough to set Killian well and truly on edge. Not only that, and the creeping fear that it was all connected, but an old memory of a disturbed individual whispered of some year before began to niggle at the corners of his mind. It had never become an official case - the clues and questions frighteningly sparse and circumstantial at best, but… there was a troubling echo of the deaths then with the ones they were seeing now. Holmes was just debating the efficacy of sharing his suspicions when the Inspector sat heavily on the large chest at the foot of his sister’s bed. His voice was weary as he looked down with unnecessary focus on his large hands clasped uselessly in his lap.

A deep sigh left him, broad shoulders slumped as David Nolan began, in a voice much softer than Killian had ever heard the officer use. “I don’t want to think this… and yet...I can’t in good conscience not tell you both that I fear Emma is in the hands of our killer.” His words were interspersed with reluctant pauses, but he continued. “She... she would want to strangle me…” Here he shook his head, looking almost boyish when some long ago memory caused a small grin to transform his face for mere seconds before slipping away once more. “If she knew I was telling you this...Emma would have my head...but let’s just say… she could easily be the ‘heart in armor’ from the clue we found.”

Graham at Nolan’s right side looked uncertain, brow furrowed as he considered his boss’ words. “Sire, no disrespect, I know she is tough and guarded, to be sure, but what makes her more so than many others?”

Killian arched a brow, surprised and rather impressed that Watson was going to push his superior for further explanation. Granted, he had wondered the same - especially since he had privately believed the clue was referring to him up until Emma’s disappearance at least. Still, he had figured he would need to ask the question himself.

Nolan ran a sharp, frustrated palm back over his close-cropped head, his agitation and discomfort growing continually clearer. “It wasn’t just that she was picking pockets on the streets to survive when Mum and I found her,” he murmured, forcing out the rest. “She wasn’t merely homeless; she’d never had a home at all...or anyone who cared how she was...if she were hurt...or angry...or afraid. There had been someone… an older boy who preyed on that...said he loved her. Then he betrayed what little trust she had for anyone… and left her with a baby… that she lost. She never told even me any more than that. So, yes, there is armor a foot thick and a mile wide around that heart of hers.”

Graham flushed and looked away, abashed and silenced as if he had forced Nolan to talk in the precinct box. Killian too blew out a stunned breath, well aware from just her small tells and the feeling of kinship with her he couldn’t ignore - despite their heated sparring - that Emma Nolan’s life must have been anything but easy. Still, he had not expected that depth of tragedy and pain. He was almost embarrassed to have assumed his own losses would have left a larger mark.

“Aye,” he murmured reluctantly, pursing his lips in troubled thought as he continued to scan the room around them, hoping to find something amiss or out of place, anything that might give them a lead as to where Emma might be now. “I can understand why such treatment might make anyone put up walls,” he finally added, coming to stand near the door and at last reluctantly admitting that there was nothing in the small apartment of any help to them.

Looking from one of his companions to the other intently, Killian bypassed his original theory - his own heart being the needed target. With Emma was missing and what David had shared, it seemed unlikely and a waste of their time. Instead he licked his lips, cautiously preparing himself to speak on the other odd connection that had been growing and solidifying in his mind. That half remembered case’s detailed were coming clearer as he pulled at the thread of recall. It had been suspected that the perpetrator had espoused the mad gothic ideas of reanimation, much like had been written of in Mary Shelley’s popular novel. He didn’t know any sensible way to broach such an outlandish theory outright with his colleagues, so instead he swept his gaze over to Graham’s face and queried, “Do you remember that mad tale Frankenstein which was all the rage some years back?”

He was banking on the fact that his friend enjoyed those same eerie Victorian authors Liam did, having heard them discuss many such fictional works over scotch or brandy in Liam’s study countless evenings while a fire roared in the hearth and they idled a while in companionable talk before night’s end. He was honestly hoping Graham would know of the twisted story so he would not sound to both men as though he were making up his next conjecture from pure imagination.

Graham’s forehead creased in curious thought, but he nodded, warming to the topic just as Killian had intended. “Yes, I remember it. The main character - a doctor, but more like a mad scientist - creates a man from parts of grave robbed corpses. Hair-raising, genuinely. The author claimed the entire thing came to her as a nightmare, and I would believe it.” He shook his head, then continued, “However, the doctor does bring the inanimate body back to life with electricity from lightning.” Graham’s voice trailed off, eyes widening as he stared back at Killian, understanding dawning on his face. “Surely you don’t mean…?”

Killian didn’t answer aloud. It was clear exactly what he was coming to believe.

Inspector Nolan looked between the two, his lieutenant and his consultant, with increasing impatience and frustration. “Mean what?” he prodded intensely, standing with hands fisted at his side and looking ready to take a swing at one, or both, of them if they didn’t start to explain. “One of you had better tell me what you’re getting at and how it ties to this case, and Emma, before I lose my patience.”

Sighing, Killian stepped forward to face the police officer he had come to genuinely respect and hold in high esteem. He and Liam had not had an easy start in life, as boys and young men who had encountered many coppers, lawyers, and others in positions of power who were as selfish, cruel, and crooked as David was straight and true. It was a new thing to look at this man and know that he truly upheld the law in order to stand for and protect those who could not protect themselves.

Killian hated the picture taking shape in his mind from a mixture of long-buried reminiscence and unsolved cases, but he owed it to them to offer all the information he had. “I’ll explain, Mate,” he assured Nolan in a clipped, heavy tone, clasping his shoulder for a moment before dropping his hand again, “but brace yourself. I’ll wager it’s going to sound a preposterous tale.”

David nodded curtly, crossing his arms over his broad chest and widening his stance as if to tackle whatever Killian said head on.

“Some years back, when I still worked under my brother in his diplomatic office, there were several suspicious deaths in a single fall and winter. All nameless victims, homeless, without any identification, anything to go on. The distinguishing factor tying them together was… the absence of a vital organ. There were also whispers - rumor and conjecture only, most thought - of an ambassador’s wife who dabbled in the occult and alchemy. Nothing concrete was ever found in order to charge her... but I met her, and the ambassador and their two grown daughters as well, at more than one political function when I was serving under Liam. It was not something which could be quantified, and shame on me, I did not pursue it. But she could freeze a man’s blood in his veins with a glance; there was truly something unnatural and unsettling about her - a Mrs. Cora Millsen, her name was. I kept my distance beyond a few necessary conversations. I could see she had intent to strike up an arrangement between myself and her younger daughter, Regine, and began to beg off engagements assisting Liam where the family would be in attendance. The ambassador himself, Henrik, was a pleasant fellow, honest and well-liked enough that most overlooked his peculiar family, as he was the one they had dealings with. I cannot say I made the connection until it began to prick my memory with this present case’s similarities, and its same lack of conclusive evidence. Perhaps most horrifying though was that the seemingly unsolvable wave of killings ceased when the Millsen family returned to their country, abruptly and suddenly after the fiancé young Regine did eventually choose, some young equestrian riding champion, died in their home.”

He took a moment to chance a look first at Graham’s stunned expression, the other man probably even remembering those unsolved cases which had continued to trouble his elder brother long after the book on them had been shut, and then to David Nolan’s face, a mask of stony silence. There was nothing for it but to finish what he knew of the sordid tale, so Jones drew a deep breath and plunged on. “Regine refused to go with her family. She came to Liam’s offices, raving about her mother killing her ‘beloved Daniel’. A report was drawn up, but her account was impossible, unbelievable. Nothing came of it. The young woman seemed clearly unhinged by grief and anger, almost deranged. Heaven help me, I was glad when Liam’s colleagues dismissed the charges. Obviously she was troubled and in need of help, but she made me every bit as unsettled as her mother Cora ever had.”

“And what happened to her after that?” David asked skeptically. “There was no more trouble?”

“After that?” Killian replied. “I do not know. She seemed to fade from public view… and I was relieved. I was happy to let her do so. I admit it.”

He looked to Graham then, and his friend took up the story when Killian paused. “It wasn’t always the heart - that was where those cases differed from ours currently. I remember the incidences you are speaking of Killian, but I failed to make the connection as well. One was missing lungs, another the kidneys, but there were two or three that were without the heart as well. The past case was kept within the offices of the embassy, largely because the only possible suspect known had immunity. Killian is correct. Something was not right about that woman; pushing her two daughters at any dignitaries who might gain them British citizenship and a finer, fancier life, but yet something cool and detached about her as well, as if all around were pawns to move on some chessboard only she could see. It was rumored she espoused the ridiculous popular idea in some circles at the time that perhaps Dr. Frankenstein was based on some real life doctor. Utter rubbish of course, no sane, self-respecting physician would…” This time Graham broke off in agitation, jerking fingers through his already disheveled hair and mumbling. “Simply not possible…” and “first do no harm” as he paced away from them.

“Anyway,” Killian intoned forcefully, determined to finish the story in short order. “The family’s official dossier attributed the woman with study of the occult and alchemy, as well as a rather accomplished knowledge of anatomy, botany, and medicine in her native land. But there was no motive, no evidence… well, unless you count the rather dramatic coincidence of the daughter’s suitor dropping dead of a heart attack in their parlor. Even that is not a crime in itself, however suspicious it looked that the family fled Britain back to Norway within hours of the incident, and that the bizarre killings then ceased.”

He could tell as he finished recounting the tale that David Nolan was fit to burst with numerous questions and arguments. Yet no words left the man’s mouth; instead it opened and closed mutely before he huffed and turned his back, gathering his composure. They were all quiet for a minute until David turned sharply, speaking in a voice that took command and snapped them into action. “None of that matters at present. What does matter is finding Emma and stopping this killer. Could your brother tell us if the Millsen family, or the wife at least, have returned? If so, we need to know where they’re staying, places they frequent…”

Killian nodded his assent, but it was Graham who spoke. “Liam has never really let that case go; he will no doubt still have documentation of any information that was unearthed, what little there was. Or, if nothing else, he will have kept tabs on the family.”

David sent him to call Liam and sighed, running a hand over his face as he looked once more to Killian. “Let’s hope your brother knows somewhere we can start. That tale of yours was far from comforting, and we need to be doing something.”

“I completely agree,” Killian confirmed gruffly, hoping his face would not betray the panic stirring in his gut. They needed to find Emma Nolan sooner rather than later. He did not wish to contemplate the terrible possibility that not all of her would be in one piece to find.

~~~~~~~~~***

The dark-eyed femme fatale looked down upon the operating table she had modified for her research, hidden in the basement of the home she had let upon her return to London. Most did not even know that the sub-level existed, which was exactly how she needed it - locked away, where she could do her work without fear of discovery.

Her eyes were sharp, narrowing in dangerous concentration as she studied the unconscious form laid out before her on the flat surface, though there was not a mark marring her fair skin, the debilitating cloud of vapour had struck the pretty flowercart girl as hard as any physical blow. Throughout the transport to her lair and depositing her on the hard surface the blonde had not wakened or even stirred. Her long hair was fell around her, hanging off the edges of the worktop and making Emma Swan look all the more vulnerable for her bared neck and shoulders; uncovered, unveiled, in only her thin shift as protection against the darkness and cold creeping in all around her and the jagged knife her abductor wielded.

Though the inspector’s younger sister - oh yes, she had done her research as well! - was merely the pawn in a sinister plan much deeper and more twisted than any had realized, the fiendish villainess had prepared for all contingencies. Waking up and beginning to fight would not free the lovely bait in her trap; it would only make the sacrifice more satisfying. She had already bound her prey to the table’s surface, at wrists and ankles and around her torso. She would not be making any sort of escape; even as she at last began to stir restlessly.

Perversely pleased with herself, Regine Millsen, daughter of the once-ousted ambassadors, had used her ill-gotten powers, first learned at her cursed mother’s feet and then honed in hatred and bitterness to something even more potent in order to transport and incapacitate her victims. She had bided her time until she was strong enough, smart enough, and assured of her victory. She had searched until she found the very spell she needed - and all the ingredients but this last one. She had watched long enough to know that the infamous Holmes Jones, cool of head and hard of heart through tragedy’s tempering, cared for this saucy slip of a girl, and when he came to her rescue, she would at last have the armored heart she needed. She would resurrect her mother’s last sacrifice: the man she had loved and lost. Smirking sadistically as she hovered over the younger woman blearily surfacing to a wakefulness that would not be pleasant, Regine considered, How did the poet Eliot put it - ‘pinned and wriggling’ ? She nodded to herself; like a helpless fly in her web this one was. And finally she would have what she desired most - none could stop her now.

Tagging a few who have been interested in the past: @csrolereversal @courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @hollyethecurious @cocohook38 @darkcolinodonorgasm @stahlop @laschatzi @therooksshiningknight @winterbaby89 @lfh1226-linda

#csrolereversal fic #cs Victorian au #The Case of the Heart in Armor #Part Five #Killian 'Holmes' Jones #cs au mc

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rueitae · 4 years

Text

Depths of Dedication

Written for the @storiesinthedarkbang Bang! Greek Myth inspired AU

Pairing: Plance.

Length: 14,100 words

Rating: Teen and Up - angst with a happy ending

Warnings: threat of being killed/eaten and candid discussion of it, choking, suggestive themes, monsters

Read on Ao3!

Features the outstanding art of @a-haunted-sock as seen here and @numbah34!! as seen here and here! Seriously I loved every minute working with both of you. Both of you are incredibly talented and wonderful friends. I feel blessed to have been able to see the progress on all the pieces and just jumping up and down in my seat the whole time.

Many thanks to @rosieclark for beta! Your suggestions made this fic feel whole. I owe you so much.

~~~~~

The sky is grey, filled with ominous clouds that threaten rain. Thunder rolls and lighting flashes in the distance over the sea. Cold water laps over Pidge’s feet and choppy waves cut into her ankles, sending her bare feet sinking further into the soft sand.

The first raindrop lands on her nose. She twitches to shake it off, but immediately gives up. Angry tears wet her face anyway, so what was the point?

Gloomy, cold, and without friends or family; a perfect day to die.

Pidge inhales sharply through her nose, fighting back the snot and sobs her body desperately wants to release. Failure to save her home scares and hurts far more than her imminent death. The people of their small island nation had trusted her - enough to risk their lives smuggling her out past the Galra blockade. Matt will soon be all alone to fend them off, thinking his dear ingenuitive sister will be bringing backup; help that she’s failed to find.

And he’ll likely die by Zarkon’s hand never knowing she died first.

The chains that bind her wrists tug, stretching her arms uncomfortably upwards, exposing her armpits to the nippy air. A chill runs through her bare arms as even colder stone makes contact with her back.

“I can fetch you a cloak if you’d like. It’s gonna be a cold one tonight.”

Pidge refuses to look at her captor - one of the local fishermen - choosing instead to glower at the horizon. He walks in front of her, calm for one chosen to be her executioner, wrapping a chain across her chest. It tightens, digging into her skin through the thin fabric of her dress as he rounds the large rock at her back, pressing her even further against the stone.

Spitefulness overtakes fear. “I’m going to die anyway. What does it matter if my killer is the cold or the sea monster,” she remarks dryly.

The man - barely, he can’t be much older than her - huffs. “I think the village would be open to giving you a last request. A meal, a cloak, something like that.”

He walks in front of her once more, dragging the chain taught over her waist as he rounds the stone. Pidge winces, feeling every protrusion of rock digging into her back. She grunts, holding back an instinctive cry of pain. She’s fought monsters and faced all kinds of peril on her journey - what’s resting on a rock to her?

She can cry more easily after he’s left her alone - no witnesses.

“How about letting me go?” she grits out in response.

The man lets out a sharp laugh as he walks in front of her again, dragging the chain across her thighs. “Not worth all the fishing boats and harvest lost thanks to you angering the Sea Guardian.” The iron digs into her skin suddenly and sharply as he yanks the chain, earning a surprised yelp from her. The blue gem at the end of an intricate iron necklace glints as dangerously as his eyes. “My brother’s was one of them.”

Pidge has already apologized a thousand times. The only penance the village will take is her life.

“They were willing to part with such a fancy dress,” she retorts bitterly. Though risque - sleeveless, high collared complete with a slit over her chest - the fabric is one she’d wear at home in the palace even down to her favored green coloring.

Her captor hums, rounding in front of her to wrap the chain just below her knees. “The Sea Guardian likes his dinner guests to look nice,” he says darkly. “It’d be more than you deserve.” Pidge bristles, an unpleasant feeling twisting in her stomach at his smooth tone.

“M-more like guests that are his dinner,” Pidge says bitterly through chattering teeth. Though whether its caused by the cold or the thought of entertaining a sea monster, she isn’t sure.

“Maybe you’ll find a way to change his mind about eating you.” The man gives the chain another tug and Pidge hisses at the stone digging into her sore legs and back. He fastens the manacles at the end of the chain to her ankle. It blocks the waves there at least, sparing her a bit of pain. “He always tends to stay away longer when he’s given a maiden.” He stands and stretches, appraising her with a raised eyebrow. “You are a maiden, aren’t you?”

Heat rushes to her cheeks in embarrassment, though it does little to warm the rest of her body against the cold air and sea. Such a comment really shouldn’t matter at this point, not when she’s about to be devoured “I’m unmarried,” she says noncommittally. Though he’s right, she refuses to let him know it. “Why should that matter?”

Perhaps if she were married she wouldn’t be in this mess. She’s never been in a position to want to be. But even if she or Matt had offered themselves up for marriage, the Galra would have controlled the island through either of them, making her people suffer more than they already do.

The man crosses his arms over his chest, his thin eyebrows raised smugly. “Then the Guardian might not eat you right away,” he says casually. “Lucky you, most of us thought you were a boy at first with all that armor on.”

“How reassuring,” Pidge drones. A lecherous monster is the last thing she needs on top of everything else.

Chained up, she has to make on last appeal. “Look, there has to be some other way I can make this up to you. I can’t reanimate the golem - but maybe I can find someone who can.”

The fisherman looks thoughtful, and for a few desperate moments Pidge thinks she might have gotten through to him… but he shrugs instead, eyes narrowed and blue irises shining dangerously. “My brother is hurt thanks to you, and the village won’t be able to provide for itself. This is Poseidon's Law - you’ll pay penance as the Guardian sees fit.” He turns his gaze to the sea, his tone remains chilling. “High tide comes in at midnight. Did you want company until then?”

Pidge grimaces and tugs, testing her bindings. They remain firm, clinking against the stone. Her heart thumps in frustration. “Not if I have to listen to you the entire time,” she spits, directing it to anywhere near his face.

He’s hardly bothered by her outburst, and, with remarkable reflexes, simply sidesteps her pathetic attempt at retaliation. “Suit yourself,” he says, his mocking tone making her blood boil. “Someone will be watching from the cliffs, so no funny business, all right?”

Not that she could escape, not without magic or key. Magic is out of the question as she is mortal, and even if Pidge had a key she doubts it would be of any use in her shackled hands. It begs the question of how a sea monster is going to get her out of this. Her empty stomach tightens into knots as the realization comes to her with a tight gasp; to the razor sharp teeth of a sea monster, flesh is easier to cut than iron.

The fisherman leaves her, the slosh of the man’s legs through the water that separates this sandbar from the main beach is like a death knell.

Sea birds squawk on the cliffs, though Pidge can see only rock behind her. The clouds are noticeably darker now than when she was led out here - it must be sunset. Midnight gives her perhaps four hours to reflect on her short life and make peace with herself.

Or come up with a plan to convince the monster to spare her - find some other way she can pay penance for whatever wrong she’s done by killing that golem.

Her only regret in life is this ending. Matt will never know what becomes of her. Zarkon will keep the blockade until her brother surrenders or dies. Pidge can’t help him now.

She lowers her head and closes her eyes, sighing. A drop of rain falls on her hair, then another. A fresh wash of cold air overtakes her body as the skies release a downpour. Pidge instinctively tries to curl in on herself for warmth, but her chain will not allow for it.

The cold rain chills her to the bone and the garments doing nothing to shelter her from the elements. Her hair sticks pathetically to her skin, just long enough to cover her ears and agitate her neck and shoulders; one more thing to add to her misery.

When the heavy rain gives way to a light mist, the tide has brought the water to her knees. The sun has set and Pidge can no longer see the formation of the clouds nor the cresting waves, the sound of which dominates the air, as the moon hides behind the thick layers of stratus. There is no way for her to tell how much time has passed but for how high the water rises over her body.

With renewed vigor Pidge test the manacles around her wrists. They hold tight, but now with no guard in sight, she twists and turns with all her might, tugging with her arms to find any sort of weakness. For her trouble she receives the small victory of loosening the chains around her body. It’s easier to move around now, even as the surface of the water reaches her waist. Better to keep busy, the movement providing a measly amount of warmth, than ponder over her impending death.

Pidge continues to struggle, thrashing about as the water climbs higher and higher. She can hear her father’s voice telling her to keep testing, always question, try a thousand different solutions until you unlock the right one - unlock a lock in this case. And her mother, encouraging her to be strong, to impose her will against the adversary - be determined… and the results may be surprising.

Matt’s voice floats in over those of her departed parents: take a break, observe your surroundings, listen.

Though she stills, the chains dig into her skin. It is far too dark to observe, but she can listen and--

Water laps up against her chin.

Pidge gasps and throws her head back against the rock. Is she really so numb from the cold she hadn’t realized how far the water has risen? She directs her gaze downward. The waterline is around her neck - too dark to see anything clearly but what is directly in front of her.

It won’t be long now before the tide takes her under. Her heart races, her breaths short and panicked. Will she drown before being torn apart to satisfy a monster’s stomach? Perhaps that would be a mercy.

There is movement in the distance, or what Pidge thinks is movement, and the sound of a wave cresting offbeat from the others. Her heart breaks - she’s out of time to save her brother and all she can do is cry.

The Sea Guardian is here.

Pidge yanks on the chains for all she’s worth, but they give none. “I’m sorry!” she screams. “I didn’t know - I won’t hurt the shoreline golems ever again!”

Water crashes over her face before the surface returns to below her chin. She spits out the salty water, shaking her head to clear it from her face.

Smooth, slimy scales brush her legs. Pidge inhales sharply, kicking as far as the chain will allow, finding only water. She shivers from her hands to toes - and not from the cold.

A forked tongue tickles under her arm. She shrieks, twisting every which way to stop the creature from licking - tasting - her. No relief comes no matter how hard she tries as it samples the skin on her leg.

A sob works its way out of her throat, her eyes clenched shut in rage - anger at not being able to do a thing while this monster teases her death. Warmth boils in her chest. She’s mad at her own helplessness as the tongue very deliberately glides up her neck and tickles her cheek before finally lifting off her body.

“I - I’ve only eaten jerky for months!” she blurts. “It’s dry and awful - you’d hate it!”

The serpentine body wraps itself around her and the stone she’s chained to, its width towering over her head and squeezing her further against the rock. The action protects her against the rising water, but the slippery scales press against her face uncomfortably - forcing her to look up if she wishes to breathe.

So now she faces the sea monster himself.

His mouth is slightly ajar, tongue tasting the air as if it pants like a dog; teeth more numerous and sharp than she imagined.

“Please don’t eat me,” she tries again. “I didn’t know! There has to be something I can do to make up for all this!”

The monster hisses angrily, and there is silence, save for the waves lapping against his scales. “You will pay your due,” he says in a low voice.

The body unfurls from her and water rushes over her head. Salt water invades her nose and mouth, burning her senses. Air is her only goal, desperate to break above the waves crashing against the rock. The chains keep her underwater.

Her lungs begin to strain for breath.

The monster hisses, his voice rising and falling akin to a tune. Though the water distorts her hearing, she can tell he is still close. An agonizing heartbeat passes as she awaits for impalement to speed her drowning.

When it doesn’t come, Pidge dares open her eyes. Reptilian slits three times larger than her greet her, so close to her face she can see the different shades of blue shining from the iris.

A pale blue glow illuminates the water around her, shining as bright as the moon on a cloudless night. It comes from the chains that still bind her, no longer a rusty iron, but the blue of the calm ocean in the summer. It’s mesmerizing - a moment of tranquility and awe. It this magic?

Her lungs scream as she’s freed from her chains in a final burst of light.

But it's too late, her strength is gone.

Yet before unconsciousness claims her, she breaks the surface. Pressure against her chest expels water from her lungs and Pidge coughs, seeking purchase with her hands and greedily sucking in air - what--

A red forked tongue is wrapped around her chest.

Her neck strains less and less as she’s lifted to come face to face with the monster, past the iron chain around his neck. She grips the soft tongue with desperation, feet dangling in the air. He’s is gigantic, higher than even her palace home on the cliffs of the island.

A strange calm comes over her - this is it. The least she can do before she dies is to show pride, not fear. So she does, sucking in a breath, chest puffed out. She looks the monster squarely in the eyes.

“You can at least know my name before you devour me,” she speaks, far more bravely than she feels. “I am Katie Holt, princess of Garriokos. I am also Pidge, an adventurer. I’ve faced creatures far more horrifying than you - I am not afraid.”

A heartbeat later, the monster speaks.

“I will digest your words before I digest you, human.”

The beast opens its mouth wide, teeth gleaming white against the dark backdrop of night. His tongue retracts, jerking Pidge towards his wide open jaws and threatening teeth.

She screams, and blacks out.

~~~~~

Somewhere in her subconscious, hazy with sleep, Pidge realizes she still breathes.

Inexplicably she’s alive after being drawn in between the fangs of a sea monster. Pidge doesn’t think much of it, her aching limbs resting on a silky material. Moaning in her fog and comfort, she rolls to her side and clutches the fabric with her bare hands. It’s heavenly after months on the road and hours of being chained to a rock. Pidge takes advantage, curling her knees up to herself and rubbing her legs against the linens.

As she comes into awareness, her mind forms more coherent thoughts. Her head rests on a pillow, she lies on a bed - a spacious bed - and her body is warm, covered by thick blankets. No longer is she freezing, or even chained up. The smell of a freshly cooked meal graces her nose and her stomach grumbles.

Her body is relaxed, but realizing how comfortable she is energizes her mind. It suddenly clicks like a bucket of cold water over her head: she did not get to this bed on her own power - someone put her here.

Frantic, she opens her eyes and bolts up with a sharp gasp.

Red sheets cover a bed fit for a king; round and large, filled with dozens of differently shaped pillows. Gold and jewels and other treasures are sprawled out before and around the bed as far as Pidge can see, piling up against dozens of stalagmites. A large petteia table sits prominently where only a few coins speckle the ground. Stone walls enclose the area and stalactites litter the ceiling.

A colorful fish swims in front of her.

A colorful fish swims in front of her?

The discovery of being underwater - and breathing as if she were above it - sends her heart racing and she clutches the strangely soft and warm blankets tightly. She’s at the mercy of the sea monster, not knowing where she is and subject to whatever magic he’s used to give her breath.

A weight fills her heart, plummeting to her stomach when she sees a steam vent with caged fish next to it, as well as an assortment of cooking equipment. It’s the size of the cage that gives her pause - its large enough to fit her, and it's all too easy to imagine herself in the place of the fish, the next item on the menu. The sea monster’s threat to eat her lets her imagination run wild; skewered by the pike that leans against the wall or dangled over the scalding water by the chains currently spewn about the floor - left to boil alive.

She has to get out of here.

The covers float gently in the water when she throws them off to the side - and Pidge grimaces with the knowledge she’s still stuck in what would normally be a beautiful dress. Right now, it’s merely a hindrance with the nature of her journey. The iron anklets are new though, snug against her skin. Plain, but polished, Pidge is relieved they aren’t connected to anything by chain.

She’s had enough of chains for a lifetime.

Pidge carefully begins to navigate her bare feet over the piles of potentially sharp objects among the treasure. She floats, her toes grazing jewels and goblets with each step.

No sooner has she begun to scout for an exit then the ground shakes beneath her. Pidge scrambles, swimming upwards as she watches pearl necklaces and golden crowns dislodge themselves from the beast.

“No. No, no, no,” she repeats to herself with increasing terror. Turning upwards, she strains for the numerous skylights that litter the ceiling. She is from an island nation - her swimming is not so weak that she can’t make a run for it.

Familiar texture of a tongue wraps around her legs.

“Let me go!” she demands as the monster reels her in.

He does, dropping her above the bed.

Pidge scoots back to the intricate iron headboard and holds a pillow in front of her as if it were a perfectly defensible position against a sea monster in his own lair.

His body wraps around and over the bed and Pidge finds herself locked in his downward gaze, his sapphire adornment sparkling directly above her.

“Not even going to ask where you are, Princess-Adventurer?” He inquires with humorous curiosity.

“I’m not an idiot - I know a monster’s lair when I see one,” she responds, hoping it comes across as firm as she means it to be. Her grip on the pillow tightens.

The tongue flicks, and the serpent hisses in supposed amusement. “And you’re an expert in monsters?”

Fire fills her belly. This beast doesn’t know of the hard fought battles that have led her to this point, the shoreline golem included. She’s certainly seen more monsters than the common person. “I’m well traveled,” she says instead, not bothering to hide her seething face, “and I’ve killed more monsters than you know.”

Like a candle in the window, an angry fire flashes in the sea monster’s eye. “Monsters like the golem?”

Pidge pauses, making sure her next words are more carefully phrased than her last. This is why she’s here under threat of death. “I - I’m truly sorry for that,” she decides. And she is, the damage to the harbor had been extensive. “The last thing I wanted to do is ruin the livelihoods of innocents. So please, don’t punish them for my mistake. I know better now.”

“Is that so?” He airs, though not kindly. His snake-like body coils tighter around the bed. It creaks, threatening to snap in half. “You know nothing about what you’ve done, not truly. You will still pay your penance per the Law.”

Pidge’s heart thumps in fear - now is he going to eat her? The teasing and anticipation and helplessness finally gets to her. “Then hurry up with it!” Her gaze flickers to the vent and nearby cage, but she’s so angry over the situation she can’t care. “Is raw human not tasty enough for you that you had to bring me to your lair?”

He laughs, tongue vibrating out past his snout. “Don’t be so hasty to die,” he says. “I’m more than happy to be your executioner, but I am bound by the Law to give you a choice. You may take a life sentence instead.”

The words ‘life sentence’ sound more like ‘chance of escape’ to Pidge’s ears. Eventually the sea monster would let his guard down - surely he can’t keep tabs on her day and night for her entire life.

“I pick that one,” she says quickly. “I’m not fond of being eaten.”

The serpent uncurls from the bed, floating above her and blocking the sunlight. He clicks his tongue, almost disappointingly. “So be it.”

A song of the same tune that released Pidge from her chains reverberates through the water. The anklets glow a bright blue. Pidge twists to avert her eyes.

It is over in a heartbeat.

“There,” the sea monster says as if arranging the dinner table. “Not too bad if I do say so myself. Green really is your color.”

Pidge cracks an eye open. She doesn’t feel any different than before. “What did you--?”

Stunned into silence at the scales of green that have replaced her legs, Pidge tests out the movement of her tail. The silken dress she wore not moments before is no more, in its place more green scales in the outline of the cloth. A single iron anklet remains above the fin.

She’s a mermaid. Mermaids can’t go on land.

“You’re free to go anywhere in the sea you want,” her jailor says. “but I suppose you can stay with me if you’d like.”

Pidge seethes, glaring at him in hopes he will drop dead. “You imprison me, threaten to eat me, and now turn me into a creature of the sea? Why would I want to stay with you?”

A bright blue light emanates from the monster. Pidge curls away, holding up a pillow to shade her eyes.

“Because it's part of my job to ask. I can even drop the monster form if you want.”

The voice is sickeningly familiar, and once Pidge is over the shock that it isn’t the monster’s voice, she looks.

To see the fisherman who chained her to the stone.

As a merman.

He lays stretched out on the bed facing her, his bare chest puffed out, accentuating his broad shoulders. Dark blue scales are in place of his legs, the same near black that covered the monster.

“You…” she inhales.

He shrugs as if nothing is the matter, a pleased smirk forms on his lips at her reaction. “I know, I am quite the catch,” he says as he rests his hands behind his head, showing off his chiseled chest. “If I didn’t hate you, we could probably be enjoying ourselves right now - you’re not bad yourself.”

A storm of emotions rages in her chest. All the fear is gone now that she’s presented with this… lech of a demi-god.

Hands curl into fists. She pulls back her right arm and swings.

The lack of resistance from the water surprises her as her fist makes perfect contact with his jaw, sending him flying end over end through the water and propelling her in the opposite direction. Her arms pinwheel, unused to not having the balance of two legs.

Pidge takes no time to ponder over her surprising strength as she settles upside down. “You really are a monster!” she yells, chest tight from tears that cannot fall underwater. “How dare you assume I’d bed you after all you put me through! I may have done wrong, but surely I don’t deserve all this!”

He rights himself and pushes off of a treasure chest towards her. Face no longer carefree, he scowls as he approaches her. “Okay, okay, I’ve made my obligatory attempt to be nice,” he says, his own fists curled in anger. “You either stay here or I can dump you out in the deep and I am really tempted to not even give you the choice.”

“Nice?” Pidge shrieks. “Nice when you picked out that dress? Nice when you chained me to that rock and left me freezing for hours? Nice when you threatened to eat me? Turn me back,” she hisses, tone low. “I think I’ve more than paid my penance.”

“That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” he insists darkly. His streamlined fins cut through the water and he circles her like a shark to its prey. “It’s the very least of what you deserve. Because of - because of you my best friend is suffering and could very well die. I at least gave you the option to live.��

Any retort Pidge can say falls silent. None in the village fell under harm after she slew the golem, but now - now everything is starting to make some sense. This is personal for him.

“I don’t understand,” she settles on - because what is she to say to a sea monster who holds her life in her hands, whose motives she doesn’t truly know.

“He’s a titan who holds up the shoreline. When you killed the golem, you may as well have cut out a part of his heart,” he seethes. “That’s why the landslide happened. Hunk is dying - slowly, painfully, alone - and what am I doing? Oh that’s right, I’m duty-bound to deal with little Miss Princess-Adventurer because you broke the Law by harming the sea.”

Pidge bristles at the sarcasm and pointed anger towards her. “That’s Pidge to you,” she bites. “If your friend is anything like you, he probably deserved it!”

Webbed hands close tight around her neck and steal her next breath, squeezing and pressing her against a rocky wall, sediment coming loose at the impact.

“Take that back,” her captor growls.

She equals his gaze, not to be deterred though she struggles for breath. “Not...helping…” she wheezes out.

He lets her go, turning his back as she sinks slowly to the bottom. She gasps, hungry for air, and massages her throat as her tail rests on a pile of gold coin.

She’s getting nowhere, exemplified in her body rising and floating aimlessly, with legs - no, a tail - that she can’t control. It makes her heart race - not having control. Pidge becomes increasingly uncomfortable as no matter how she thrashes her tail, she can’t get it to do what she wants.

Her nation, her brother, is still in danger and here she is offering petty insults and unable to move when she should be using her brain to get out of here.

If only her captor wasn’t so infuriating.

“I might have offered to help if I’d known your friend was suffering from the beginning,” she tries. “But all you’re doing is being cruel. I don’t even know your name.”

He bristles and relents, his back still to her. “It’s Lance.”

The words she’d planned are taken by the current. That name isn’t… “Lance isn’t a common name around here,” she says in wonder. “But it is back home.”

“I’m originally from Garriokos,” Lance says sharply. “I was more patient with you than most prisoners out of respect for that. But my allegiance isn’t to the royal family, not anymore, it’s to Poseidon. Nothing you can say can--” he turns and blinks in surprise. “… what are you looking at me like that for?” he asks suspiciously.

Pidge stops experimenting with her tail abruptly. “You used to be human?” she gapes uselessly, now upside down (and it would be so invigorating to figure this tail out - when would she ever get an opportunity like this again! - if this situation wasn’t so awful). The realization sends a shockwave through her system. The longer he stares at her in bewilderment - the same expression she’s sure she also wears - the more she sees humanity.

He’s not lying about his friend.

A twinge of sympathy worms into her heart - but only just. It’s enough that makes her think that maybe, just maybe, she can stand to work with him just long enough to get out of this situation.

His tail twitches with agitation. “What of it? I’m clearly--” he holds his hands out before him - the same hands he’d just used to choke her - examining his palms with something like regret. Fingers curl into tight fists, trembling, before his arms falls loosely to his sides. “Clearly I’m not anymore.”

Then there’s a way to appeal to him.

“Let me help,” she says firmly. “If I can save your friend, that would be equal payment for the pain I’ve caused him, would it not?”

His lips curl in thought. “I don’t have healing powers, and you certainly don’t.” Pidge’s heart skips a beat, a pit sinking in her stomach as her plea seems to bear no fruit.

Lance sighs in defeat. “Besides, Allura is away, she’s the only one that could--”

His face dawns with some sort of realization. Pidge smiles in anticipation. The way his face lights up with an idea gives her hope.

“Unless I use her trident to heal him,” Lance says, voice lighter and with more energy with every syllable. “It’s the conduit for her powers, so it’s under heavy guard while she’s not home, but,” he turns his gaze to her. “It’s guarded against the rest of us, but... not against mortals,” he finishes, looking straight at her.

Heart filled with hope, Pidge presses the issue. “I’ll get the trident for you in return for my freedom and return to land.”

“Ha!” Lance laughs aloud, his voice cutting through the water like a knife. “And you expect me to believe you’ll help me just like that?” he says with a snap of his fingers.”

Frustration bubbles in her throat, escaping through a growl. “It’s not as if I can just run away,” she seethes, pointing at her new limb. “I have people depending on me. I will do anything to save my brother.”

For the first time, Lance really looks at her. His face is slack, and betrays no indication of which way he leans.

“Take my hand,” he orders, holding out his own.

His tone leaves no room for argument, and with her life still in his hands, Pidge acquiesces, placing her hand calmly in his palm while her heart pounds and screams on the inside.

Placing his other hand on top of hers, he mutters in a language unfamiliar to her. Though before she can ask what it is, he lets go of her.

Her hand glows green, like the shade of the ferns around the palace, for a few breaths before dissipating.

Lance sighs, closing heavy looking eyes. When he opens them, gone is the anger and rage, replaced with a deep sadness.

“I’m really… not supposed to do this,” he confesses eventually. He swims down to her, close enough she can see the blue - human blue - in his eyes. “But I’d do anything for Hunk and you passed the truth spell.” He nods, face set in determination. He takes her hand, much gentler than even just moments before, and helps to flip her right side up. “Get the trident for me, and I’ll change you back into a human and set you free.”

A relieved warmth fills her chest. Pidge smiles, feeling safer in her ability to control her own destiny. “It’s a deal, Lance.”

~~~~~

With anxiety induced pain growing in her chest, Pidge realizes though the deal was struck, fulfilling it will be a far more difficult task than she imagined.

She’s fought minotaurs and lions, outsmarted a sphinx, delivered charms, and returned children to their homes--

But she’d had legs for those tasks.

Pidge stalls mid-swim, seeking purchase with her cursedly short arms though there’s nothing but water for miles. She tries to swim how she’d normally swim, lifting one leg and then the other separately to kick - but her single appendage isn’t working like that. It moves up, but then as she forgets she has no second leg to move, it flips further towards the surface, setting her upside down with a yelp.

Momentum carries her in a half circle, she now faces the opposite direction of travel.

And to make matters worse, Lance swims laps around her - zipping past her in every direction and looping head over tail as she does, but completely in control - as she struggles to figure out how her tail works.

“Why can’t you just change to your larger form and carry me?” she complains as she continues to spin, tail flapping uselessly above her. Under less pressing circumstances, having a tail and fins and scales might have been fascinating and a perfect way to study underwater biology. Frustratingly, it only brings her to the point of tears. She needs to get this figured out!

He glides to her and takes her hands, gliding to point her in the right direction. “A princess of Garriokos who can’t swim?” he teases. No longer angry with her now that she is assisting him, his grin takes on a much more playful feeling.

Pidge growls, the teasing unwelcome in her misery. “You know fully well why I can’t get the hang of this yet - I wasn’t born a fish.”

For a less than a heartbeat he frowns, and she nearly misses it, for he laughs and says, “You’ll have to get used to it fast if you’re to take the trident. Pretend your legs are tied together. Your tail is more powerful than you realize. Trust it.”

With a twist in her gut she understands - he hadn’t been born a fish either.

The advice he gives is invaluable; the sooner she finishes her task, the sooner she is on her way to seek help for her brother and people. At least now that she’s agreed to help his friend, Lance is in much better spirits - much more patient and humorous than their initial meeting promised.

Grimacing, she focuses all her attention on her tail. It’s no different than any other problem she’s ever solved, and she’s never backed down from a challenge.

She takes his advice and forces herself to imagine legs tied together. Water flows past her gills with each slow, deliberate beat of the tail.

“You’re gettin’ the hang of it now,” Lance encourages after a while.

To her surprise, she notices he still holds her hands as she takes him for a ride.

Placated by the promise of his friend’s recovery, he seems far more human than monster - even with the dark scales that line his body. The gesture feels safe, here in the middle of the deepest part of the sea with no structure or landmark to speak of, but it’s also humbling to remember the tirade back at his lair and realize he could - and can still - leave her here at any time.

Pidge flirts on the edge of danger with every beat of her tail as she ponders over what makes Lance tick. His motivations are still largely unknown to her. He clearly cares for his friend and has a fair amount of vanity - but is quick to anger, terrifying and dark.

“You’re not moving us?” she asks. If not for the water passing by, it seems as if they’ve gone nowhere.

Lance lets go of her hands and he disappears from her side.

“I’m the one not moving!” he calls out from behind her.

Pidge freezes, suddenly unable to breathe. The vastness of the sea is overwhelming; so dark and lifeless in this particular area. There is no way to tell what is up and down, right or left. Her tail curls on its own around in front of her face and her heart races with fear, her breaths quicker in panic.

“Hey!” Lance swims in front of her, his brows narrowed in concern. “You were doing great.” He cups her cheeks and the touch grounds her. “I’m not gonna run off and leave you. You’re doing me a favor.”

His voice aims to soothe, but Pidge hardly feels better. “And if I wasn’t?” she asks, pushing off his chest. “You’d have left me out here alone and not knowing how to swim; I’d have been helpless and terrified.” She pauses, her voice whispering in quiet horror, “That was your original plan, wasn’t it?”

Guilt flashes across his features and he looks away. “I did offer that you could stay with me.”

The revelation does little for her impression of him - just when she’d started to warm up to him too. “By implying that I could sleep with you?” she accuses, voice rising several pitches and still shivering at the thought of being out here all alone.

“Which would be a total benefit for most people!” he protests lively, flailing his arms. “I mean, look at these” He displays his biceps, flexing them with the cheesiest of flashy grins.

His vanity is tiresome and still sickened from the reminder of her would-be fate, she can’t find the energy to properly groan. “Yet you were perfectly willing to kill me at the same time. Wouldn’t that have been a problem?”

“Of course not!” he exclaims - perhaps a little too quickly with eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets. “Anger is passion; liking someone isn’t... a requirement for bedding them.”

He says it but… Pidge gets the distinct feeling he doesn’t subscribe to it. Lance reminds her of the noble boys in her class - showing off for favor and attention.

Pidge sucks in a deep breath. She wants to say that he’s wrong, but the words refuse to come out. Perhaps because he has a point. As a co-ruler of a nation, she knows all too well that marriage isn’t always done for love or even affection.

And here she is agreeing with a man who could become a monster about it.

She swallows before responding, “And I suppose you’re an expert then?”

Lance turns his head, lips squished to one side of his face as he narrows his eyes in contemplation - not the reaction Pidge expected of a self purported temptor.

“None have taken me up on that offer,” he confesses, rubbing the back of his neck - in relief? He laughs in a nervous manner. “They’ve either fled once I turned them or insisted I eat them instead.”

Pidge sighs, perhaps a bit dramatically. “I wonder why,” she mutters sarcastically. “Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve interacted properly with mortals,” he admits. “It gets lonely down here surrounded by sea creatures and… my prisoners.” His mouth tugs up in a forced smile. “You’re the first.”

It isn’t hard to imagine, those like her who have wronged the sea in some way facing judgement from Lance as a monstrous sea serpent. The experience still leaves shivers down her spine - and she isn’t even finished with this nightmare!

“Then there are others?” she asks, kicking her tail to continue. They need to keep moving.

Still, it’s slow going at first, until she’s comfortable with the swimming motion. Lance keeps to her pace. She takes hold of his arm - reassurance he won’t go anywhere.

Lance shakes his head, continuing their conversation. “Just you. The others lived out the rest of their natural lives, as you would have.”

There’s a confidence in his tone that makes Pidge unsure of herself. He seems so certain that she will be able to retrieve the trident and thus no longer be a prisoner beneath the waves. Yet her quests in search of help have hardly been easy and she knows not what this one will entail.

If she fails, she not only fails to free herself, but also fails to free her brother and her people. Not to mention she’ll fail Lance and his friend will die.. If he hasn’t succumbed to his wounds already.

So failure is not an option.

“I suppose none care to see you again after being turned,” she guesses.

Lance keeps his eyes forward. “It isn’t so bad. I have Hunk to visit. He’s worked under the sea for about as long as I have.” He laughs. “It’s funny. We’re both immortal, but whenever we meet I feel more human than ever.” The lump in his throat bobbles. “I couldn’t stand to lose him. He’s my only real friend. I - I’d forget what it’s like to be human.”

Everything about him - his speech, demeanor, even his aura - is so different from when Pidge met him as a fisherman on the beach. No longer is he purely vindictive and angry, but instead desperate and sorrowful.

“All this talk and watching you figure out your tail is making me hungry,” Lance complains. As if summoned, his stomach grumbles. He gazes longingly at his stomach as he places a hand on it.

Very human indeed.

“I hope it’s not my tail that looks appetizing,” Pidge jokes. His torment of her seems as far away as the lair with the time he’s spent guiding and speaking with her.

“Oh no! I couldn’t eat another sea creature!” Lance says. “I’m craving cow, actually. Very plain, but there’s also tons of them, and I don’t have to take them prisoner.”

“Well, for your next prisoner,” Pidge says dryly. “Take note that if you want to sleep with them, don’t dress them in revealing outfits.”

“Oh,” Lance says, blinking rather innocently for the context of the conversation. “The dress wasn’t for that - although it did look stunning on you.”

His confession sends a warmth to her cheeks and a happy bubbly feeling in her heart. Strange for her to be stirred by her captor turned business partner, but in the moment he sounds more genuine than any suitor she’s ever met - the recent Galra ones included.

People either don’t compliment her, or they want something from her. Lance has nothing to gain from such an offhand comment - she’s already helping him with something he wants.

“T-thanks,” she stammers out, for lack of any other complete thought.

“I mean, the dress was more for me,” Lance admits. “Silk is the best tasting fabric - it goes down very smooth - I clothe all my prisoners with it just in case.”

Her heart drops into her stomach. “Oh,” she says. “I think I just lost what appetite I had.”

“Of course it makes for a nice outline to make the scales,” he continues. “It gets cold down here during the winter. You need all the insulation you can get!”

“I suppose my arms have been a bit chilly,” she says, if only to move away from the topic of dinner.

Lance swims a bit ahead of her and does a flip, head over tail, before gliding up to her face, his nose nearly touching hers. Pidge flails backwards, unprepared for his exuberance.

“Movement will help!” he says with a big grin. “And once we get to where the trident is being kept, I promise you won’t be cold anymore.”

Where could warmth be this deep?

“Where are we going?” she asks. Stopping for Lance’s joyful spin forces her to concentrate in order to regain the momentum she had with her tail.

She’s not quite so afraid anymore, now that she’s gotten the hang of it and Lance seems to be in good spirits as long as she doesn’t say anything bad about Hunk. He’d sufficiently managed to distract her from her fears.

Now she feels confident enough to experiment. She twists her tail sideways, but it does nothing. Flicking her tail down fast while twisting though yields her way to pivot and turn.

Lance hums. “It’s called the Forge,” he explains unhelpfully. His nose scrunches up in distaste. “I’ve only been there once to help Hunk pick up an island and if his life wasn’t in danger I wouldn’t be going back.”

For a heartbeat, Pidge forgets she can breathe. What manner of place is this? “And you’re sending me there?”

“You’re the one who offered to help,” he says, though his eyes narrow into a glare. “Unless you’re having second thoughts.” He swims closer, refusing to break gaze. His aura builds like an angry storm. “You promised,” he accuses.

“I’m still doing this!” she says immediately, hands up between them in hopes it placates him. Dangerous or not, she’s surely faced worse and she must do this in order to return home. Return home she must. Matt and their people are counting on her. “I was joking. I have a reason for wanting to do this too. You were joking earlier too, right?”

His anger fades and guilt is written all over his face before he turns his back to her and swims off. “Sorry,” he says as he pauses. “I know I shouldn’t - I just - I’ll be a lot better once I know Hunk will be okay.”

Pidge sighs, relaxed once more now that he’s not acting like, well, a monster anymore. “I know how you feel,” she says. If he was able to open to her, perhaps the least she can do is return the favor. True trust must go both ways after all. “When I first started out on my journey, I was angry too. I felt so powerless.”

She kicks her tail a half dozen times in quick succession, propelling her swiftly to where Lance is. She takes his arm in her hands to half her forward progress.

“The Galra blockade is starving my people and my brother risks his life every day he refuses to surrender,” she tells him. “I need to do this, Lance. I have to go home with a way to defeat the Galra - I don’t have a choice. The only way my people live is for me to keep going.” A fire burns in her soul, fists clenched in anger at what her brother faces. “I will do anything for them.”

Lance regards her rather blankly and she searches for any inflection in his expression to gleam what he thinks.

“We aren’t so different,” he finally says. “And you’re doing it all as a mortal.”

Pidge gives him a smile. “You’re doing what I would have done too. Come on, the sooner I get the trident, the sooner we heal your friend.”

The wide, brilliant smile Lance gives her warms her cold arms. He radiates hope, and that is something she is always in need of.

“Well then,” he gestures to their right. “Ladies first.”

Pidge snorts, the gentlemanly offer humorous in their situation. “I think I’m finally getting the hang of--”

Abruptly, Lance stops them. Pidge floats into his outstretched arm, tail curling around in front of her from momentum. She grabs hold of his arm with both of hers, gripping tight as to not be separated by the current.

“Why have we stopped?” she asks. “We literally just started again.” There is nothing but empty, dark sea as far as she can see. “What--?”

The singing comes first; a beautiful deep sound full of longing. The water in the near distance becomes noticeably darker. In a few precious moments, Pidge can make out dozens of large shapes off to their left.

She’s heard stories - never has she been on a ship long enough to spot one surfacing - and seen parts of carcasses, but nothing compares to the majesty of a whale swimming freely.

Her mouth sits agape as the creatures pass them in slow motion. Each beat of their tail is mesmerizing.

The spell breaks when a much higher pitched, and louder, moan reaches her ears. Lance is smiling in delight, his mouth moving in an exaggerated fashion to make the long-sounding noises of the whales.

“Whale crossing,” he tells her with a wink a moment later. “It’s almost mating season and it would be bad to cross their path after they’ve traveled so long.” Chuckling, he continues, “It’s been a while, so I thought I’d ask for directions to make sure I wasn’t getting us lost.” He preens. “My sense of direction is impeccable, as it turns out.”

The explanation makes her smile, heart filled with a warm bubbly feeling. He speaks like a citizen of Garriokos, with a respect and awe for the sea.

“You seem pretty human right now,” Pidge dares to say. Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to say aloud - he is quick to temper, and she’s heard enough stories to know of tricks and tests given by monsters. Still, this feels more genuine than anything Pidge has seen on her journey thus far.

Lance looks at her in disbelief. “I was talking to whales,” he gapes. “That’s not really a human thing.”

A grin tugs up her face. “I know,” she says. Talking to animals is one thing, but showing compassion is another. “That’s just what makes you human.” Well, “Mostly, anyway. The whole ‘eating people’ thing isn’t helping.”

He laughs, bending over as he clutches his gut. “Thanks, Pidge. That… means a lot coming from you,” he says rather sheepishly for a sea monster. “I’ve been really awful to you. I’m sorry.”

Pidge sighs, but she’s far from mad or upset about it all. “You had a job to do, and I did hurt your friend. I would have done the same thing if it was my brother - it’s why I’m doing this.”

Lance bites his lip. “No, not really,” he insists. “I nearly killed you no less than three times and I honestly didn’t care if I succeeded or not. Remembering that feeling really scares me, and you?” He turns from her, shaking his head. “You were absolutely terrified and I enjoyed it. That’s not okay.”

While right - she had been terrified and convinced she was going to die after all - she considers her current arrangement. He’s worried about his friend just as she’s worried for her brother. She can’t… forgive him, exactly, but knowing he’s remorseful eases her heart.

She takes a deep breath before responding, “What’s past is past. We have work to do and,” she dares to smile, “maybe you can make it up to me.”

Lance smiles brightly, nearly glowing. “How? I’ll do anything!”

“You,” Pidge points at him with a smirk. “I think your powers are pretty cool. Think about everything we can learn from being able to talk to whales. I mean, is it a learned language? Is it only something sea creatures can do?” Pidge gasps. She’s a mermaid! “Can I do it?”

Lance chuckles, eyes bright and excited. “I could probably teach you, yeah!”

Curiosity incited, Pidge can’t stop. The dam of questions she’s been holding back bursts. He’s talking, might as well keep going. “What about your shape shifting? How does that work? Is it related to the anklet? I want to know everything.”

Just as quickly as her excitement came, it fades. Once she’s given him the trident, they’ll part ways and she’ll likely never see him again. All that knowledge would be lost to her… if she can even put it to use after the Galra invade.

But she still wants to know, wants to see Lance the person in his explanations rather than Lance the jailor.

A blush covers his cheeks, his flustered look is endearing and about as un-monster like as Pidge can imagine - he can hardly look her way! “My magic works through iron,” he explains, trying his best to keep a cool face, though he can’t stop blushing. He fingers his sapphire necklace absentmindedly. “I can change anything as long as there’s iron attached to it.”

That explains her cuff then. It’s adorable to watch him be shy over it.

“Why iron?” she asks brightly.

Lance shrugs. “I dunno, it just is. Poseidon didn’t really care to elaborate much. Allura taught me most things about my job.”

Pidge’s fingers tingle with excitement, her smile exuberant in anticipation. “Iron usually rusts underwater. Perhaps he has an iron-ic sense of humor?”

Lance stares at her with his mouth agape… before giving into the ugliest snort of a laugh Pidge has ever seen.

Emboldened and feeling impish, she swims around Lance, looking him in the eye. “So you can be a sea monster, a merman, a human, what else?”

Slowly, his mirth morphs into pride, a confident smirk playing at his lips.

“Watch this,” he says simply.

Just hours ago, the sight of Lance’s sea monster form had sent her trembling. Now, she tries (and fails) to stifle a giggle as the same form floats before her, the size of a small dog.

Lance’s reptilian eyes blink in displeasure. “I am fearsome!” he declares.

“You look like my dog,” Pidge laughs.

In a flash, Lance transforms into a shark. It’s the largest Pidge has ever seen, a single tooth the size of her hand.

“Surely this strikes fear into your heart!”he says, swimming stalkily around her.

Pidge smiles, relaxed for the first time in this entire adventure. She’s accustomed to Lance’s shapeshifting and this isn’t the first time she swam with a shark. “I know it’s you now. It’s not frightening once the veil of mystery is lifted, that’s why mortals strive for scientific progress.”

“Hmmm,” Lance ponders aloud. “If fear no longer leaves you breathless…”

A flash of light, and before Pidge is a sea turtle. Lance flaps his new fins, zooming around her.

“Awww,” she cooes. “You’re adora-- wait a minute, you did that on purpose!”

Somehow, sea turtle Lance smiles smugly. “Mortals are drawn to cute things! I could enthrall anyone by being cute or fearsome!”

With a flash, he transforms again, this time a blue skinned octopus appears and Lance wraps all eight tentacles around her from the back, peeking around to the side of her face.

“Or I could add a bit of creepy to revive the mystery,” he says.

Pidge shivers as the slimy but very firm tentacles rub gently down her arms and face. In the back of her mind there is relief that she knows he isn’t coming on to her like before, but yet...

She forgets to breathe, frozen like a cornered animal. The memory of being trapped all too fresh, his tongue tasting her skin.

As if sensing her discomfort, in a flash he’s back to his merman self, a look of horror etched on his face. “I went too far. I’m sorry.”

Pidge gulps. “You… you’re good at being fearsome.” She tries to smile genuinely, but it feels fake. With just the touch, it felt like she was back in his tongue about to be eaten or worse.

“I don’t want to be for you,” he says quickly. His eyes look away from her, downcast, reflecting his wild thinking. In a poof, he’s a seal, and barks before speaking. “I don’t want you to be scared of me, not anymore. You’re helping me that’s… that’s more than others would do.”

Pidge finds her breath again, but she’s still shaken, keeping her arms close, as if hugging herself will make her feel better. “We should keep going if we want to help your friend in time,” she says evenly, not to betray her wavering feelings.

Lance is trying, she knows that - but the damage is done.

His nose twitches, pointedly looking away from her. He meets her gaze, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “It’s not too much longer,” he says solemnly, guilt and shame all over his tone. “Follow me.”

Pidge steels herself. She can’t worry about Lance anymore, it’s not as if she’ll be seeing him after this.

It’s time.

~~~~~

Pidge understands now why this place is called the Forge.

Steam vents litter the sea floor, surrounding two large underwater volcanoes. Lava spews from the smaller of the two, cooling near immediately when it hits the cold water.

The expansive lava field before her is jagged. In stark contrast, large sections of various shapes and sizes seems as if they have been cut away creating craters lines with steep cliffs.

“Well, this is it,” Lance says. He’s back in his merman form and the two of them float in plain sight at the beginning of the jagged rock. He observes the scene before them, mouth curved down to one side in annoyance. “Knowing Keith, he’s probably keeping it at the top of the larger volcano. He’s so extra.”

“Seems like you two would get along well,” Pidge says in an attempt to tease, ease the tension from earlier - Lance certainly is not shy to over the top presentation if their meeting and the makeup of his lair has anything to say about it. “Why don’t you just ask him for it?”

Lance glares - though not in anger - before he laughs sharply at the idea. “He wouldn’t let me within a hundred feet of Allura’s trident. He takes guard duty way too seriously. We do not get along.”

“Okay then,” Pidge says with a deep breath as she surveys the scene before her, already working out what route is best. “Sneak in and out it is. Anything I should know before I do this?”

He taps a finger against his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “The trident is behind a red colored magical shield, but you should be able to swim right through it,” he recalls. “I don’t sense Keith anywhere, so I think he’s out placing an island; the quicker you do this the better. I think there’s a storm above the surface, but Shiro usually doesn’t stay for long.”

No time to waste. “Be right back,” Pidge says. She’s already slapped her tail downwards hard to move as Lance wishes her good fortune.

The terrain is more of a test than Pidge expects, but although the guard is not here, she prefers to keep as stealthy as possible. The jagged lava acts like a stalagmite field that forces her to dig deep for every drop of agility she has. Twisting left and right and around - trying to keep as straight a path she can to the volcano - she tires quickly after the long journey from Lance’s lair, but powers through with the taste of freedom so close.

Part of her is a bit sad to leave Lance, she thinks as her mind drifts during the strenuous race to the trident. Though he made the worst first impression, he’s been civil enough while they force themselves to work together. That he was willing to entertain her questions brings a smile to her face and his delight to take part in her sense of humor makes her heart light. He’s piqued her curiosity and Pidge wants to know more. She certainly prefers his company to that of the Galra commanders at the palace doorstep.

As much as she’d like more time with him, she needs to get back on her journey as fast as possible.

Turning sharply upwards, Pidge ascends the main volcano. True to Lance’s word, her arms are no longer cold, though it seems there is no middle ground in the ocean; her mind goes numb and vision blurs from both the uncomfortable heat from the volcano and her exercised body in the sprint here.

Just a little more… then she’ll have the trident and her freedom…

Pidge breaks the top of the volcano, looking down into the crater as she rises above it, heart pounding, breathing through her gills greedily.

The trident glows of gold and floats inside the crater with a red bubble surrounding it, as Lance said it would be.

Her chest rises and falls heavily and Pidge allows just enough rest before she dives down into the crater. She grits her teeth, ignoring her aching limbs - adrenaline is her friend.

Her hands punch through the red wall and she grabs the trident. Momentum sends her tail downwards still and for heart pounding moment Pidge yelps in fear as she nearly loses her grip. Holding fast, she swims out of the crater.

Gold covers the entire surface of the trident, the base of the spikes studded with blue gemstones. The tips of the spears diamonds, the middle spear black with the ones on the ends red and green. It’s mesmerizing and more colorful than she expected. The gemstones sparkle with power and impossible lightning seems to dance among the white tips.

“Pidge! Look out!”

Hot current flows over her with such force and so unexpectedly that she lets go of the trident with a surprised cry, sending her spiraling out of control…

...and into Lance’s arms.

It isn’t uncomfortable like before. His human arms feel safe and his genuine concern and desperation to save her comes through.

“Hold on, I’ll get you out of here and distract him - then go back for the trident!” he says quickly.

Pidge squeezes her eyes shut and does as he asks, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

She opens her eyes to look past his shoulders and nearly wishes she hadn’t. Trailing them is a smoky cloud with angry red flame bursting from the edges - hot enough to stay lit underwater unlike the lava from the volcano.

“I thought you said he was out!” she shrieks. Hotter than a volcano, the only morbid silver lining Pidge can decide upon is that it would be faster to die than being eaten.

Lance scrambles into the field of lava spikes, turning and twisting far faster than she had. “I thought he was! I couldn’t sense him at a-AHHH!”

Pidge screams also as waves of hot water smash the rock around them, and tiny pieces crash into them and litter their route. She holds on even tighter, her ear pressed firmly against his chest, hearing Lance’s every frantic heartbeat. If he’s worried - she has reason to doubly be so.

He twists, crashing into the sea floor and sparing her the brunt of the impact. On land, she’d chastise him for such an action - she can take a hit! But here caught unawares she’s more thankful and relieved.

“Swim for it!” Lance yells.

She has a job to do.

Pidge launches off from him, thrashing her tail and flipping her fin as fast as she’s able back towards her target.

Lance yells in pain and her heart skips a beat for him. She remains focused, not looking back - she has to, for her brother, her people…

Her tail works twice as fast.

She swims more cautiously into the crater this time - perhaps to her detriment, it gives her ample time to be taken in by the ebb and flow of the glow not far beneath her. Without speed from the previous fall, it takes an agonizingly long time to sink below the rim.

The glow of the trident shows her the way, the sparks of electricity guiding her through the vog until she lays hands on it once more.

The green spear seems to glow as she lifts the trident from its stone sheath. “Huh,” she muses as she tosses it into her other hand, holding it with ease. “Lighter than expected.”

The volcano rumbles beneath her and a sense of dread fills her.

“Oh no.”

The yellow dot at the bottom of the crater is soon replaced by a growing orange and red pool. Eyes wide and fear constricting her heart, Pidge turns for the rim - painfully far away for her sore muscles - and digs deep, slapping her tail and letting the resistance from the water send her upward.

She beats her fin as fast as she can, imagining she’s running. Every second she loses more sight of the rim, dark and poisonous gases clouding her vision and sending her into a coughing fit. The rumble gets louder even underwater…

Scaly hands wrap around her, pinning her arms to her sides. Water rushes past her with speed and power Pidge can only dream of. She dares open her eyes as she clears the crater rim. Moments later, lava pours out among the growing dark gases.

“What are you doing with my trident?” a booming female voice demands. In a bright flash, the trident is gone from her.

Pidge looks up… and up and up to see the face of the trident’s owner. Allura towers above her, even larger than Lance in his monster form. A circlet of gold adorns her head between her long white locks that, like the clouds they resemble, crackle with lightning. Her scowl of displeasure is a startling contrast from the glowing pink scales beneath her cheeks.

The trident is now in Allura’s other hand, enlarged to fit its master.

The scales on her hand press hard against Pidge’s chest. “You would do well to answer me…” Her eyes widen as her gaze wanders to Pidge’s tail. “That shackle - you’re a mortal?”

“A-Allura!” Lance’s voice wobbles. “You’re back!”

He seems rather happy despite her predicament, Pidge thinks sourly as she makes a failed attempt to wiggle free.

“What in the Seven Seas is going on?” Allura asks in exasperation as she loosens her grip on Pidge. The storm in her hair seems to subside, the gem in her circlet glowing like moonlight.

The dark fireball that chased her and Lance materializes into another merperson. His red scales glow like molten lava and he glowers as darkly as his jet black hair.

“Lance is using the mortal to try and take your trident!” He tells Allura, before turning to Lance. “You know no one’s supposed to use it but Allura!”

Lance glares right back. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you’d spend some time hanging out with Hunk instead of every second above water with Shiro!”

Keith seethes. “That has nothing to do with what you’re doing!”

“It has everything to do with why I’m doing this!” Lance fires back.

“Lance, you know the rules,” Allura says, voice full of sympathy. “I have no choice; you’ll have to spend the next one hundred years in the Trench.”

Life seems to drain from Lance’s face and his eyes plead to be free of the sentence.

“W-what - what about her?” he asks numbly.

Pidge’s jaw drops. He’s thinking of her when he’s about to be imprisoned himself? That’s… very unselfish. And surprising. Just earlier today he’d been ready to kill her.

That was his job though, she realizes. This right here - this is instinctual, his first response, the core of his being, his true colors.

They are kind.

“With no one to carry out her sentence I’ll have to set her free. I’m sure she’s learned her lesson by now,” Allura responds. Her eyes are filled with hesitation - she doesn’t truly want to do this.

Pidge’s heart twists for him just as hope lifts for her. She’ll get to go free! Imprisonment is probably what he deserves after he frightened her so much… but he’s doing this for his friend, like she’s doing this for her nation.

So as Allura points the trident in his direction and a ball of white light begins to glow in front of it, Pidge screams, “Wait!”

Allura blinks, caught off guard enough that she halts the spell mid-cast. “The mortal does have a voice?”

“Lance isn’t doing this for himself!” Pidge exclaims. “Hunk is hurt - the only reason he even considered taking your trident is because you weren’t around!”

Allura’s eyes widen, but it’s Keith who speaks in a dark tone. “What do you mean ‘Hunk is hurt’. Who hurt him?”

Pidge opens her mouth, and at Allura’s dangerous expression she suddenly realizes, with a knot in her stomach, that anger is about to be directed at her.

She can lie. They both know Hunk is hurt and he’ll be healed - Lance will have to set her free and she’ll continue her search for help. She can make something up and redirect their anger. Because if Pidge speaks the truth, she has an inkling she may not survive. Lance waiting a hundred years in prison is nearly her entire lifetime.

Meeting his pleading gaze, there’s a small smile of hope he cracks. He nods, urging her to continue. He thinks she’ll be okay?

It’s her brother’s voice that comes through loudest. Not her mother’s to overpower the situation - she’s tried that. She’s already questioned Lance and his motivations to get to this point, like her father would.

Now she listens - listens to Lance - and takes a leap of faith to really trust him and prays her understanding of his character isn’t false.

“I did,” she admits with a shaking voice. “I killed a golem by the shoreline. I’m sorry. Lance is just trying to make things better - and I’m trying to help.”

Though she’s surrounded by the children of Poseidon, the sea around is calm and quiet - almost too quiet. Until Allura speaks.

“Is this true, Lance?” she asks, tone laced with concern.

Lance gulps. “Ye-yeah. I - I don’t know how bad off he is, Allura. I haven’t been able to check on him because I had to take Pidge prisoner. But if it’s a golem he could be…”

It is evident that there is no need for Lance to finish his sentence. Allura and Keith both have a look of understanding, their expressions wrinkling into the same anxiety that Lance wears.

“We go at once,” Allura declares firmly. To Pidge’s relief, she’s released without harm and is finally able to take a relaxed breath.

Things may yet turn out just fine.

~~~~~

They arrive at a rocky cove, a cave half submerged in the sea with an inviting white sand beach beyond it edged by luscious palm trees and colorful tropical plants.

Hunk is inside the cave and looks just as much on death’s door as Lance had feared, so Pidge swims off to the side, observing behind a rock with her chest above water for the first time since the night at another beach and another rock.

Lance has climbed up onto the pebbled sand under the cavern’s roof and holds the titan’s head in his curled tail, desperately whispering encouragements while pulling strands of hair out of Hunk’s face. The giant man - for he has legs instead of a tail - sweats and breathes heavily.

But he seems to relax when Lance squeezes his shoulder and when Keith heats the rocks under his back.

Allura points her trident at Hunk from the water, and mutters in a language that even in her travels Pidge is unfamiliar with. The diamond tips shine brilliantly, and a pink light hovers over Hunk before it washes over the titan, cascading over his belly, and arms and legs, like a quiet stream over river rock.

Only when Hunk groans and his eyes flutter open does Pidge breathe a sigh of relief. He’s going to be fine, which means Lance will honor his end of the bargain.

It also feels good to see friends reuniting - as Hunk sits up full of energy, and promptly grabs both Lance and Keith into a tearful bear-hug - and knowing she had a part in it.

“Dude, you have to stop sending your golems so far inland!” Lance chides as he escapes the embrace. Keith isn’t so fortunate as rigid as his body is - Hunk only squeezes him tighter, with both arms now that he doesn’t hold Lance - but his mouth twitches with a smile that betrays his enjoyment of the hug.

Hunk’s lower lips puffs up. “How else am I supposed to send letters to Shay? There’s no coastline between here and the canyon.”

“Perhaps I can fix that,” Allura says with some amusement. “I’ll cut a river pathway to the canyon, then you can see her all year rather than only during the spring floods.”

Tears well up in Hunk’s eyes. “You’re the best, Allura.” He swallows, face going serious, he points a rocky finger at her, sand falling from the crumbling stone at it’s tip. “You are not leaving until I can hug you.”

“I would not dream of it,” she says, delighted. “Lance,” she addresses him, “I can trust you’ll find the appropriate creatures to inhabit the new river? I can’t send you to the Trench when you’re doing such important work,” she finishes with a wink.

Lance beams, and Pidge feels light knowing he’s off the hook from his punishment. “That’s my favorite part of the job,” he says. “I’d be honored.”

His gaze finds Pidge and the edges of his mouth sink. “Give me a few minutes. I have something I need to do first.”

Pushing off against the bolder, Pidge slips back underwater. A strange trepidation fills her as Lance swims up to her. Excitement and relief is what she should be feeling.

He pauses, looking her up and down as if unsure before he holds out his hand. “Let’s talk outside.”

Now that Hunk is safe and healing, Pidge doesn’t feel fear when she can’t help but snort in amusement. “We are outside, goofball,”she teases, the endearing term learned from her brother rolls easily off her tongue.

His jaw flaps uselessly. “Well, yeah - I mean - we are, but - urgh,” he says. Shoulder slump and his face darkens in frustration. “Let’s go away from everyone, the bay is always quiet.” He sighs and extends a hand.

A smile tugs up the side of her face as she takes his hand. “Let’s go.”

Waves roll gently onto the shore, depositing pebbles and shells on the beach. Lance leads her to the shallows, flopping his back onto the sand. Pidge follows suit, relishing how warm the sand is compared to the cold of the deep sea.

“Thank you,” Lance says once they’ve settled comfortably. Pidge rolls onto her side and cracks an eye open. Though he smiles, he seems sad. “You stood up for me when you didn’t have to.”

His sincerity is refreshing and it’s nice to have this moment before they part. “You’re not bad, Lance. You care for your friends, I admire that. I told you I’d have done the same for my brother.”

Lance nods. “Of course. Speaking of that--” With outstretched arm, the tip of his pointer finger glows a soft blue. Her tail feels as though it melts, the iron bangle by the fin glowing in the same blue.

The familiar feeling of two legs is back before the light is gone. Her heart flips with joy, wiggling her toes and splashing her legs on the water. It doesn’t even matter that she’s wearing the silly green dress again, she’s finally free!

“And that’s my end of the bargain,” Lance says sadly.

Pidge contemplates how to say goodbye. She has much to do - firstly finding out where she’s ended up before resuming her search for help. She struggles - how does one say farewell to a near stranger who she met as her captor but ended up being a fun companion?

There’s no need, as Lance speaks up. “You’re free to go, as promised.” He chuckles. “Now I owe you one.”

Wait. What?

“Did I hear that right? You owe me? How?” Pidge blinks in surprise.

“Look, Pidge…” He swallows hard and breaths. When he opens his eyes, they shine like sapphires. “I haven’t felt this human in… well, a really long time. And I don’t want to forget what you helped me remember. Not to mention you risked your freedom for me, the one who took it away in the first place.”

Pidge grins, heart soft. “Lance, I didn’t help you remember anything. You care so deeply for your friends - and it’s obvious they care for you. Well,” she amends with a laugh, “maybe how to interact with mortals.”

He takes her in his arms so suddenly her eyes bulge. “Thank you. I needed to hear that,” he whispers. “It’s so easy to forget. I don’t want you to go, but I know you have to save your kingdom.”

She lets her head rest on his shoulder. He could keep her with him with ease, but he makes no move to, just melting into her arms.

A hopeful thought enters her mind. Lance may have his duties, but he’s still a creature of the sea, and Pidge lives on an island - plenty of opportunity to see each other again.

Lance pulls away, grinning from ear to ear. “So, that just means I’ll come with you!”

“What?” Pidge shrieks. “But you’re the guardian of the sea - you said yourself!”

“Ah, yes,” he chuckles. His mouth thins into a line, “but I also never leave a debt unpaid. Thanks to you, not only is Hunk healed, but I’m not grounded for one hundred years,” he says. “I owe you those years.

“So,” he grins. “Where do you want to go?”

Pidge freezes, unsure of what to really do with the sudden addition of a traveling companion. It’s not what she needs, but she won’t deny it will be nice not being alone on the road - with a sea monster ironically.

Realization dawns on her, jaw dropping and blinking rapidly to soothe her drying, bulging eyes. Visions of the Galra blockade, fiery coals raining down upon a terrified populace flash through her mind. Her heart thumps, tears of joy rolling down her cheeks. She has… she has a companion now. She has help. The most perfect help she could ask for.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks, concerned. He leans forward, hand outstretched before he reconsiders and pulls back. “Do you… not want me to come along? I need to repay you somehow… for what you did for me, and every terrible thing I did to you.”

“I’m fine,” she chokes out. “I’m just really happy to have your help and your company.”

He perks up. In a quick flash of white light he’s changed into his human form, jumping up onto his legs. He offers her a hand. “Then where too?”

Pidge almost can’t say it because she can’t believe it, so the word comes out like a whisper,

“Home.”

~~~~~~

The salty ocean breeze feels better on the grand balcony of the Garriokos royal palace, and is refreshing running through her unbraided hair. The light weight of her favorite green headband flutters against her bare neck and the light fabric of her dress is much better in the warm sun versus a cold, rainy night.

Pidge grips the stone railings, rubbing her hands along the familiar embedded pebbles that give it color. Light footsteps approach on the stone floor and Pidge turns only just long enough to see her brother.

“I still can’t believe you’re home,” Matt says, a soft happy smile on his face. He looks better, face no longer ashen and pale and dressed nicer than she became accustomed to seeing before she left - he looks like the soon to be king.

“For a while,” she says. “I loved traveling, and I think I’d like to try it some more. You’ll take care of things here while I’m gone won’t you?”

Matt lets out a short laugh, hands resting on his hips. “I just kept things sane while you were gone. Besides, you’re the one who saved us all.”

A great crash calls Pidge’s attention back to the sea. The Galra fleet engages in combat seemingly with each other - the waters chaotic and filled with fire and smoke on the decks. Pidge grins knowingly, taking great pleasure as she watches Lance in his full sea monster form take down the flagship with his massive tail. It snaps in half before being dragged underwater.

“I’m just fortunate to have met the right people.”

“You would befriend a sea monster,” he teases, joining her at the railing. Matt leans in, nudging her in the arm with his elbow. Pidge can’t help but giggle; how she’s missed this, just able to relax and enjoy her brother’s company without a care in the world.

I’m really proud of you, Pidge,” he says more somberly, smile mirroring his sincere words. “You know that right? Mom and Dad would be too.”

Warmth rushes to her cheeks at the praise, as has always been her weakness. She never can take a compliment, deserved or not. She all but jumps into his arms. “Love you too, Matt. It’s good to be home.”

He hugs her tightly back. “And you’ll always be welcome here.” One last tight squeeze and he releases her. “Now that I’ve had a bath, I need to see how the city has fared - get people relief as soon as possible. Will you be all right here?”

Pidge nods, heart warmed that her brother is such a caring soul. He’ll be a good king. “I’d like to wait for Lance. It’s the least I can do since he’s demolishing the Galra armada for us.”

Matt laughs. “I’ll leave it to you then.”

As Matt leaves, a wave washes over the railing to her back. As the balcony is so far above the sea, only a storm or something - or someone - supernatural could have caused it.

“Finished already?” Pidge asks wryly.

Lance sits on the railing, whistling through his fingernails and leaning on his other hand. “It was easy peasy. I don’t like to brag but,” he says smugly, “only Allura could have taken them out faster.”

“Well, that’s still faster than anyone I could have found to help,” she says, placing a hand to her heart. “You know, you’re pretty cute out there, flopping around and destroying ships.”

His face turns red, humorously so. “I - I am not cute!”

Embarrassed, he’s even cuter.

Pidge snorts, unafraid and amused. “Your little arm-fins were flickering around with excitement and it was adorable,” she says, demonstrating by flapping her hands, wrists pressed against her body. “It was like watching a child with a new toy.”

Lance grabs hold of his arm, pitiful tears pooling in his eyes. “My tiny fins are vicious and can cut a ship in half!”

“And they wiggle. It’s cute, Lance.” Pity takes hold of her as Lance slouches in defeat. She strides over to him, gently wrapping her hands around his arm, and leans up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you. I feel like you’ve already paid me back for those hundred years.”

“Pfft, say no more!” Lance jumps down and stands before her, chest puffed out in pride. “That was simple. If we have to keep score,” his face scrunches in though, “hm, maybe that’s one year. That’s still ninety-nine to go!”

That’s still longer than Pidge ever hopes to live as a mortal, so if Lance insists on this crazy system of ‘paying her back’, she’ll make use of it.

“Tomorrow we’ll head to the market then,” she decides. “It’s in need of some major clean up.”

Lance hums thoughtfully. “That might shave off a month or two of service.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Well the sooner we help my brother clean up the sooner we can get back on the road. You have lots of places to show me, right?”

The whites of his teeth shine - and Pidge doesn’t neglect to notice his tiny fangs even in human form. He kneels, taking her hand gently in his. To her fluster, his lips brush her knuckles.

“Anywhere in the Seven Seas,” he confirms. “Consider me your guide and more.”

Pidge raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Back to your old tricks are you? I’ve only known you for a few days.” Though she laughs, she can’t deny she likes the sound of it.

Lance rises as he rolls his eyes. “So quick to a dirty mind. I’m also your friend, but,” his eyebrows rise suggestively. “I may be amicable to companionship of a different kind if you choose.”

“Well then, friend, let’s start with your favorite island,” she says, heart pounding in a good way, delighted with the prospect of adventure and learning a lot more about Lance. “Think you could give me some proper mermaid swimming lessons on the way? I want to figure it out for real this time.”

The devious, playful smirk that meets her gaze says yes.

#plance #pidgance #vld pidge #vld lance #voltron legendary defender #vld fanfic #rueitae #i am excited to know your favorite parts #i have been waiting so patiently to share this and i am so happy

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nunaya-business · 4 years

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Let’s Talk About Steven Universe

*WARNING* This … “essay” has my opinions only. I am not speaking for the community, I am speaking for me because I like to express myself and there are people like @susanaaatc out there who like these kinds of discussions. So if you want, I’d like for others to give me their whole opinions on the show as well. Hell make a whole post about it like I did and tag me in it so that I can see your opinion. With all that stated, let’s get down to Bismuth.

So Steven Universe came out in 2013 and I was 11 years old at the time. I liked Regular Show and Adventure Time, not to mention I was obsessed with Rise of the Guardians and Monster High, so I was a bit preoccupied to watch the show. Eventually though, my best friend at the time talked about it constantly and she brought up the concept of fusion. She showed me the art book of the show that she bought and it showed how two completely different gems could fuse into one gem to become stronger. This is where my interest started, and it was the same concept that started pushing me away from SU later in it’s show run.

So fusion in Steven Universe is mostly treated as a relationship, and it’s not always just romantic. It can be between two friends, it can be seen as a more sexual relationship between two gems, a romantic relationship, or a parent-child relationship like with Steg (Steven and Greg’s fusion). This is an amazing concept and I love it so much but… I’m not here to talk about what I like, I’m here to talk about what I dislike.

One of the best characters in the show is Garnet. Garnet was revealed in season 2 (I think) to be a fusion between the two tiny gems Ruby and Sapphire, and Garnet is the manifestation of their love. She’s an amazing example of not only a healthy, respecting, and loving relationship between two people, but also is an amazing example of a healthy same-sex relationship. You see, Steven Universe uses “code” to represent something like race, gender, and age… But we’ll get to that later. My problem isn’t really with Garnet herself, but what Rebecca and the Crewniverse has made her in to. Many have said it before, and I agree. After her reveal as a fusion, Garnet was no longer the cool, collected, fun-in-her-own-way “mom” we knew before, she turned into a fusion, and a symbol for fusion, and a representation… of a fusion. After the reveal, all the crewniverse seemed to view Garnet as… was a fucking fusion! She lost a lot of personality in the 3rd and 4th seasons in my opinion and was really only used in the plot when it had something to do with fusion. To me it’s like having a friend group with only one Asian friend and the rest a different race, and then only inviting the Asian friend to hang out when you’re going to watch Anime, or a Kdrama. It’s a bit racist is it not? Just because you can relate a character to something in the plot does not mean that character has to be there. Maybe instead of putting Garnet in every fusion episode (with the exception of “Earthlings”) just mention her. She doesn’t have to be in every damn episode that has to do with the subject.

A lot of people have an issue with Bismuth… and I can understand that. Let me explain why. “Coding” is what a creator of any media does to give the consumer an idea of a character’s personality, race, age, gender, etc, without it being too obvious. Off the top of my head I’ll state what I view the “coded” characters as.

Garnet, Sapphire, Sugilite, and Bismuth are coded Black.

Amethyst to my knowledge is coded Hispanic or Latina or something like that.

Pearl, the Diamonds, Opal, and Rose Quartz are coded White.

Rainbow Quartz and Aqua Marine are coded White and British.

And I’m not sure about Peridot, Lapis and Jasper are supposed to be coded as.

So the race thing has brought up some issues. In the official artbook that I mentioned earlier there was a concept design for Concrete and the design was a little… oof. People weren’t very happy… lemme just show you.

So obviously people weren’t happy that good ol’ Concrete here looks like a blackface character from the early 20th century animations. And I agree it’s pretty bad, but I don’t think it was intentional.

Some controversial things that come from the show (other than countries like Kenya being assholes and trying to act like LGBTQ doesn’t exist) are the portrayals of two specific characters, who also happen to be fusions, and I agree with most things people don’t like about them.

Let’s start with Stevonnie. Stevonnie is the nonbinary (but let’s be honest she’s a girl) fusion of Steven Universe and his love interest Connie Maheswaran (I had to look up how to spell her last name smh). They’re supposed to represent Steven and Connie’s closeness as best friends and their growing crushes on each other. Rebecca Sugar has also stated that they’re a representation of puberty…. Excuse me? Puberty must have went swell for you Sugar. There’s someone who made a video about why they hate SU, that person being the ever controversial Lily Orchard, and she covered why Stevonnie is just… honestly she’s waifu bait. I agree with probably everything Lily says about this character because… it’s true. Puberty seriously ain’t pretty, and it sure as hell ain’t sexy until after it’s done… sometimes. Also, Sugar is contradicting herself saying that the Crewniverse isn’t sexualizing two very under age kids because Stevonnie is Steven and Connie’s ages added up… which would make the fusion 26 years old… that’s a bit old for puberty Rebecca. It feels to me like they wanted to make a sensual character, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but they didn’t really want to add a new character so they just put the two love interests together. But that’s so fucking wrong. I’m sorry, but sexualizing Stevonnie, which they are doing btw, I will make a post if you question it, is like people shipping siblings or an underage person with someone way older than them and saying “it’s totally fine because they’re just characters” (*cough cough* Ereri *cough cough* Hitachiin shippers *cough*). If you’re going to use that excuse, but then get angry at people who don’t take the character seriously because they are just a cartoon, then you’re a hypocritical asshole. Sorry to tell you. Stevonnie is a very good character overall though. I’m just uncomfortable when they appear because they’re two kids in a trench-coat with curves like an anime schoolgirl and moves like someone who just successfully seduced a poor guy into giving them the secret to the Crabby Patty formula.

Now let’s move on to Steg, the fusion between father Greg Universe, and son Steven. There’s nothing wrong with them fusing because fusion in SU symbolizes a relationship, no matter what kind. However… why do two chubby men make a sex symbol rock idol??? That’s… that’s gross. Why the fuck is Steg so “hot”? Why on earth would you create a fusion out of a father and son and think it’s appropriate to sexualize them and make them gyrate their genitals like they’re an Elvis Presley impersonator? Just… WHY? Do I even have to explain why this is so wrong? Really? Honestly??? You can fuse Steven and Greg and not make it so sexual, but nah let’s give them rock hard abs, a humongous bulge a sharp jawline that neither of the two have, and a tight ass. What the actual fuck??

That’s not my biggest issue though. My biggest issue is giving the Nazi bitches a redemption ark smaller than my nonexistent cock. Endeavor from My Hero Academia is an absolute prick right? He abused his children, notably his youngest, and his wife, and is an absolute asshole to everyone, but he gets a redemption arch. Do you know why it makes sense though? First off because as far as we know Endeavor never committed genocide, and second because he’s not a Nazi, he’s an abuser. Abusers, whether we like to admit it or not, can eventually see the error of their ways and understand that what they’re doing is both wrong and that it doesn’t work. Endeavor is getting a redemption arch because he obviously loves his kids, he just doesn’t know how to show it because of some circumstances we may not know. 90% of the time an abuser was abused themselves growing up, so they grow up with that resentment and they go one of two ways. They see how wrong it is and knows that it won’t get them anywhere in life if they bully others to stay on top, or they think that since they went through it and came out alive, then others should go through it too. I should know, because my dad was from an abusive family, and he turned out fine(ish… long story) while his brother and sister are pieces of shit that can’t hold a job or a home because they’re too involved in criminal activity to do so.

What does Endeavor from MHA have to do with the Space Nazi Diamonds in SU? Well people were sending Horikoshi Kohei death threats because he had the gull to redeem an asshole, and SU fans are pissed because Rebecca Sugar had the lady balls to “redeem” space Nazis. The difference being, you can be redeemed if you were an abusive cock, but not if you’re a genocidal bitch. There’s a huge difference.

Rebecca and the Crewniverse giving the Diamonds a 4 episode redemption arch is absolutely abominable. Peridot’s redemption? Fucking amazing, beautiful, couldn’t have done it better myself. Jasper’s? It’s currently going amazing and they’re doing a great job keeping her in character while also making her likable and even a bit charming. Lapis? Oh… let’s talk about her shall we?

Lapis Lazuli’s character is an absolute disaster. She’s a cunt, she’s a horrible friend, and my god is she abusive! Lapis was supposed to be a sympathetic character, and for a while she was. You could feel bad for her because her gem was damaged and she was trapped in a mirror for thousands of years and when she’s finally released, you understand her want to go back home and why she took the Earth’s ocean to try and reach it. It was understandable when she didn’t want to break out of the prison ship because she was anxious and scared of being locked away for another thousand years. It was easier in her mind to just behave and wait. When Jasper convinced her to fuse with her Lapis didn’t really want to, but saw an opening for the freedom of the humans and mostly for Steven, the one person who saved her from hell. But then everything went south.

Lapis and Jasper were fused as Malachite for months, obviously in a very stressful “relationship”, and apparently a very abusive one as well. When they were finally able to unfuse, Lapis was played off by the Crewniverse as a victim of abuse. This may be half true. After all we don’t know exactly what happened with them at the bottom of the ocean. What we do know however is that Lapis admitted to being abusive. This makes her an abuser. She described how it made her feel happy to abuse Jasper, or “taking my anger out” on her. She admitted to abuse and the Crewniverse still painted her as a victim. They’re both victims of abuse, and they’re both abusers. But that’s not what makes Lapis a horrible person… gem…

Lapis is a cunt… again. It’s okay to be antisocial, it’s okay to be cautious and stand-offish because you’ve been trapped, imprisoned and used so many times. What’s not okay is being a bitch to people trying to comfort or make friends with you, or try to cheer you up. Poor Peri, she was just trying to make amends and comfort Lapis after her whole ordeal with Jasper. Peri offered the cunt the thing that helped her organize her thoughts, the thing that calmed her in situations that made her anxious, the thing that comforted her and the first gift given to her by her first friend and the first person that listened to her thoughts, and the cunt destroyed it. She destroyed Peri’s recorder right in front of her, calling it garbage. Oh and the abuse doesn’t stop there, it only really began, because when shit started to hit the fan, instead of helping each other through it, Lapis abandoned Peridot and took the home they shared. Without a single thought she just took it and abandoned her, and it devastated Peri. I don’t remember her apologizing, and if she did it doesn’t matter because if I don’t remember then it must not have been very sincere.

I’m sick of spitting negative shit so I’m gonna end this here. Personally I’ve been liking the last few episodes, but I’m not too confident that the finale is gonna be satisfying. Those are my thoughts, do with it as you will, but for God’s sake be fucking adults about it. If you don’t got the guts to curse without saying “h3ll” or “pu$$y” or something like that then you’re not mature enough to respond to this. I’m not gonna argue with 9-year-olds. I’ll only have a conversation with mature people.

#steven universe #steven universe future

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swtorramblings · 5 years

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Commander Thexan: The Third

Thexan brooding by @fleeting-sanity, inspired by the Starboy cover (link). I just asked for random art to try to get some inspiration from and this was the result.

Commander Thexan meets with his top agents before sending them to Zakuul, and, very likely, their deaths.

Story begins here: One More Night Previous: Rendezvous Next: Sacrifice Unsought Allies entry: Three Minutes

From the journals of Commander Thexan, Alliance, former Prince of Zakuul.

My brother and I spent our childhoods raised to be used in Father’s endless wars. Our sister would have followed us, briefly. I believe now that the training was not the point. He was testing us to destruction, trying to find one powerful enough to leave his aging body for, and if none of us had been, to break us and our mother for his amusement.

Still, I know war. I have seen it, I have fought in it. I know there will be losses, especially when fighting the Eternal Empire. I refuse to think of my people as resources to be expended, but sometimes the rewards simply outweigh the risks. So, I didn’t want to send any more to Zakuul, especially these three, but there was too much to gain to avoid it.

Including my remaining family. They did not speak of it, but they knew it was part of my motivation. I could not go myself. I had my own tasks. So others carried my risk.

“So, Commander, it is time. I told you it would come to this,” Scourge said when I entered the room.

“Yes, Lord Scourge, you were right as usual.”

Kira rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t say that. It may cause swelling in his skull.”

The third member of the team, brooding in the shadows, simply said, “Can we just get on with it?”

“Apologies. I thought you might need some more time.”

“No.”

“Why would we?” Scourge agreed.

“We won’t let you down,” Kira put in.

“You won’t be letting me down if you come back alive. Very well. Your ship is prepared. May the Force be with you.”

=======================================

They had fled from their hiding place, knowing that the Eternal Emperor was close behind. Their plans to escape had rapidly collapsed. Vitiate was too close, and had brought down what seemed like the full fury of Zakuul to prevent it. Vaylin was exhausted, Senya still barely conscious, with Caz’zandra almost carrying her. Only Arcann and Lana were able to fight, and even they could not have defeated the horde of Skytroopers blocking their way.

They were about to turn to flee again, when they were surrounded by his laughter. He had reactivated the disguise, cloaking himself again in the form and voice of Valkorion. Whatever the truth, though, he was still too powerful to fight at this point.

It was over.

“Did you really think you could escape once I was aware of you? Foolish children.”

“We can still fight you, Father,” Arcann said

“Perhaps. Perhaps you would even have been a threat at one time. But you have used up what power you have, even Vaylin. And I see you have taken my wife out of carbonite. You would not wish her to come to harm, would you?”

Caz’zandra turned, gently lowered Senya to the ground, and drew her lightsaber. “You do not care what happens to her. Or anything other than yourself.”

“Of course I care. You are trying to take what is mine. And who are you to steal her away? A nothing that I have elevated to my Knights. Return to my service, perhaps you can work in the sewers beneath the city.”

Arcann could feel her anger, and gestured for her to wait. They would not win, but they would strike together. Soon.

Lana suddenly sensed something, something familiar. They needed more time. “Very well, then. What are your plans?”

Vitiate smiled, seeming almost benevolent. “Senya will be returned to carbonite. It may be too late for Vaylin, but I will try to save her from herself. If only you had been mine to mold while still a child.”

“I’ve seen that, you monster!” Vaylin shouted at him.

“Indeed. Perhaps we shall speak of it, then. Later. Arcann will die. He has always been too much trouble.”

“And I have been proud to be.”

“Silence. The Knight will also die, since she does not seem willing to return to my service.”

“No. I am not.”

“And what of me?” Lana asked.

“She wishes you to live. I shall indulge her until she no longer cares.”

Arcann and Lana glanced at each other. That was interesting. Hopefully they’d have time to take advantage of it later.

“So, do you wish to fight? It is a waste of time, but it would make this slightly more interesting.”

They were close. Arcann sensed them now, as well, and spoke. “No, Father. We will not fight you. Not now.”

“It will be your last chance.”

“It will not.”

The ship screamed across the sky, the impacts from its cannons shaking the ground, scattering the droids. A voice came over their communications. “Oh, hells yes, I’ve been waiting for this all year!”

At least Koth was having fun.

As their band formed a circle around Senya, prepared to defend her and each other, three figures landed, having leapt from the ship now shrinking into the distance. They turned and surrounded Vitiate.

Scourge looked at them first, saying, “We shall hold him here. Koth will take you off-world.”

Arcann was about to object, but then the Sith glanced pointedly at his mother, and he simply nodded and turned to help Caz’zandra with her.

Lana was torn, but eventually prepared to cut a swath through the remaining Skytroopers. She knew she would see Z’lia again. She did not know if she should look forward to it.

As the smoke cleared, the Eternal Emperor laughed again. “You three? You have even less chance than they do.” He gestured at Arcann and his group.

Scourge answered first. “Perhaps not, but I have lived long enough and planted what seeds that I can. I can die here with no regret.”

Kira snorted. “Speak for yourself, old man. I plan to die in bed.”

The third remained silent.

“Flee, then, Son, but understand that the galaxy will not hide you. Not any longer. Not after this.”

Kira lifted her hand and waved it in Valkorion’s holographic face. “So, are we going to fight, or what?”

Scourge drew his lightsaber and activated it before he replied. “We shall. For the Empire.”

“For the Republic!” Kira shouted.

“For Ziost,” Master Surro whispered.

#CommanderThexan #Thexan #Arcann #Vaylin #Lana Beniko #Senya Tirall #Vitiate #Z'lia (OC)#caz'zandra (OC)#kira carsen #Lord Scourge #untagged character #swtor au #Koth Vortena

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multi-fandom-imagines8 · 5 years

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Guardian Angel

Part 1

Summary: You were under attack and your mother transported you to a safe place. What you didn’t know was that this place is going to be your home for the next few years.

Taglist

Word Count: 1319.

“Y/n, come help me seal this door” your mother entered your room and locked it. You were watching your favorite show Game of Thrones and didn’t pay attention “Y/n NOW!” She yelled.

“What is it, Mom? I’m watching can’t you see!” You didn’t bother to turn around.

“If you don’t help me now, there won’t be a show to watch”.

“Ok, okay. I’m here, what is it?” You paused the episode and turned to face her.

“Listen to me, there isn’t much time. There are people who’re trying to kill us. I can’t hold them off for long. There’s so much that I want to tell you” you mother cupped your face in her hands.

“Mom, you’re scaring me. What are you talking about?”.

“I’m going to send you away for your own safety. Think of the place you most want to be at. NOW!” She ordered.

You closed your eyes and did what she said. Of course the only place you thought of wasn’t even real. It’s fictional, right? Wrong. You heard your mother chanting some words that you didn’t understand and it started to fade away.

“Mom? Mom?” It was suddenly cold. When you opened your eyes it was dark and snowing. You started to walk, hoping to find your mother, still not understanding what’s going on, until you saw him. It was the Night King himself.

“Oh my god! How is that even possible? Did my mom put you up to this?” You chuckled, thinking this was a prank.

He turned his head to face you, not saying a word. He kept staring at you.

“Okay, it’s getting creepy. You can stop the acting now!” You ordered.

He took a few steps closer and examined you with his eyes.

“What are you doing? And where’s mom? Mom! You can tell him to stop now! You surprised me, alright!” You looked around thinking she’s hiding here somewhere.

He held you in the air by the throat and continued to stare at you weirdly.

“Stop! I can’t breathe! You’re killing me” but he didn’t stop. Now you kept thinking repeatedly of Castle Black, hoping that whatever put you here, would somehow transport you there. You lost consciousness and when you woke up, you heard someone say open the gates. You opened your eyes to look and saw a huge ice wall, then fainted again. The next thing you know, you’re tied to a bed.

“Hello! Is anybody there?” You tried to free yourself but failed. Then two men entered.

“Good evening! I’m Lord Commander Mormont and this is-“.

“Jon fucking Snow!” You smiled.

“You know him?” Both of them looked at each other in shock.

“Yeah, and I know you too. I know all of you. Listen, I don’t know what this is or how I got here, but you need to untie me now” you demanded.

“I will do no such thing. Are you a Wildling?” Mormont asked.

“What? A Wildling? No, I’m not. I always rooted for the Starks and Targaryens” you still thought this was a joke.

“What do you know about my family?” Jon was about to approach you but Mormont held him back.

“Everything. Not just your family, the whole show”.

“If you’re not a Wildling, then what are you?” Mormont questioned.

“Uh- a normal human being?”.

“She’s lying. She’s a Wildling. We should kill her” Jon told him.

“Wow, wow, wow! Kill me? You’re not the Jon I remember, oh wait, we’re still in the early days. Listen, I want no trouble, I swear on my life”.

“Then how do you explain being on the other side of the wall?” Jon asked.

“If I was a Wildling, would I come to the gates willingly? The truth is, I don’t know how I got there”.

“Do you have a prove?” Mormont questioned.

“Uhm- yeah, sure. I’m like a warg or three eyed raven. Someone who can see the past and the future and I will tell you things about yourselves that no one else knows, how about that?” You tried to make a deal with them.

“So you’re a witch?”.

“Not exactly. I can’t see everything that has happened to you or will happen. Just glimpses. Will you honor our deal?”.

“Alright, I promise you nothing will happen to you if who you say you are is the truth. But if not, you’ll be sentenced to death”.

“Jeez, chill! No need for violence and threats”.

The men just looked at each other in confusion at the words you’re using.

“Give me your hand” you told Mormont and he did.

“You have a son. His name is Jorah Mormont. He brought shame to your house, but now he’s trying to make up for it in Essos. The sword you have, it’s your family’s sword. It was supposed to be for him, but he left it because he was a disgrace to you. And you have a fierce niece, she’s still young, but she’s strong. Lyanna Mormont. She will become a leader one day” you informed him, but he was not sure about you yet.

“It’s your turn, Jon Snow… who would’ve thought that one day I’d be tied to a bed and hold Jon Snow’s hand” you muttered.

“You lived in Winterfell with your brothers Robb, Bran, Rickon and sisters Sansa and Arya. You and Arya were close. You had a sword made specially for her, needle. Stick’ em with the pointy end, you told her that’s the first lesson. You have a direwolf, ghost. Each of the Starks have one. Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer and Shaggy Dog. Catelyn Stark never liked you. Bran had an accident before you left, but he’s fine now. He’ll live I promise you”.

“Everyone knows about the direwolves and Lady Stark not liking me is no secret. Words travel fast, so you could’ve heard someone talk about Bran”.

“Fine if you don’t believe me, I can tell you what you and Samwell Tarly discussed while you were cleaning the tables about Ros. The whore with the perfect ti-“.

“Alright, alright. I believe you”.

“So what now?” You asked.

“We’ll set you free and you can go home” Mormont replied.

“Home? If this is all real then I don’t have a home anymore” you realized it was not a joke and that you were really in Westeros.

“You can stay here until you figure things out-“.

“I want to stay here at Castle Black”.

“You can’t”.

“Why not?”.

“There has never been a woman in the night’s watch before”.

“Ugh- sexism! But there’s nothing against it. And isn’t it a refugee for people who have no homes?” Your reminded.

“Yes, but-“.

“I’ll help with things”.

“Can you cook?”.

“No. As a matter of fact I can neither cook nor clean. All the things that a ‘woman’ is supposed to do, I can’t” you confessed.

“Can you fight?”.

“Uh- I’ve had Martial arts lessons, but uhm not with a sword no. I’m a quick learner. I’m sure Jon Snow here wouldn’t mind teaching me. After all he’s the best fighter in the-, he’s a great fighter and he helped the others”.

“That’s not a woman’s place. So what can you do?”.

“A woman’s place is where she pleases. I’m in med school- was”.

“What is that?”.

“I was training to become a healer. I can help with the wounded and the sick. Luckily, we learn about herbs and medieval medicine first. Please!” You gave him puppy eyes look.

“Alright, but don’t make any trouble. I should warn you, it won’t be easy with the men we have here”.

“Thank you. Ah the rapists and thieves, don’t worry I can take care of myself and soon I’ll be able to fight with a sword. Uhm can you untie me now?”.

“Of course. I forgot about that. Jon” he tilted his head, giving Jon permission to cut the robes.

Tags: @simonsbluee @irishfaulk97

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hvckleberried · 5 years

Text

yeah, he’s smoking inside. fucking sue him. miles leans back against the countertop and watches these idiots actually work. he takes a long drag. blinks. are you gonna, like, help at all, man? his exhale’s elongated; he watches his own breath fade into the rafters.

“ oh, does this bother you ? ” he asks, feigning concern. even cocks his head to the side for good measure. he lifts the cigarette in question to confirm their distaste. the other boy nods. miles’s forefinger taps against the cig and flicks ash onto his stupid west ham high shirt. and there it is. the smirk.

“ my. bad. ”

or, alternatively : ‘tis i, linc, with *dj khaled voice* anotha one !! greetings & salutations to huckleberry jeremiah vernon. call him MILES or he actually might kill you.

[ m i l e s v e r n o n –– OPEN FLAME .

✔ oc + wc┊❝ ( aria shahghasemi. he/him &. cismale ) eighteen year old huckleberry jeremiah vernon was listening to "paint it, black” by the rolling stones when the field trip buses turned around. rumor has it he spent two years in juvie & is the unbeknownst father of becca’s child, but who knows if that’s true? what we do know is that their friends describe them as alluring & deft, even if they’re known to be a little anarchic & noxious from time to time.

( &&. general information )

full name: huckleberry jeremiah miles vernon

nickname(s) or alias: miles, vernon, fuckleberry finn ( west ham football team, freshman year ), that asshole, the scary one, the kid ( his foster parents )

preferred name: miles. call him anything else and it’s your funeral, fuckface.

current age: eighteen

astrological sign: scorpio

gender: cismale

preferred pronouns: he/him

sexual preference: bisexual

romantic preference: biromantic

home environment: the kiersney household. a manor-like three-story at the edge of west ham’s easternmost woods. it looks like ikea ate pier 1 imports and fucking barfed up its bones the next day. statement walls. matching furniture. modern art on the walls. his foster parents have a motherfucking sculpture in the front foyer. it’s sickening. suburban. tame. tidy.

current occupation: student. delinquent.

language(s) spoken: english. i’ll-wring-your-neck-with-just-my-eyes. spanish, barely.

native language: english.

current relationship status: his knuckles kissing your face.

( &&. background )

reason behind name: huckleberry jeremiah vernon won his name in the lottery of misfortune: at least, that’s what his aunt used to say to the young boy. he doesn’t know a lot about his parents. enough to know they were royal fuck-ups, crackheads with nothing better to do than fuck and get high and have an accidental kid. they thought it’d be a hilarious form of payback: this monster takes nine months of their precious time, so they’d make his life hell. simple. so when his parents died when he was just an infant, his aunt had the opportunity to change his name. shift the tide. but she couldn’t bring herself to go against her dead sister’s wishes, however fucking twisted up she got because of her bad-news boyfriend. she took huckleberry in and insisted on calling him by his birth name until, at three years old, he was sent home from school with a drawing of his aunt with x’s for eyes. “ my auntie if she keeps saying it ”. from that day forward, he was jeremiah. then miles. only miles.

birth order: first and only for his biological family. the second-youngest of his cousins, when he lived with his aunt. they had a massive falling out after he returned from juvie. she chucked him out like he was rotten meat. the oldest ( or perhaps same age ) as his current foster brother.

ethnicity: what’s it to you. iranian-american

nationality: american.

religion ( tw: death, acts of violence ): fuck that shit. there’s no god. if there were a god, it’d be fucking him. this wasn’t always miles’s view; it started when he was 4, and accidentally killed his aunt’s cat in front of his cousins. they always hit people when they were doing something wrong in cartons! the cat was trying to steal his cheese stick. so... he hit it with a book. his aunt she made him go to bible camp that summer, where he was vilified for his name. “huckleberry’s a dingleberry! hahaha! where’s tom sawyer, huh?” whatever god there was wouldn’t let him have this name. or this life. he wouldn’t have let his parents die: huckleberry would later find the news clipping. “ bronx couple found shot dead in stolen vehicle, ruled double-suicide. ” religion’s the opiate of the masses. it’s how pansy people sleep at night. young huckleberry wasn’t allowed back at church after he dropped one of those big candles and watched the altar go up in flames. fine by him. he started playing with fire. messing with the wrong people. getting wrapped up in sketchy city boy shit. any shred of faith left in his body was torn away when he and his older buds planned to rob a bank: miles was 12; his cohorts ( ty & presley ) were 18. miles did most of the electronic work: hacking the cloud, derailing the security system. they stormed the fucking bank of america. one of them whipped out a gun. miles... stabbed somebody in the shoulder, to get them off of ty. he watched that security guard die, that day. but not before his bullet ripped through ty’s head. juvie happened. two years. aggravated manslaughter. he got off easy, as a minor. presley’s still behind bars. so, yeah. there’s no motherfuckin’ god out there. and if there is? he can kindly suck miles’s dick.

political views: politics. are. bullshit. go cry to somebody else about your opinions. there’s 7 fuckin’ billion people on this planet and you think your thoughts on zoning laws and gun control matter? cry him a fucking river.

financial status: he’s secure, because of his foster parents. he keeps testing ‘em, to see if they’ll fuckin’ send him back. broken merchandise; we want a refund. but they don’t, so he... just keeps taking. stealing money from their wallets. selling expensive shit from the house to buy good shit. pocket knives. lighters. alcohol. a gun.

hometown: bronx, new york city, new york. now it’s west ham. fuck that.

level of education: high school junior. because of his time in juvie, he entered school in west ham as a freshman at 15. he’ll turn nineteen before his senior year. not that it matters. he’s already planning his escape. he’s lifted enough money to skip town soon, go back to new york. avenge ty’s death. he’s got the other security guard’s details, from that day. it pays to be skilled with a keyboard. he’s brilliant, when he wants to be. sharp-witted. his idea of a prank last year was sending an anonymous tip in to the school saying the whole place might blow. hacking the database to make it look like it was sent from a real address. he’s still surprised people aren’t more fucking grateful. he secured them a stupid day off. he’s also known to hack into the cloud to get test answers, and sell ‘em to people that don’t completely make him want to punch them.

( &&. physical appearance )

looks like (or face claim, if applicable): aria shahghasemi. he’s got these midnight black curls. piercing gray eyes.

height: 5′10. but don’t let that get your guard down.

figure/build: lean and muscular. won’t be caught dead in west ham’s stupid gym, but he’s fit. his foster parents put in a whole boxing studio in their basement just for him. he’s been known to get into fights, throw punches. it was their way to kind of, like... get his anger out. joke’s on them; he’s not giving it up. that shit’s his.

hair colour: black.

hair length: mid-length. curly, so it looks shorter than it actually is.

eye colour: gray.

glasses?: no. just shades.

skin tone: olive. smooth.

tattoos: he got one in juvie, on the side of his right wrist. a cross. makes him laugh. irony. he’s in the process of self-tattooing fuck between his left forefinger and thumb, but only the jagged f is there right now. it’s a process. he can’t stomach the needle.

piercings: one diamond stud in his left ear. it’s about the side of a pencil eraser. stolen.

birthmarks/scars/distinguishing marks: a few faded cross-hatches near his hairline, from fights that resulted in stitches. a six-inch line across his chest. knife. a few patches of scar tissue from burns on his palms. all juvie.

dominant hand: left-handed. you can tell because that’s the hand he always uses to flick his lighter on and off, on and off. he’s always playing with that damned thing.

if painted, what color are their nails?: who do you think he is, fuckin’ bowie? jesus.

usual style of clothing: black on black on black. did i mention black? black t-shirts, leather jackets, denim jackets, dark jeans, boots. wouldn’t be caught dead in fuckin’ sneakers. failed gym because he wasn’t about to put on dowdy shorts and t-shirts just to run around a glorified prison for 30 minutes every day. oh, there’s a pep rally? we’re supposed to wear centurion colors? fuck you.

frequently worn jewelry: he wears a thin gold chain around his neck every day. sometimes he’s got rings.

describe their voice, what accent?: his voice is very punchy, low. cat-like. glimmers of some new york peppered in here and there.

what is their speaking style (fast, monotone, loquacious)?: clipped. acidic.

describe their scent: amber. tobacco. smoky.

describe their posture: he stands tall, defiant, aloof. chin always tipped up in the face of oncoming threats. his whole body’s a proverbial middle finger to the world: yeah, i’m here. bite me.

( &&. legal information )

any speeding tickets?: yep. went 80 in a 25 zone.

have they ever been arrested?: yes. at this point, the west ham police force is really tired of his shit.

do they have a criminal record?: absolutely. various misdemeanors. cybercrimes. property damage, breaking & entering. shoplifting. aggravated assault.

have they committed any violent crimes?: hAs He CoMiTtEd AnY vIoLeNt cRiMeS ??? ( he’s laughing. )

property crimes?: affirmative.

traffic crimes?: should be the least of your concern.

other crimes?: don’t even get me started. the moral compass on this kid is... nonexistent. the answer to the world’s problems is fuck ‘em. anarchy.

( &&. medical information )

blood type: o negative.

date/time of birth: december 3rd. 3:32am. witching hour. ha.

place of birth: shitty hole-in-the-wall crackhouse. his parents dropped him at his aunt’s before freewheeling.

vaginal birth or cesauren section?: vaginal birth.

sex: male.

smoker? / drinker? / drug user?: yes / yes / yes. what can he say? he’s an equal-opportunity employer.

allergies: grizz visser. fuckin’ ass. nosy people. pop music.

ever broken a bone?: his nose in second grade: the other kid got it worse. his hand in fifth grade. worth it. couple ribs in juvie. his arm, when he was a baby. his parents wanted to see if gravity was, like. real.

any physical ailments/illnesses/disabilities: nah. not that he’d tell you anyway.

any medication regularly taken: nyquil, sometimes. helps him sleep.

( &&. personality )

direct quote from them: *blinks at you like you’re speaking swahili*

positive traits: alluring, deft, crafty with computers. sly.

negative traits: anarchic, acerbic, explosive. heedless. noxious.

likes: the flick of the flame. beat poetry. darkroom photography. scared glances. messing with the system. sidestepping boundaries. wintergreen lifesavers. blueberry slushies. ac/dc, the stones, lynyrd skynyrd, sting, the offspring, kansas. buttered toast. milk duds. history. cigarettes: he’s always got one tucked behind his ear.

dislikes: fucking football team. working on yearbook ( detention punishment ). catch him taking photos of those morons with his middle finger in frame. his roots. his aunt, for casting him out. his foster family, for giving him so many chances. he doesn’t deserve them. his name. bright sunlight, hurts his eyes. pistachios. remembering. weak alcohol. fraternizing with the idiots of west ham.

strengths: he’ll figure out your nervous ticks within two minutes of talking to you. he can go hours watching someone ramble and not say a thing, and not break his expression. making others feel small. digging his fingers into your dirt. finding back doors, loopholes, and getting through cybersecurity like a hot knife through butter. baking – but tell anybody and he’ll end you. tying cherry stems with his tongue. making sense of ginsberg. remembering stupid historical facts. pope gregory ix executed cats and that allowed rats to spread the bubonic plague in masses. still fuckin’ like your religion, asshole?

weaknesses: vengeful. his definition of justice is very much based in vigilante action; an eye for an eye. he’s got an aloof disposition, but his past wounds are still seething. empathy. expressing emotions other than anger. patience. impulse control. he can’t hide that you’re pissing him the hell off. swears in front of kids, often. probably slept with your aunt two towns over. can’t lose an argument, ever. even with authority figures.

insecurities: what if he... caused ty’s death? what if that’s on him? is he worth shit? he’ll make himself worth something. he’ll get them back. all of ‘em. he’ll make ‘em pay.

fears/phobias: hates needles. but fucks with ‘em anyway. fears oblivion, but puts up a front like he’s chill with it. fears he’ll never muster up... a purpose. or whatever the fuck people call it. fears this is all he’ll ever be: an eighteen-year-old fuckup with a record, hands that itch to fight, to crush, to destroy.

habits: playing with his lighter. chewing on toothpicks. popping milk duds like pills. glaring at everyone, no one, nothing. everything. laughing in the face of authority. making unprecedented digs at people, just because he can. propping his feet up on the desk in front of him when his teachers ask him to answer questions, twirling a pencil in his hands like he’s god. grabbing a slushie from 7/11 just to have something to do with his hands. messing with the popular kids’ social medias, just for fun. hacking the online lunch menu to see his classmates get fuckin’ pissed when mozzarella sticks are served on friday, not today, sorry. driving to neighboring towns’ parties and hooking up with chicks there. masquerading as a man with a reason. hitting up college parties often. lingering in shadow. living in gray areas. writing his own notes in the front of library books, on the title page, in sharpie. “ fuck you ten thousand ” on the school’s copy of pride & prejudice. “ kindly die, thanks ” in gone with the wind. “ congrats, you’re literate ” in the front of catcher in the rye.

quirks: always sits in the back left corner of the room, near the window. he literally jumped out, sophomore year, when the school security officer tried to bust him for selling pills to a freshman in the hall earlier that day. popping his earbuds in during lectures. maintaining unbroken eye contact with teachers as he does so. getting ~very close~ and speaking ~very low~. purring threats. can never drink lightly. skipping school often, fabricating online attendance to avoid suspension. barely eating the food his foster parents prepare. leaving the table early, unexcused. digging into the leftovers after everyone’s gone to bed. severing ties. if he’s lucky, never makin’ ‘em in the first place. his new yorkisms come out when he’s drunk, or high, or tired.

hobbies: darkroom photography. reading poetry. burning shit. smoking. walking around the mini mart like he’s a hunter in the wild, just to make the clerks uncomfortable.

guilty pleasure: he listens to “lore” and “my favorite murder”. but he disguises that shit, saving the album covers of the podcasts as seether.

desires: to avenge ty’s death. get the fuck outta west ham. to find a reason to be here. a reason why.

wishes: his parents didn’t kill themselves. cowards. they deserved to deal with him. they deserved to be tortured, for doing this to him. he wishes he hadn’t pulled that knife on his aunt. then at least he’d still be in new york city, instead of here, with this stupid fuckin’ foster family that just won’t let him go.

secrets: killed a guy. the reason for his juvie sentence is redacted on his public record. he’s lonely, a lot of the time. and, oh yeah: he’s becca’s baby daddy.

turn ons: no bullshit. sarcasm. intellect. no strings.

turn offs: sentimentality. smileyness. too much perfume. caring.

lucky number: 1. he’s all he’s got.

pet peeves: chewing gum: fucking pellegrino and his damned bubbles. bubbly people. cassandra pressman and the tree-sized stick up her ass. foot tapping. prying. school involvement. slow drivers. slow walkers. slow thinkers.

their motto: “ fuck you very much. ”

( &&. favourites )

food: falafel. shut up.

drink: he brought vodka to school in a water bottle once. diet coke.

fast food restaurant: wendy’s. he likes the chocolate frosties.

flavour: chocolate.

word: fuck. for a vast array of reasons.

colour: black.

clothing: his most worn leather jacket. touch it and he’ll end you.

accessory: the gold chain ‘round his neck. it was ty’s.

candle scent: smoke. tobacco. whatever that shit is, patchouli.

game: fuck games. fuck fugitive. leave him alone.

animal: he has such a soft spot for caterpillars.

holiday: christmas. he likes baking shit. but if that ever gets out, he’ll flip.

weather: pouring rain, with patches of sun in between. it’s rare, but damn. it’s kind of beautiful.

season: summer. fast drives, windows down. no school. no bullshit.

book: on the road, jack kerouac.

artist: aerosmith.

band/group: ac/dc, kiss, guns ‘n roses, van halen, def leppard.

song: we’re not gonna take it, twisted sister.

movie/film: star wars. fuck off, it’s good.

tv show: history docs. he likes those decade pieces on the history channel.

sport: boxing.

possession: his lighter.

number: 1.

person: that’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard. himself. he’s lying.

( &&. skills )

talents: hacking. lying. breaking rules. testing limits. photography. playing people.

ability to drive a car?: yes. recklessly.

can they ride a bike?: yes, chooses not to.

do they play any sports?: tonsil hockey. heartbreaking. boxing.

anything they’re bad at?: empathizing. serenity.

do they have any combat training? why?: yep. his friends in grade school. juvie.

( &&. firsts )

childhood memory: crushing a handful of cheerios in his tiny hands and feeling... powerful.

crush: ava watson. she said she liked his eyes.

email address: [email protected]

job: reception at a local gym in west ham. lasted a day; he punched a guy.

phone: flip-phone. now he’s got an iphone.

kiss: hanna parler. 6th grade. said she’d miss him before he left for juvie.

love: HA. nice try, dick.

sexual experience: josie thwaites. 6th grade. they didn’t know what the fuck they were doing.

( &&. childhood )

best childhood memory?: try again.

worst childhood memory?: seeing ty’s eyes go dim.

what were they like as a child?: angry. electric. not easily tamed.

any crushes growing up?: some. he doesn’t do that now. crushing.

( &&. this or that )

expensive or inexpensive tastes?: expensive.

hygienic or unhygienic?: hygienic.

open-minded or close-minded?: close-minded. his way or bust.

introvert or extrovert?: introvert. buzz off.

optimistic or pessimistic?: pessimistic. optimism’s dead.

daredevil or cautious?: daredevil. caution’s an early grave.

logical or emotional?: emotional.

generous or stingy?: stingy.

polite or rude?: rude. so rude.

book smart or street smart?: both.

popular or loner?: loner. notorious, though. everyone knows who he is. wonders what his deal is. he’s got this... dark magnetism. if you’re smart, you’ll stay away.

leader or follower?: leader. follows his own path. likes disrupting order.

day or night person?: night.

cat or dog person?: cat. despite what his childhood mistakes might lead you to believe.

closet door open or closed while sleeping?: open. come get him.

( &&. social media )

do they have a facebook? twitter? instagram? vine? snapchat? tinder/grindr? tumblr? youtube? yes to facebook and instagram. no twitter, no vine. has a snapchat, rarely uses it. yes to tinder.

if so; name on facebook: miles vernon.

instagram user: milesvernon.

snapchat user: milesvernon.

( &&. musical tastes )

theme song: paint it, black –– the rolling stones.

makes them sad: anything by the beatles. makes him think of his aunt’s apartment. and then he gets angry.

makes them dance: nope. he wouldn’t be caught dead dancing in front of the likes of you. when he’s drunk, anything with a decent beat will make him sway his hips a little.

( &&. miscellaneous )

do they have a fake i.d.?: hell yeah. a couple.

are they a virgin?: ha. no.

describe their signature: chaos. barely legible.

how long would they survive in a zombie apocalypse?: he’d bite a zombie’s fuckin’ head off, if that answers your question.

do they travel?: nah.

one place they would like to live: anywhere but here.

one place they would like to visit: anywhere but here.

celebrity crush: camila mendes. tell anybody and he’ll hunt you down.

what can you find in their pockets/wallet/purse: cigs. lighter. some form of tic tac.

place(s) your character can always be found: in the shadows. on rooftops. places he shouldn’t be.

when does your character like to wake up?: 7:03am. he doesn’t like rounded numbers.

how does your character spend their free days?: reading. burning some stuff. driving out to other towns to do reckless shit.

what’s your character’s bedtime routine?: read some poems. have a cigarette. knock out.

what does your character wear to bed?: boxers, no shirt.

if your character can’t fall asleep, what are they thinking about?: ty’s brains. that knife. juvie. getting back. making them pay.

what is their idea of perfect happiness?: revenge.

on what occasions do they lie?: on what occasions don’t they lie ?

most marked characteristic: his ghost-gray eyes. his smirk. his hair.

what is one thing they’d most like to change about themselves?: only one?

how would they like to die?: in a blaze of fucking glory.

do they snore? no.

can they curl their tongue?: yes.

can they whistle?: yep. he likes doing that yoo-hoo kind of whistle. makes people uncomfortable.

do they believe in the supernatural?: nope. bullshit.

has anyone ever broken their heart?: no.

have they ever broken anyone’s heart?: yes. on purpose.

are they squeamish?: not at all.

have they ever seen anyone die? what happened?: see above: ty. that security guard. he’s sure they won’t be the last.

are they a lightweight?: not at all.

#newhamhq: intro

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a-mountain-ash · 6 years

Text

A Very Winchester Mystery

A special little ficlet for @ain-t-bovvered‘s 800 follower “Tales of the Winchesters” project! I visited the Winchester Mystery House a couple years back and couldn’t resist. Even tossed in a little personal easter egg from my time there because it was too good and I swear the ghosts played a little prank on me. Also, I’m sure the WIL CFO is perfectly decent person, but I needed someone to commit the crime :P

We know who the Winchesters are. We're not talking the originals, of course, though I suppose it's not out of the realm of possibility for them to be related. We are ghosts, after all, so the realm of possibility is quite large. We mean the new Winchesters. The brothers. The ghost slayers.

You see, the thing about this place that we inhabit is that it's very popular. Everyone comes here. Demons, ghouls, vampires, werewolves. They enjoy a little bit of whimsy as much as the next fellow. Some people even drag their own personal ghosts with them, pulled along by their attachment to some piece of jewelry or other. Those times are when we get the good gossip.

The Winchesters almost got me last week, but I got away because my daughter here was catching a flight for this vacation she's on. I guess that Dean boy doesn't do planes.

Sam and Dean smoked my aunt's bones a few year's back when she was haunting me. Now I'm a ghost, too. Irony, amiright?

'Pretty sure I'm half way to angry spirit, and I'm afraid the Winchesters are gonna nab me before my boy stands at the alter in a couple months. You guys have any tips on how to stay on the good path?' 'Sure Fred, find some good friends if you can. We have poker nights once a week to vent. Congratulations on the engagement!'

And that, my good listener, is why we are a little bit worried. To give you some background, the Winchester Mystery House is a big thing. People spend real money to come walk through Sarah's wacky rooms and miniature stairwells. Personally, at this point in our ghostly existences, we don't totally understand the appeal, but the point still stands that people are here constantly. They're always with a tour guide, but every now and again, people get away from the group and we have to set them straight. Nicely of course. We weren't lying when we told Fred to find some friends. Being together all these years has really helped us stay on the straight and narrow.

What you have to understand is that we all want to be here, and not for revenge. Absolutely none of us were trapped here and if we really wanted to, we could probably find a way to get a reaper to come take us up, though none of us knows how. Sarah Winchester was the most excellent of ladies. During our lives, she took care of us and our families well and we are simply repaying the favor in death. We keep the property safe, defending it from harm, and keeping the still hidden rooms clean until the property managers finally find them. Occasionally we play a little mischief on tourists who get off the beaten track, like that time some sisters missed a sign and found their ways into a private area and we shut the gate on them. They got out fine, but they knew what happened, and stayed on the path after that.

Anyway, it all started a few weeks ago when apparently somebody in the higher-ups of Winchester Investment LLC decided to get greedy. We don't really understand how that whole situation works because we only know what we hear or see in the newspaper, but we know enough. WIL is in charge of this whole operation and they run it for the descendants of John and Mayme Brown, the couple who bought the house after Sarah died, may she rest in peace. One night, someone tried setting the estate on fire. Nothing of this scale had ever occurred before and we may have lost our cool, just a bit. It happened again a week later. Needless to say, the Winchesters and their angel friend Castiel were all here now, and we were going to have to try really hard to get them to see what was happening here before they found a way to burn us all.

As it happened though, the Winchesters were surprisingly willing to listen to reason. It might be because we steered them into a room with only two doors, one of which lead to a 15 foot drop off and the other of which we blocked off with 20 or so ghosts strong, but you know, technicalities. They listened.

"Cas, what just happened?" Dean asked.

Oh my goodness, he was gorgeous! Those eyes. Mabel would definitely want to see him. She hadn't seen a cute tourist in weeks.

"Obviously the ghosts are preparing to kill us, Dean. I didn't think that would require an explanation."

The angel was a funny one. We've heard tell of them coming down to earth, but none have come to the house. They must think they're above fun, but we all knew this one is a little different.

"Yeah, yeah Cas. Thanks for the pep talk. I mean, how many of them are there. You can see them, right?"

"Ah, of course. There are currently 19 of them in the room. I believe there are a few more outside the door, but I don't have x-ray vision so you'll have to bear with me."

We really could have appeared to them then, but it was far too good a show to end it straight away. The tall one, Sam, looked like he'd swallowed a whole lemon while he looked between his brother and the angel. Castiel and Dean were so focused on talking about us that it was entirely impossible they'd forgotten about us. Watching them waffle and bicker before us in their FBI suits, it was hard to believe the vast quantity of stories we'd heard all the years before.

"Alright, well what are we going to do about it?" Sam finally asks practically. "We can't go shooting salt rounds inside a century old work of art and we don't have enough salt for that many ghosts at once."

At this point, we were seriously confused about how they'd acquired the reputation they had. That said, the threat of shots being fired at dear Sarah's carefully chosen wallpaper was enough to make a few of us show ourselves. When our best diplomats, Mr. Jones, Margaret, and John, materialized before them, their reactions (or lack thereof) were disappointing though not surprising. After all, with decades of ghost hunts under their belts, nothing should really shock them anymore.

"I would strongly recommend that you do not fire inside our home." Margaret spoke first, in her best friendly intimidation voice. She practiced it daily in front of Sarah's looking glass.

Despite her warning, Dean raised his gun anyway. Effie giggled invisibly at the glorious eye rolling his actions earned him from both Castiel and Sam. The older Winchester swung his gun in her direction. Admittedly, it was fairly impressive how good his aim was from sound alone. Had he fired, he would have hit her squarely in the head.

"God, Dean, what did she just say?" Sam was definitely the reasonable one of the two.

"Yeah, yeah. I heard her. Ghosts say lots of crap, though. Just being on the safe side."

"We will definitely not be allowed back inside if we damage this home, Dean. Even if they do think we're FBI."

"Ugh, fine." Dean lowered his weapon as Castiel placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "What are we supposed to do then?"

"Listen to us, you goon." Mr. Jones spoke then, finally seeing his in. He was a gruff older man, his skin tanned despite his deathly pallor from hours in the sun picking fruit in Mrs. Winchester's orchards. He had died very suddenly one day when a branch had snapped and his ladder had fallen with him at the top.

"We're listening." Sam said quickly before Dean could speak again.

"We're good spirits. None of us are vengeful. We chose to stay here after our deaths, even after Mrs. Winchester passed, in order to protect her property. This place was a good home to many of us and she cared for our families like her own. We just help maintain the property and keep the visitors safe."

"Then why the recent deaths?" Castiel asked.

"Someone is sending people to try and burn the estate to the ground. We believe it must be someone at the organization trying to collect insurance money or something." John spoke now. "One of our younger ghosts, Elmer, lost his temper the first time. The second time, it was Charlie. We aren't vengeful spirits, but protecting this place is our purpose and someone is trying to destroy it."

"You can see we're very much in possession of our faculties, even after almost a century. More for some. But this home must be protected. If it is lost, we truly will go insane." Margaret had dropped her ominous tone in favor of something friendlier.

"Won't you disappear?" Dean asked. "Isn't it the house that you're attached to?"

"No. We are connected to the entire estate, down into the soil that we tended and farmed. We cannot be burned with this house, but if the house burns we will have nothing grounding us to our purpose and then we truly will become vengeful."

"We can't have you killing people, even if they are arsonists." Castiel answered.

"Then help us!" Effie appeared suddenly. She had always gotten impatient with too much talk. "We can't have this house destroyed and you can't have us killing more people. You must be able to do something."

And they could.

With our help concealing the security cameras and silencing the alarms, they snuck back onto the property after hours. We used Castiel as a communication conduit and when we found yet another man entering the property with gasoline and matches we alerted him and they called in an anonymous tip that someone was attempting to burn the estate. Rather than kill the man, we detained him until the authorities arrived and took him away.

A week later, the CFO of WIL was brought in for questioning and one of the Mayme descendants themselves took his position. Every once in a while, when the world isn't ending, the Winchesters take a day or two to come visit us. Castiel always brings the best gossip.

#supernatural #season 10 #dean winchester #castiel #Sam Winchester #winchester mystery house #talesofthewinchesters #tales of the winchesters

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post-leffert · 3 years

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Communique from the Indigenous Revolutionary Clandestine Committee General Command of the Zapatista Army for National Liberation

MEXICO

October 5, 2020

To the National Indigenous Congress—Indigenous Governing Council: To the Sixth in Mexico and abroad: To the Networks of Resistance and Rebellion: To all honest people who resist in every corner of the planet:

Sisters, brothers, hermanoas: Compañeras, compañeros and compañeroas:

We Zapatista originary peoples of Mayan roots send you greetings and want to share with you our collective thought about what we have seen, heard, and felt.

First: We see and hear a socially sick world, fragmented into millions of people estranged from each other, doubled down in their efforts for individual survival but united under the oppression of a system that will do anything to satisfy its thirst for profit, even when its path is in direct contradiction to the existence of planet Earth.

This abomination of a system and its stupid defense of “progress” and “modernity” crashes into the wall of its own criminal reality: femicides. The murder of women has no color or nationality; it is global. If it is absurd and unreasonable for someone to be persecuted, disappeared, or murdered for the color of their skin, their race, their culture or their beliefs, it’s simply unbelievable that the fact of being a woman is equivalent to a death sentence or a life of marginalization.

The criminal logic of the murder of women is that of the system, escalating in predictable fashion (harassment, physical violence, mutilation, and murder) and backed by structural impunity (“she deserved it,” “she had tattoos,” “what was she doing out at that hour?” “dressed like that, what did she expect?”). This happens to women across geographies, social classes, races and ages from early girlhood to old age; gender is the one constant. The system is incapable of explaining how this reality goes hand in hand with its “development” and “progress.” The outrageous statistics say it all: the more “developed” a society is the higher the number of victims in this veritable war on women.

“Civilization” seems to be telling the originary peoples: “the proof of your underdevelopment is evident in your low rate of femicides. Here you go, here are your megaprojects, your trains, your thermoelectric plants, your mines, your dams, your shopping centers, your home electronics stores—television channel included. Learn to consume. Be like us. To pay back the debt of this “progressive” aid we’re offering, your lands, waters, cultures, and dignity won’t quite be enough—you’re going to have to throw in the lives of women.”

Second: We have seen and heard a nature which is gravely injured and yet, in its agony it is warning humanity that the worst is yet to come. Each “natural” disaster announces the next and conveniently forgets the cause: the actions of a human system.

Death and destruction are no longer off in the distance, limited by borders, customs and international agreements. Destruction in any corner of the world has repercussions on the whole planet.

Third: We see and hear the powerful retreating and taking cover within the so-called nation-states and their walls. In this impossible leap backward, they are reviving fascist nationalisms, ridiculous chauvinisms and a deafening torrent of meaningless blather. We are sounding the alarm about the coming wars fed by false, empty, deceptive histories that translate nationalities and races into supremacies that will be imposed with death and destruction. Disputes play out in various countries between the current overseers and those who aspire to succeed them, hiding the fact that the real boss, the owner, the ruler, is the same everywhere and has no nationality other than that of money. In the meantime, international organizations languish and become mere names, like museum artifacts… if that.

In the darkness and confusion that precede these wars we hear and see that any trace of creativity, intelligence and rationality is being attacked, persecuted and surrounded on all sides. Faced with critical thought, the powerful demand and impose their fanaticisms. They sow, cultivate, and harvest a death that is not only physical; it also includes the extinction of what is our unique human universality: intelligence, with all of its advances and achievements. New esoteric currents are created or reborn, secular and otherwise, disguised as intellectual fashions or pseudo-sciences. The arts and sciences are subordinated to political partisanship.

Fourth: The Covid-19 pandemic demonstrated not only the vulnerabilities of human beings, but also the greed and stupidity of the national governments and their supposed opposition groups. The most basic, commonsense measures were discarded on the gamble that the pandemic would play out in a short timeframe. As the epidemic’s timeline extended, numbers began to replace tragedies. Death became a statistic, lost amidst the noise of daily scandals and declarations in a dark contest of ridiculous nationalisms, playing with percentages like batting averages and earned runs to decide which team, or nation, is better or worse.

As we detailed in previous texts, Zapatismo opted for prevention and health safety measures based on the advice of scientists who offered their counsel without hesitation. The Zapatista communities want to show their appreciation for this assistance. Six months after the implementation of these measures (face masks or their equivalent, distance between people, cutting off direct personal contact with urban areas, 15-day quarantine for anyone who has been in contact with someone who is contagious, frequent handwashing with soap and water), we mourn the passing of three compañeros who presented two or more symptoms associated with Covid-19 and were directly exposed to infected persons.

Another eight compañeros and one compañera who died during this period presented one symptom associated with the illness. As we have no access to tests, we will assume that these 12 compañer@s died of corona virus (scientists told us to assume that any respiratory problem was Covid-19). These 12 deaths are our responsibility. They are not the fault of the 4T[i] or the opposition, of neoliberals or neoconservatives, of the sell-outs or the bourgies, or of conspiracies or plots. We think we should have implemented precautionary measures even more rigorously.

Currently, after the death of those 12 compañer@s, we are improving our prevention measures with the support of nongovernmental organizations and scientists who, individually or as a collective, are helping us orient our approach in order to be in a stronger position for any potential new outbreak. Tens of thousands of masks (affordable, reusable, specifically designed to avoid transmission by a probable contagious person to others, and adapted to our specific circumstances) have been distributed in all of the communities. Tens of thousands more are being produced in the insurgentes’ sewing and embroidery workshops as well as those in the communities. The measures we have recommended to our own communities as well as to our party-affiliated brothers and sisters—the widespread use of masks, a 2-week quarantine for those potentially infected, physical distance, continual hand and face washing with soap and water, and avoidance of the cities to the greatest extent possible—are all oriented toward containing any spread of contagion as well as permitting the maintenance of community life.

The details of what our strategy was and is will be analyzed at an appropriate time. For now we can say, with life pulsing through our bodies, that in our estimation (which may well be mistaken) it has been our approach of facing the threat as a community, not as an individual issue, and orienting our primary efforts toward prevention that has put us in a position to say now, as Zapatista peoples: here we are, resisting, living and struggling.

Now, all over the world, big capital intends to get people back on the streets to resume their role as consumers. What concerns capital are the problems of the market, the lethargic rate of commodity consumption.

We do need to get back on the streets, yes, but to struggle. As we’ve said before, life, and the struggle for life, is not an individual issue, but a collective one. Now we see that it’s not a national issue either, but a global one.

-*-

We have been seeing and hearing a lot of things along these lines, and we’ve given them a lot of thought. But not only that…

Fifth: We have also heard and seen the resistances and rebellions that, even when silenced or forgotten, do not cease to be vital indicators of a humanity that refuses to follow the system’s hurried pace toward collapse. The deadly train of progress advances with impeccable arrogance toward the edge of the cliff, with the conductor believing they are actually driving the train, forgetting they are just another employee of the system following the prison of the rails toward the abyss.

These are resistances and rebellions that remember those who have been taken from us as they struggle for—who would have thought—the most subversive cause out there in these worlds divided between neoliberals and neoconservatives: life. These resistances and rebellions understand—each according to their own way, time, and geography—that solutions cannot be found through faith in the various national governments, protected by borders and dressed in flags and different languages. These are resistances and rebellions that teach us Zapatistas that the solutions may be found below, in the basements and corners of the world, not in the halls of government or the offices of large corporations. They are resistances and rebellions that show us that if those above destroy bridges and seal borders, then we’ll just have to navigate rivers and oceans to find each other. They show us that the cure, if there is one, is global; it is the color of the earth, the color of the work that lives and dies in the streets and barrios, oceans and skies, hills and valleys—like the originary maize, it has many colors, hues, and sounds.

-*-

We saw and heard all of this and more. We saw and heard ourselves as what we are: a number that doesn’t count. Because life doesn’t count—it doesn’t sell, it doesn’t make the news, it doesn’t enter into the statistics, it doesn’t compete in the polls, it has no following on social media, it provokes no response, it does not represent political capital, party loyalty, or a trending scandal. Who cares if a small, a tiny group of originary peoples, indigenous peoples, lives, that is, struggles?

Because it turns out that we do live. Despite paramilitaries, pandemics, mega-projects, lies, slander, and oblivion, we live. And by that we mean, we struggle.

That is what we are thinking, that we will continue struggling, that is, continue living. We are thinking about the fraternal embrace of people in our own country and around the world that we have received throughout these years. We think that if life here resists and even, against all odds, flourishes, it is thanks to all those people who challenged distances, red tape, borders and differences of language and culture. We want to thank them: the men, women, and others—but above all the women—who confronted and defeated calendars and geographies to be with us.

In the mountains of Southeastern Mexico, all of the worlds in the world have found, and still find, a listener in our hearts. Their words and actions have fed our resistance and rebellion, which are just a continuation of the struggles of our predecessors.

People who walk the path of art and science found a way to embrace and encourage us, even from a distance. There were journalists, both bourgie and not, who reported the death and misery we suffered before and the dignity of life always. There have been people of all professions and trades who, through what were perhaps small gestures for them that meant a great deal to us, have been and continue to be at our sides.

These are the thoughts in our collective heart, and we also think that now is the time in which we Zapatistas [nosotras, nosotros, nosotroas] reciprocate the listening ear, word, and presence of those worlds, for those who are geographically near and far.

Sixth: We have decided that:

It is time for our hearts to dance again, and for their sounds and rhythm to not be those of mourning and resignation. Thus, various Zapatista delegations, men, women, and others, the color of our earth, will go out into the world, walking or setting sail to remote lands, oceans, and skies, not to seek out difference, superiority, or offense, much less pity or apology, but to find what makes us equal.

It is not just our humanity that unites our different skin, our different ways of life, our different languages and colors. It is also, and above all, the common dream we have shared as a species as of the moment, in a seemingly distant Africa, from the lap of the very first woman, when we set out on the search for freedom that guided our first steps and which continues its path today.

Our first destiny on this planetary journey will be the European continent.

We will leave Mexican lands and set sail for Europe in April of 2021. After journeying through various corners of Europe below and to the left, we plan to arrive in Madrid, the Spanish capital, on August 13, 2021, 500 years after the supposed conquest of what is today Mexico. We will then immediately continue our journey.

We want to speak to the Spanish people. Not to threaten them, scold them, insult them, or make demands of them, and not to demand they ask our forgiveness. We are not there to serve them nor demand they serve us. We want to tell the people of Spain two simple things:

One: You didn’t conquer us. We continue to resist and rebel.

Two: There’s no reason for you to ask our forgiveness for anything. Enough of this toying around with the distant past to justify, with demagoguery and hypocrisy, the current crimes in process: the murder of community organizers, like our brother Samir Flores Soberanes; the hidden genocides behind the megaprojects, conceived and carried out to please the most powerful player—capitalism—which wreaks punishment on all corners of the world; the pay-outs to and impunity for the paramilitaries; the buying off of peoples’ consciences and dignity with 30 pieces of silver.[ii]

We Zapatistas do NOT want to return to that past, not on our own, much less accompanied by someone trying to seed racial resentment and feed his outmoded nationalism with the supposed splendor of the Aztec Empire which built itself from the blood of its neighbors, and convince us in turn that with the fall of that empire, the originary peoples of these lands were defeated.

Neither the Spanish state nor the Catholic Church have to ask our forgiveness for anything. We will not echo those frauds who seek to legitimize themselves with our blood while they hide the fact that their hands are stained with it.

What is Spain going to ask our forgiveness for? For having birthed Cervantes? Or José Espronceda? León Felipe? Federico García Lorca? Manuel Vázquez Montalbán? Miguel Hernández? Pedro Salinas? Antonio Machado? Lope de Vega? Bécquer? Almudena Grandes? Panchito Varona, Ana Belén, Sabina, Serrat, Ibáñez, Llach, Amparanoia, Miguel Ríos, Paco de Lucía, Víctor Manuel, Aute siempre? Buñuel, Almodóvar and Agrado, Saura, Fernán Gómez, Fernando León, Bardem? Dalí, Miró, Goya, Picasso, el Greco and Velázquez? For some of the best critical thought in the world, born under the liberatory “A”? The Spanish Republic? The Spanish republican exile? Our Mayan brother Gonzalo Guerrero?

What is the Catholic Church going to ask our forgiveness for? For the life of Bartolomé de las Casas? For Don Samuel Ruiz García? For Arturo Lona? For Sergio Méndez Arceo? For Sister Chapis? For the lives of priests and religious and lay sisters who have walked beside the originary peoples without trying to lead or supplant them? For those who risk their freedom and their lives to defend human rights?

-*-

The year 2021 marks 20 years since the March of the Color of the Earth, the march we carried out alongside the peoples of the National Indigenous Congress to reclaim our place in this Nation that is now in total collapse.

Now, 20 years later we will set sail and journey once again to tell the planet that in the world that we hold in our collective heart, there is room for everyone [todas, todos, todoas]. That is true for the simple reason that that world will only be possible if all of us struggle to build it.

The Zapatista delegations will be constituted principally by women, not just because they want to reciprocate the embrace they received in earlier international gatherings, but also and above all to make clear to the Zapatista men that we are what we are and we aren’t what we aren’t thanks to them, for them, and with them.

We invite the CNI-CIG to form a delegation to accompany us and thus further enrich our word for the other who struggles in distant lands. We make a special invitation to the communities who hold up the name, image, and blood of our brother Samir Flores Soberanes, so that their pain, rage, struggle, and resistance travels far.

We invite those who hold the arts and sciences as their vocation, endeavor, and horizon to accompany our journey from a distance and help us spread the idea that in the sciences and the arts lie not only the possibility of the survival of humanity, but that of the birth of a new world.

In sum, we leave for Europe in April of 2021. Date and time? We don’t know… yet.

This is our pledge:

In the face of the powerful trains, our canoes.

In the face of the thermoelectric plants, our little lights that the Zapatista women put in the care of the women who struggle all over the world.

In the face of walls and borders, our collective navigation.

In the face of big capital, a common cornfield.

In the face of the destruction of the planet, a mountain sailing through the small hours of the morning.

We are Zapatistas, carriers of the virus of resistance and rebellion. As such, we will go to the five continents.

That’s all…for now.

From the mountains of the Mexican Southeast In the name of all of the Zapatista women, men, and others,

Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés Mexico, October of 2020.

P.S. Yes, this is the sixth part and, like our journey, will go in inverse order. That is, the fifth part will come next, then the fourth, then the third, followed by the second, and finishing with the first.

#Mexico #Zapatista #struggle #revolution #resist #revolt

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conundrum-rp-blog · 6 years

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Under the cut you can check out all the players that have been accepted for their roles. Congratulations! Please take a look at the instructions at the bottom of the page. For those who haven’t been accepted this time around, don’t be discouraged! Send me a message if you want more feedback on your application and I would love for you to re-apply in the future! Congratulations again to all of you and Welcome to CONUNDRUM!

✦ Rae, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Emmeline Vance. “Emmeline feels guilty about not being able to fully be there and support those who she feels need her, especially since she needs to be there for her friends and family more than ever nowadays. She’s used to being the emotional rock, dealing with other people’s baggage & helping them sort it. With her own optimism draining as life drags on, she feels guilty for not having enough energy to deal with the problems of others, & she’s slowly running out of ways to help.” I can’t wait to see how this turns out. The dichotomy between the old Emmeline and the new one is one of my favourite things in your application. Great job!

✦ Roman, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Corban Yaxley. “Everyone knows they’re someone to be feared, even if they haven’t seen it first hand, but those who have seen it know better than to cross them. Their anger is something hidden behind smiles as sharp as knives, something sinister lurking beneath. They like their violence to be dramatic but quiet, something that can rarely be tied to them directly, more likely to take out an enemy behind closed doors when violence is involved. There are whispers of the things they’ve done that swirl around constantly, and yet no one seems keen to suss out if they’re true or not, and no one wants to risk getting on their bad side by poking their nose somewhere it doesn’t belong.” Dramatic but quiet is a perfect way to describe what Corban does; and it’s a recurrent theme all throughout your application. I honestly can’t wait to see how they fit into this universe!

✦ Shannon, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Fenrir Greyback. “It was not the allure of blood purity that drew Fenrir to the Death Eaters’ ranks, but instead a promise of freedom. Years of living life in hiding as a second class citizen has turned him cold and ruthless, willing to do anything if it meant bettering the station of not only himself but the rest of his pack. Pureblood, mudblood, halfblood, none of that shit every mattered to him- a human was a human no matter who fucks who. The only reason why he’s willing to act as the Death Eaters’ glorified attack dog is because their deal is currently the best on the table. Now, should someone change that then he may find his loyalties changing as well.” I love to see the difference between the other Death Eaters and Fenrir. The fact that you really put the focus on Fenrir’s objectives was amazing, and I can’t wait to see him interacting with everyone else! Your Face Claim change to Jon Bernthal has been approved.

✦ Dean, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Thorfinn Rowle. “Thorfinn returned back to normal within a few months. His self righteous and cocky demeanour flew back and it was almost as if he’d never been sent away. Though he had a streak of vengeance, furious that he had to endure such a tormenting event in the first place. With a temper like his and his place in society slowly turning back to normal, it wasn’t long before the Ministry issued a whole apology to the families involved in the imprisonment. But it didn’t leave it trials, the media, with Thor’s career as a Quidditch star, would pick up on any little detail of Thor’s activities. He had to be a lot more careful, which was unusual for the man since he was never really used to being on his best behaviour.” I really liked this headcanon in particular because I can’t wait to see it develop! Thor has been so sheltered his whole life that it will be amazing to read how imprisonment changed him. Amazing job!

✦ Lucy, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Daisy Hookum. “In the light of her friends’ losses, Daisy has given up her magic. She might not have pulled herself entirely from the wizarding world yet but it felt like a safe first step. She hasn’t made a declaration of it, not until she’s sure she can handle it. It was another form of protest, as well. The entire war, every terrible, horrible thing she’d had to read and hear about, was caused by one thing – magic. Tucking away her wand and putting it out of her mind felt like a silent war that she had taken up with the entire world and it felt powerful, in its own ways.” Amazing! Such an original twist to the skeleton! I’m so eager to see how this plays out!

✦ Becky, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Narcissa Malfoy. “Let it be known that Narcissa Black begins her life as a soft, gentle creature. This is a reminder that ice takes time to form. That children are neither good nor bad, but something in between that teeters on the edge of being both. With shielded smiles and knowing eyes, it is her family who encourage her into the darkness. Her bloodline are named after stars; they shine through the gloom and know how to cope with it, but she is a flower plunged into a world where she should not thrive. Should not grow. It is for this reason that she fights harder to stay alive. It is for this reason that her life is theirs to mould and shape.” I chose this headcanon in particular because it shows Narcissa’s struggle so clearly; and the push and pull between rigid ice and softness is definitely going to reach top levels in this universe. I sincerely can’t wait to see how it evolves! Your Face Claim change to Emma Rigby has been approved.

✦ Emily, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Alice Longbottom. “The road back from hell is not one easily navigated by an Angel. Her halo is dented, its shine dulled. Her wings quiver at the base of her spine, unable to soar. The Lestranges were her demons, clawing at her skin as they sought to silence her voice - afraid of its contents. But even fallen angels can learn how to fly again. The art of being broken, Alice has learnt, is a matter of opinion. To the naked eye, she appeared shattered beyond repair - a mere shell of who she once was. They were mourning her before she had begun irreversible decay. But Alice knew better. She knew that pieces could be knitted back together. She knew that just because something was chipped, it didn’t mean you should throw it away. It took patience, but she navigated her course back to the light.” This was such a gorgeous way of portraying Alice’s struggles! I love how much detailed you put in every single section of your application and I can’t wait to see how Alice fits in this universe! Your Face Claim change to Laura Harrier has been approved.

✦ Nic, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Gideon Prewett. “They think that war to him is just another game and that his brother and all of his restraint was the one keeping him in check — but when it was his brother that was lying in the mud there was no rampage or explosion or mad dog released from his leash, only unnerving stillness as he waited faithfully by Fabian’s bedside until he woke. Beneath the joke for every occasion, Gideon has always been a man of his convictions and in that moment Gideon experienced a fundamental change inside of him.” The moment I read this part of the application I was hooked. I can’t wait to see that change in Gideon and how he navigates through it. Great job! Your Face Claim change to Richard Madden has been approved.

✦ Nikki, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Andromeda Tonks. “Andromeda can’t say that she was always the rebellious child. She wasn’t. In fact for most of her life she was obedient, the perfect daughter. Never had she spoken up, debated, or acted in any way unbecoming of the Black name. For her, it was easier to behave and focus on her love for her sisters and family. It was easier to think that if she kept her head down nothing would affect her. That was probably why her being with Ted came as such a surprise, it was her first true act of rebellion and her greatest betrayal. Andromeda never regretted it.” I really liked this part of the application because it’s a nice twist to the usual interpretation of Andromeda. We don’t really know about her history that much, so it’s quite curious to think she was much like her sisters once and then changed to the point of leaving her family. Great job!

✦ Dana, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Dorcas Meadowes. “After Voldemort’s downfall, Dorcas considered for a time stepping away from the wizarding world and venturing into the muggle world instead. As a baker, it would have been easy to integrate herself into the muggle community, open another shop and begin a new life without the threat of those in the magical community hanging over her head in such a way again. As relative peace fell over the community for some time, Dorcas remained where she was, however, as recent events have transpired, it has come back into her mind once more of stepping away and wondering if she should have done so before it was too late.” I chose this headcanon to comment on because I thought it was very original and unique, and I wonder how these thoughts will develop once Dorcas gets more and more involved in the war. I can’t wait to see what happens! Your Face Claim change to Summer Bishil has been approved.

✦ Ryan, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Amycus Carrow. “There are no nightmares, there is no regret, there is no afterthought. Amycus doesn’t fall asleep every night tossing and turning over the lives he took, he doesn’t think back and feel any type of regret over what he did. He slaughtered people, he sliced them up, he butchered them, he tortured them to the point where he had them begging for death and he enjoyed every single minute of it. Killing people doesn’t bother him, hurting people doesn’t bother him, being a monster is second nature to him. Amycus isn’t a man with redeemable qualities. He’s a bastard that takes delight in being a bastard. Every terrible, sadistic, and monstrous thing he’s done or will do is because he enjoys it and because he is not a man that gives a damn about the people he destroys in his wake.” Why did I choose this part, you might wonder? Basically because I always have a soft spot for a good old villain, who’s evil just for the sake of being evil; and I thought that was a very brave choice to make when it comes to your interpretation of Amycus. I’m eager to see him in action! Your Face Claim change to Michael Trevino has been approved.

✦ Ash, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Evan Rosier. “She joins the likes of her cousins, seating herself at Narcissa’s side in the common room, wearing identical unimpressed expressions, rings of gold and silver weighing down their fingers. She looks across and draped along the leather couches are Mulciber, Rowle and the Carrows. It feels more like a reunion than anything else. Faces she’d seen and known from galas and dinner parties since she was a child are all her housemates now.Diamond tipped hair-pins hold her curls in place, the edges sharpened a point. It’s too often she contemplates ripping them out and driving them into the eyes of those around her. But that is part of her mask, too – she must continue to squash her volatile nature down, she must blend in seamlessly. She must charm and enchant, distract, conceal and evade. Evan must hide in plain sight – and she’s become good at it.” I adored this quote because I feel you portrayed Evan’s mask perfect and how she successfully hides her violent nature in order to fit in. Spot on! Excellent job! Your Face Claim change to Jasmine Sanders has been approved.

✦ Maggie, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Frank Longbottom. “He’s not here for glory, not here to be remembered or create his name for history. He wants to be a hand, do what he can. The Order and the war did have a part in his decision to try and be an Auror, even as it’s was so far doubted he wouldn’t make it through training. His brothers believing that he would grow sick at the sight of what he was meant to run into, classmates believing he may not be smart enough. And his amount of personal training, the amount of hours he spent studying through the hours of the night were never to prove them wrong or the idea that he was afraid of failure, it’s just how he works. Giving everything. And there was a war going to begin, so he gave everything. In canon, he was a “well-respected auror,” and did make a name for himself, but not for being the top of his class, but for honest hard work and care.” I mainly chose this quote because the idea of a hero with a tender heart - as you described earlier in your app - is extremely original, and it’s something I absolutely relate to Frank. I loved that approach, and I can’t wait to see him in action!

✦ Nell, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Marlene McKinnon. “Known by the big backyard where children would fly around and play all seasons, Quidditch has always been a big tradition in the family, making many of the family members pursue careers in that field. Warm tones, wooden details and a clean cut design decorate each and every room of the house, old cottage vibes coming from a place that has seen generations of families pass by. Marlene and her siblings lived there with their parents, Richard and Deidre, and their dog Dalek— named after Liam’s favorite show and probably one of the few muggle things Marlene sort of understands. She’d never had any plans of leaving, until the murder happened. When death eaters attacked their home that night of july of 1981, marlene fought her hardest to save everyone. “remember what moody trained you for, what the order taught you.” it wasn’t until she heard her sister scream as the body of their mother fell in front of her that she realized she couldn’t win.” I swear this was one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make in all my history as a roleplay admin. What I loved about your app (and the reason I chose that quote) is how much detail and originality you poured into Marlene’s history, her family life and how she felt when the worst happened. Amazing job! Your Face Claim change to Phoebe Tonkin has been approved.

Again; congratulations to all of you and thank you for showing an interest in this group! Now that you’re here, this is what you need to do next:

Follow EVERYONE

Track all of the tags (found HERE)

Make your character account send it in within 24 hours

Open up your askbox

If for any reason you need more time to get your account in, don’t hesitate to message me so I can keep your role open! If I don’t get a message from you then I will assume you’re no longer interested in keeping your spot. Once you send your account, you’ll be provided with the necessary links and we can get started! And of course; HAVE FUN!

#accepted

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heroesandvillainsofmbti · 7 years

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DS9 MBTI VIPs

DS9’s just bursting at the seams with memorable characters—the family, friends, and enemies that populate the corridors and make the station feel like a live, busy place. Not all of them spend enough time on board to provide material for a full profile, and most of them leave us just as they get interesting. So here’s a quick round up of some of the VIPs who have visited DS9, with my best guess as to their types.

(Note: I realized just I finished this post that all but two of these characters are dead by the end of the series. Well, two-and-a-half, depending on your perception of Opaka’s situation. DS9’s a nice place to live, but a dangerous place to visit.)

Tora Ziyal

It’s my theory that Ziyal actually changes type, because she was recast twice and reinvented just before her final arc.

Ziyal-A (Cyia Batten) is a young but tough girl who’s survived growing up in a prisoner-of-war camp, and finds herself in a weird limbo even after being rescued, thanks to her mixed heritage and the fact that her father is a monster. She’s guarded and naïve in equal measure, ready to fight but not quite steady on her feet. Kira sort of adopts her like a little sister, and I very much think she sees her younger self in Ziyal.

Ziyal-B (Tracy Middendorf) is roughly the same, observing Garak quietly from a distance before making the first move. She tells him she grew up alone and doesn’t need the company of another Cardassian, but he’s welcome to join her nonetheless.

Best guess for original Ziyal: ISFP

Ziyal-C is played by an older actress (Melanie Smith) to make her relationship with Garak less creepy (no dice), and she’s outgoing, chipper, and over-trusting. She’s a bit deluded about her father’s true nature, whereas original Ziyal understood but stuck by him because he was her only family bond. She shows great artistic talent (I really like Ziyal’s artwork, actually), but she leaves the art school on Bajor because she can sense that no one likes or accepts her. She really just wants her father and Kira to stop fighting and get along.

She is, by the writers’ own admission, an innocent puppy crafted specifically to gain the audience’s sympathy before they killed her off. A daughter-in-the-fridge, if you will.

Best guess for final Ziyal: Fe-dom, probably ENFJ

(I love original Ziyal to pieces. The actress was quiet yet intense. The next actress was okay, but was doing a weird accent. The third actress referred to her character in interviews as “Tora,” which sounds like no one explained how her character’s Bajoran name worked. She would have been fine in any other role, but lacked the interesting edge of Ziyal-A.)

Damar - ESTJ

Damar spends a lot of time in the background before rising to the occasion at the end of the saga. It’s one of DS9’s great magic tricks that he was cast early on with barely a line of dialogue in anticipation of a greater storyline down the road. Damar hangs back from the major action at first, acting moody and reserved because he’s drinking his conscience away—so I see inferior-Fi at work there.

Damar is otherwise a traditional family man and a loyal Cardassian, and once his family and his world are betrayed by their supposed allies, he puts down the bottle and leads a revolution. His leadership turns him into a legend almost overnight, but he does have a lot to learn from Kira about the new way they have to fight—rebel-style, not regular military. He eventually drives the Dominion off his planet, at the cost of his own life.Dominion off his planet, at the cost of his own life.

Bill Ross - ISTJ

Admiral Ross is a low-key, trusty old officer, one of the few higher-ups to break the “Every Admiral in Starfleet is a Crazy Person” trend. He does make a couple of dicey calls—helping a Section 31 operation and supporting the Romulans’ base near Bajor—but they’re all in service to his duty to the Federation.

Opaka - INFJ

I hate to go with the stereotype here, but Bajor’s great religious leader is a very obvious Ni-dom. The Kai sees everything though a spiritual lens, and bases her decisions on what she believes is her destiny—or Sisko’s. She makes a tough call for the greater good of the Bajoran people, sacrificing the life of her son in order to save many more, and she gives up her life on Bajor to help a planet of people she’s just met find peace.

(And I promise I’ll stop geeking out about the technically-non-canon post-TV novels, but her given name in them is Sulan, which I think is perfect and lovely.)

Bareil Antos - INFJ

Another spiritual stereotype, but it fits. Bareil takes a calm, spiritually-minded approach to life, and tries to help the anxious ISFP Kira calm down and see the bigger picture of her existence. Of course, he happily indulges in the sensual side of their relationship, too. He’s willing to take the fall for Opaka’s sacrifice of her son to avoid tarnishing her legendary reputation, and then he ends up sacrificing his own life by working himself to death helping Winn complete peace negotiations with the Cardassians.

Gowron - ESTP

The Chancellor of the Klingon Empire lives with a very damaged version of Se-dom. He’s more reactive than pro-active, constantly striking out at those that insult and threaten him (tertiary-Fe). He plunges his people into war based on a vaguely defined paranoia about Changelings (inferior-Ni), and seems to forget that Picard helped him gain his throne as soon as he has power, making up a whole new mythology about his ascent to leadership.

When Martok’s popularity starts to overshadow his own, Gowron takes over the fleet in the middle of the Dominion War and assigns Martok to dangerous missions in an effort to get him killed (tertiary-Fe again). He’s nowhere near the strategist or commander that Martok is (disorganized, damaged Ti-aux, probably not even in use since he’s most likely looping through his Extraverted functions), and the Klingons start losing badly.

Any parallels to real-life leadership are purely coincidental, but uncanny.

Gowron won’t acknowledge the reality of the situation, so Worf—who basically handed Gowron the throne many years ago by taking out his rival—takes Gowron down and hands the mantle to Martok.

Kurn – ESTP

Kurn is action-driven and wily, a hot-headed younger brother to the stoic Worf who’s nonetheless a strong commander in his own right. He boards the Enterprise under a pretense, provoking Worf until he’s sure he can reveal their family connection. The two brothers fight for their family’s honor, and Kurn reluctantly obeys Worf’s wishes to turn his back on him and pretend they’re not related in order to protect himself. Once they clear their father’s name and get to fight together, Kurn’s overjoyed and wishes they had been able to be brothers from the start.

He’s farsighted enough to see the dangers Gowron poses to the Empire, impetuous enough to want to kill him right away, but cautious enough to follow his older brother’s guidance and wait the situation out. Unfortunately, once Gowron dissolves their house, Kurn loses all hope for the future and tries to kill himself. Trying to start a new life under Starfleet/Bajoran military discipline does not suit him at all.

So (*ugh*) Worf wipes his memory and sends him off with a new family. Shortly before their house’s honor is restored again.

Sorry, Kurn. You put up a good fight.

Luther Sloane – INTJ

It’s hard to tell if the Sloane we meet in the Section 31 episodes is the real Luther Sloane, or some sort of crazy person who managed to put up an organized façade to carry out his nefarious schemes. Despite an arresting performance by William Sadler, he’s pretty much a standard INTJ villain, with plans worked out hundreds of steps in advance, with far-reaching objectives only he comprehends. His morality extends only to keeping the Federation safe and secure, by any means necessary.

Enabran Tain – INTJ

As the leader of the Obsidian Order, Tain’s another INTJ supervillain, but with mastermind chops that would have put Sloane to shame if they ever met. He sees the impending threat of the Dominion and comes out of retirement to put together a combined Cardassian-Romulan task force to pre-emptively strike at the Founders. He has a handful of old colleagues assassinated so that they won’t interfere, and is willing to kill Garak, too. He’ll never admit that Garak was his son, because a man like him can’t have that kind of emotional liability. When his secret task force is ambushed by an overwhelming Jem’Hadar fleet, Tain has a meltdown over his failure to foresee this outcome.

Vic Fontaine – ESFJ

He’s just an old-fashioned lounge singer, baby, with a hundred stories to tell about the glory days of Vegas. He’s always there with a listening ear and simple advice when someone walks in with a broken heart. Vic somehow understands that he’s a hologram, and transcends his programming to hop holosuites and manipulate Kira and Odo together in spite of themselves. He’s excited by the new, round-the-clock life Nog offers him, though it tires him out quite a bit. Raise a glass, and try to figure out how he exists as an actual human in the Mirror Universe.

Morn

He’s an Extravert, don’t you know? You can’t shut this guy up.

#MBTI #Star Trek: Deep Space Nine #Ziyal #Damar #Admiral Ross #Kai Opaka #Vedek Bareil #Gowron #Kurn #Luther Sloane #Enabran Tain #Vic Fontaine #Morn

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letdecemberburninflames · 7 years

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Top of Our Class

Chapter 8: Sixth Year

Fic Type: Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter Crossover, (half)Elf!Reader, Slytherin!Reader, Draco Malfoy x Reader

Warnings: Blaise being a asshole. Again.

Author’s Note: Chicks, listen up. My mum's a counselor, so I know what I am talking about here. If you are ever made to feel uncomfortable in any way, from a guy or a girl, tell someone. I don't care what threats they make. If you have to, run away. Call the police, whatever. Guys, same deal. If anyone is making you uncomfortable, go tell someone. Both guys and girls can be harassed or be a harasser. This is not a joke. You have been warned (tbh, it's not that bad as far as writing goes, I've read worse)

You were on the train, this year it was official, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back. You hadn't spoken to Draco all summer, and for the first time in a while, he didn't appear in your compartment. As you sat working on a last-minute Runes translation, suddenly the door to your compartment slides open, and in walks none other than Blaise Zabini. You hadn't really gotten along since the incident but you still regained a mutual classmate relationship.

You look up from your work, "Yes?" you say with unease, something wasn't right.

Blaise says nothing as he pulls the door shut, and then walks over to you.

You stand up; sliding our hand into your back pocket for your wand, then before you can even cast a spell he mutters, "Expelliarmus."

Your wand flies out of your hands and into his. Blaise advances on you pulling you close to him and putting his hand on your waist, you can feel the tip of his wand pressing into your side, warning you not to try anything. No, please not again, you think. He forces you down on the seat, you comply, but only because you have no choice. He presses you up against the compartment window, and starts to unbutton your shirt. You writhe and twist, trying to get free, but he only presses you harder.

"No Draco here to save you now, eh?" He laughs, sliding his thumbs under the waistband of your jeans, sending a shudder through your body.

If there was nothing else you hated, it was being powerless to him. He is on top of you, sliding his hands up under your shirt, his thumbs just grazing the sides of your breasts. He leans closer and kisses you. It was nothing like when Draco had kissed you, this was forced and cruel. Zabini laughs as he runs his fingers across the material of your bra.

"Black lace, my favorite." He kisses down your neck, his saliva warm against your skin.

There was no passion, only a hungry lust. You're scared to death of what he was going to do to you, and tears fill your eyes. How could he do this? He slips the straps off your shoulders, and you squirm as his hands move down your body to the waistline of your jeans, licking the edge between your skin and underwear. He begins to slip your jeans off you inch by inch, his hands and tongue and fingertips roaming your legs as he went. You can't help it. You scream and Blaise hits you hard across the face.

"Shut up, slut!" He snarls.

In less than a minute the compartment door slams open and Draco storms in. He takes in the scene, Zabini pinning you to against the window, your half-dressed body heaving, and the tears in your eyes.

"What do you think you're doing, Blaise?" Malfoy strides into your compartment and pulls Zabini off you. "I have half a mind to tell Snape about this!" He ignores you as you sit up and begin to pull your clothes back on, still shaking. Blaise glares at him.

"You couldn't keep me away from her forever, Malfoy."

"I didn't care when you were messing around with that Gryffindor slut and that Ravenclaw, but when you try to rape a Slytherin, you've gone too far. The Serpents are family. You mess with family and you will live to regret it."

With that Blaise throws your wand at your feet with a glare, then turns and leaves. Malfoy follows him, without even a glance at you.

You pick up your scattered Runes translations from the floor and resume your homework only to be interrupted ten minutes later by a second year Slytherin. "What do you want?" you snap at her, tired of being interrupted.

"Um, Professor Slughorn said for me to give this to you!" she squeaked, handing you a scroll tied with a purple ribbon.

"Thanks." You say, taking the note and the second year scampered out of the compartment. The note is an invitation asking you to join him for lunch. So at 12:00 you head to Slughorn's compartment. As soon as you see Blaise however, you leave right away, not caring what the Slug had to say if he also wanted to say it to him. You head back to your compartment, and on the way there buy some Pumpkin Juice and Cauldron Cakes to eat while you're working on your Runes.

When you arrived at school you tried to talk to Draco, but he was ignoring you on purpose. You ate little at the Great Feast, tired and still a little bit confused about the events of the day.

You went to your classes as usual, though in addition to Potions your favorite class was also Ancient Studies. You found the ancient wizards fascinating with the curses they laid on tombs, the hieroglyphs, and ancient architecture. Malfoy was missing a lot of classes and still refused to talk to you, you were getting a little worried about him. Mary Beth had left the school for the year to go to America with her parents, older brother, and younger sister. But Molly and Emma were still there of course. You three often met under the tree by the Lake to do homework and chat. Emma was studying to be a Quidditch team manager, while Molly was training to become a Healer. You kind of thought that it would be cool to teach at Hogwarts, but you really wanted to go study ancient wizardry. They were so interesting, and your mother used to tell you stories from the ancient mythology. You had loved the stories, but now you found the history even more interesting.

---

It was now the end of the first semester of school. You were on your way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, one of your more favored classes. You had last night finished an essay that Professor Snape had assigned on Inferi, it had taken you most of the night. You were passing by the bathrooms when you heard a girl's voice coming from the boys' bathroom. You made sure the hallway was empty before casting an disillusionment charm on yourself, then you slipped silently through the doorway into the bathroom. The voice had obviously belonged to Moaning Myrtle, you had recognized her whiny voice at once, but what she was doing in the boys' bathroom, you had no idea. You nearly jumped out of your skin when Malfoy's voice echoed through the chamber; he was supposed to be in class.

"How could I have been so stupid?" He was standing over by the sinks, shaking his head while Moaning Myrtle was perched on a sink nearby.

"Don't cry, it wasn't your fault."

He shook his head again. "He knows. He'll kill her if I fail, I know he will."

Myrtle places a ghostly hand on his shoulder. "It will be all right, you'll find a way."

"No it won't. She, she doesn't deserve this." A sob escapes his pale lips, "I shouldn't care if she gets hurt, but I do."

Myrtle shook her head sympathetically, but simpered behind his back. "Well she is an Auror's daughter, it's scandalous!"

At those words you backed up so quickly that you knocked over a basin that went clattering to the floor. Malfoy had been glaring pitchforks at Myrtle before whipping around at the sound of the basin hitting the floor, but you were already gone. You were pretty sure that you were the only girl whose father was an Auror in all of Hogwarts, but what did he mean by 'he knows, he'll kill her'? You spent the rest of the time before you're next class in the common room, pondering what he meant.

---

Horace Slughorn was the new Potions master, and you didn't like him nearly as much as Snape. Today you were making Amortentia, one of the strongest love potions in existence. It supposedly smelled like something that you had a fondness for. You of course had no problem concocting this particular draught; it had beautiful Mother-of-Pearl like sheen and spirals of steam coiled off the surface. You bent forward over your cauldron and took a deep whiff. It smelled like the ocean air that always met your nose when you came home, sugar cookies baking, and..... You frown and take another sniff of the potion's fumes. Yes, sandalwood, spruce, vanilla, and a hint of peppermint. You try to pinpoint where you had smelled that before, and then you remembered fourth year. When Draco had come up to ask you to the Yule Ball he had smelled exactly like that. You glance across the classroom where Draco stood over his cauldron. He looked rather distracted and nervous, not really paying any close attention to his work at all. This was completely out of character for him; he normally excelled at Potions as much as you did.

---

You were getting fed up with Draco refusing to talk to you, so the next morning you slipped a note into his hand after breakfast, asking him to meet you at the Lake during lunch. You waited at the Lake all of lunch, and even for a few minutes when class started, waiting for him to turn up. But he didn't. A week after, you cornered him in an empty hallway while he was making his way up to, you can only presume, the Room of Requirement.

"Draco!" You called, and thankfully, he actually stopped this time.

"What Y/N?" He asked impatiently, as if he had somewhere to be.

"Why are you ignoring me? You stood me up at the Lake last week!" You exclaimed exasperatedly.

"Look," he answered. "Just stop bothering me." He began to walk away.

"Don't you dare walk away from me!" You shouted, grabbing his shoulder. He turned around, as quick as lightening, and pushed you into the wall, pinning your hands on either side of you, so you were unable to reach for your wand.

"I'm doing this for your own safety," he whispered, and in that moment you could see the real Draco again, but it was gone again in a split second.

In a moment of impulse you pushed his sleeve up desperately, and there, burning on his arm, was the Dark Mark.

He scowled, and pushed you against the wall harder, eyes blazing a cold hard grey. "If you know what is good for you, you'll forget you ever saw that."

You just stared up at him, too scared to say anything as tears sparkled in your eyes, threatening to fall at any second.

When he saw how he was frightening you his eyes softened a bit, and his grip on your wrists loosened slightly. "I'm sorry." And he walked away, leaving you dazed in the hall.

"Draco, wait." He turned around to face you. "What?" "Just don't worry too much. It will all turn out in the end." He turned and walked away. Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater.

---

Despite not being on good terms with Draco after you had seen his Dark Mark, you still rushed to the hospital wing after you heard what Harry had done to him. Madame Pomfrey had patched him up wonderfully; you often wondered why she remained at Hogwarts. She didn't leave anybody in except you, because you weren't the average Slytherin. You sat by an unconscious Draco, just watching over him, and when it was time to leave, you stayed that little bit longer. When you eventually decided that you must leave, a pale, thin hand darted out and held your wrist, making you stay.

"Thank you," you heard Draco breathe. "For being such a good friend, but I beg of you too stay away from me. You made me feel like I was wanted, and not in the way Pansy 'wanted' me. I don't want you hurt. I don't want to lose you." He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. You've already lost me, you think with a pang of sadness. He slipped something into your hand, then let go of your wrist. You bent down and kissed Draco's cheek.

"Take care of yourself." You whispered back, and you leave Draco's side for good. After you left and got back to the common room you slowly unfurled your fingers, revealing a silver locket with an engraved snake coiling around a tiny emerald in the center. You sit down slowly, never taking your eyes off the necklace. You start to cry, wondering how everything got so twisted and wrong.

#ahhh the feels!#poor draco #draco malfoy x reader

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southsidestory · 7 years

Text

blind but for blue

Rating: Teen

Warnings: suicide, minor character death

Part 1 of the Day After Forever series

I believe there is penance in yearning.

There is poverty in giving too much of your heart.

{1929 — 1931}

Steve’s mother likes to say he’s a miracle. Most babies born fourteen weeks early don’t survive, and she thinks it’s some kind of gift from the Lord that he lived.

Steve doesn’t feel like much of a miracle. He’s been half-deaf, crooked-backed, anemic, and asthmatic all his life. When he was seven, a nasty bout of strep throat turned into scarlet fever, then rheumatic fever. Thanks to that run of luck, he now enjoys a weak heart. And on top of everything else, he’s color blind.

By eight, Steve stops praying to get better. He isn’t like other children, who recover from colds in a matter of days. There’s no cure around the corner, no medicine that will transform him into a healthy boy. He’s sick and in pain, and he’ll stay that way for the rest of his life.

By eleven, Steve understands that he’ll die young. He overhears Doc Wallace telling Ma that he might make it to thirty, but only with God’s grace. Math isn’t his strong suit, but Bucky helped him pass the test on fractions, and all Steve can think is that a third of his life is already gone.

There are so many things he wants to do, wants to be, but somewhere there’s a clock counting down, numbering his days. There’s too little time, Steve knows. Whatever he was meant to become, he won’t live long enough to find out what it is.

“James Buchanan Barnes, get your tail in here right now, young man!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he leans out the open door of Steve’s apartment and yells across the hallway. “What is it, Ma?”

Steve peeks out too, curious about all the fuss, because it isn’t like Winnie to shout in a public space like that.

She points a finger at Bucky and says, “You know very well what it is. Unless you expect me to believe that a fairy took my daughter and left a hairless changeling in her place.”

“She ain’t totally hairless,” Bucky says, smiling his innocent smile (the one that means he’s been up to no good). “I just gave her a trim while she was sleeping.”

Steve stifles a laugh. Much as she loves him, Winnie already thinks he’s a bad influence on Bucky, and he doesn’t want to give her anymore fuel for that fire—mostly because she’s right.

Bucky bites his lip, and Steve notices that it looks swollen and a little darker. Reddened, probably—not that he can see red, but he knows it’s the color of blood and maple leaves and Snow White’s mouth.

Bucky leans toward Steve’s left ear (because his hearing is better there than in his right) and says, “I oughta go. Face the music and all.”

Steve shakes his head. Even when he’s knee-deep in mischief, Bucky somehow manages to charm his way out of trouble. “Good luck, pal.”

Bucky smirks, salutes him, and runs down the hall to manage his mother’s wrath.

Then Steve is alone, and even though his coldwater apartment is small, he suddenly feels surrounded by too much space.

He’s fresh out of clean paper, so he digs one of his lazier sketches out of the box under his bed and uses the blank back for something new. Ma hates it when he sits on the fire escape; it’s too old and rusty to trust, she says. But his mother isn’t here, so Steve takes his art supplies outside and draws the part of Red Hook that he can see from this perch. It’s a landscape he’s sketched a hundred times, but each version is different, a unique moment captured on paper.

He wonders how it might keep changing over the next ten, twenty, thirty years, and if he’ll be around to see any of it.

Steve’s ma and Bucky’s get on like a house on fire. It’s no surprise that they became fast friends, two Irish women living on the same floor of a falling-down Brooklyn tenement, with husbands off fighting in the war to end all wars. Neither of them really came back: Steve’s father was returned to his pregnant wife in a coffin, and Bucky’s dad lost something of himself overseas.

Or, as Bucky puts it, “He left all his gumption in Europe.”

It’s not a nice way for Bucky to talk about his father, but Steve knows that he isn’t exactly wrong. Even on good days, George Barnes flinches at loud noises and seems to miss half of what folks say to him. On bad days, he can’t even get out of bed.

Steve knows these things, because the Barnes’s apartment door stays open to him, just like his door stays open to Bucky’s family. Somehow, over the years, their two homes have fused into one, and there’s little room for secrets between them.

Tonight, he and Bucky are sleeping on the floor of the Barnes’s living room. Bucky made a nest for them out of couch cushions, crocheted blankets, and pillows he stole from his sisters’ room. It’s warm, surprisingly plush for a makeshift bed, and it smells like Bucky.

Steve is eleven, Bucky twelve, and they’ve been told often enough that they’re getting too old for this: sleeping side by side, sharing space like the brothers they’re not. Neither his mother nor Bucky’s has outright banned this bad habit, but Steve thinks that’s only because they still expect their sons to grow out of it. That’s exactly what Bucky might do, and it scares Steve, because he’s sure he could happily sleep like this every night for the rest of his life.

“Stevie? You still awake?”

Bucky’s voice sounds too hushed, even for a whisper in the middle of the night, and Steve can barely understand him.

“Yeah, but I can’t hear you so well.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. He scoots closer, until Steve can feel warm breath against his cheek.

“What do you got to say that’s more important than sleeping?” Steve asks.

Bucky pokes him in the ribs. “Nothing, really, but my mind’s all over the place. And it’s not like beauty rest could do your ugly mug any good.”

Steve smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. “I can’t help it if you got all the looks and I got all the brains.”

“Real funny,” Bucky says. “Got ourselves a regular comedian here.”

He knows Bucky’s most ticklish spots: the taut muscles above his knees and the soft belly that he’s self-conscious about. Last summer, Mary Katherine poked the puppy-fat that lingers around Bucky’s waist and oinked. He’s been sensitive about being touched there ever since, but he still lets Steve tickle him, burying his face in the couch cushions to muffle his laughter.

Then Bucky pulls Steve into a headlock and ruffles his hair. It annoys him, the way Bucky’s manhandling always does, but tonight something about it feels good too. A fluttering thrill in his stomach that makes him shiver. So Steve kicks and struggles, tries to tear himself away. It’s no use, of course; he’s too weak to break free from Bucky.

“Quit it,” Steve hisses, and Bucky finally lets go of him.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t be sore at me. I was just kidding around.”

Steve turns away, giving his back and his bad ear to Bucky. Even if he says anything else, Steve probably won’t be able to hear it.

He and Bucky don’t last one day as altar boys. Father McMullen puts Steve in charge of holding a thurible full of burning incense, and when he starts sneezing in front of the whole congregation, Bucky cracks up laughing. Then Steve starts laughing too, so hard that his belly aches and he has to double over. It’s hilarious until his mother drags the two of them out of church by their ears, calling them heathens. It probably doesn’t help their show of remorse that her threats of eternal damnation only send them both into another fit of snorts and giggles.

Later that night, when Bucky sneaks into Steve’s room, he says, “If laughing sends you to hell, then I don’t think I’d want to go somewhere as boring as heaven.”

Steve would like to agree, but now all he can think about is the afterlife that looms closer with every fever that burns through him. Maybe he ought to behave better in church, and stop battering Sister Bethany with unanswerable questions about God’s goodness in such an unfair world. Just in case.

“Heaven sounds pretty nice to me,” Steve says. “Besides, it’s the only chance I’d get to meet my dad. Wouldn’t want to miss that, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “S’pose not.”

Steve squints, trying to bring Bucky’s face into better focus, but it’s impossible to make out fine details in the dark.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

Bucky pulls away, turns onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling.

“Sometimes I wish my father was… gone,” he whispers. “He doesn’t want to be alive anyway. I’ve heard him say so before, when he thought I wasn’t listening. The girls are afraid to talk to him, because sometimes he hits us when he forgets where he is. Not on purpose, but it still doesn’t feel too good. And it hurts Ma to see him so sad all the time.”

It hurts you too, Steve wants to say, but he doesn’t think Bucky would appreciate hearing that right now.

Instead, he snuggles up to Bucky’s side and says, “It doesn’t make you a bad person to think that. It’s gotta be hard, watching somebody you love fall apart.”

The next day, they pretend they never talked about it, and report to Father McMullen for their punishment.

He tasks Bucky with scrubbing the cathedral floors every Saturday for a month. Steve insists on receiving equal punishment, since he was just as disruptive as Bucky, but Father McMullen refuses.

“Steven, you have a crooked spine, nervous lungs, and a damaged heart. Scrubbing the floor would be far more painful for you than it is for James, and there’s nothing equal about that,” says Father McMullen.

All Steve hears is that he’s too frail to do anything, and he knows that isn’t true. His body might be fragile, but he’s got enough will to make up for it.

He says as much to Bucky as soon as they step out of the church. Bucky looks at him like he’s an idiot and cuffs him on the ear, not quite light enough to be gentle.

“Hardheaded, that’s what you are, but all the stubbornness in the world won’t cure you,” Bucky says. “Pushing yourself too hard only makes you sicker. You’ve got to accept that someday, Steve. If you don’t, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

So what? Steve thinks. His unreliable body will do the job soon enough anyway.

He pushes Bucky’s chest. “Everybody else thinks I can’t take care of myself. You don’t need to say it too.”

Steve leaves before Bucky can answer. They don’t talk for days, but by Mass the following week they sit next to each other in the pews, biting back laughter every time their eyes meet.

Even though Steve stays in Father McMullen’s bad books more often than not, he loves going to Mass. Maybe it’s the artistic instinct that he can’t seem to shake, no matter how many bullies beat him up for girlishness, but Steve is awed by the beauty of the church.

The ceiling looms high overhead, dwarfing the people inside, and it reminds Steve that things greater than himself exist. He finds the strangest measure of peace in feeling small before God; in this way, he’s just like everyone else.

The rose window is his favorite part of the cathedral. On sunny days, it shines like a blossoming sun, too bright to look at directly. He’s heard that the window is even more impressive if you can see its rainbow reflections, but Steve can’t picture it. Heaven is easier to imagine than a life in full color.

Believing gives Steve the kind of purpose and comfort that he needs to get through bad days. When he’s bedridden, too faint to stand and strangling on his own breath, he tries to remember that he’s not alone. It helps, if only a little.

A funny thing about the Barnes family is that they’re half Catholic and half Jewish. Neither Winnie nor George was willing to give up their own faith when it came to raising their children, so they worked it out that Bucky and his sisters would be both.

Bucky whines about having to go to temple on Saturdays and church on Sundays, but Steve can tell that it’s an empty sort of protest. If Bucky really hated it, he’d stay at home, and God Himself couldn’t change his mind.

Yom Kippur falls on October 14th, and Bucky spends most of the day hiding out in Steve’s room, complaining about his empty stomach.

“I don’t see how starving myself for a day is supposed to get me closer to God,” Bucky says. He sounds grumpy in the particular way that only his hunger brings out.

“Well it’s the Day of Atonement, isn’t it?” Steve asks. “That’s what your Dad said. Sounds like a little penance would make sense.”

Bucky throws himself across Steve’s narrow bed, unbuttons his shirt, and kicks off his shoes. “My father won’t open his mouth to say ‘boo’ three hundred sixty-four days out of the year, but on Yom Kippur he turns into a school marm. ‘You can’t wash today, James. You can’t wear those shoes, James. You can’t eat a goddamn cracker, James.’”

Bucky has been throwing around ‘goddamn’ all day, and Steve figures it’s some kind of secret rebellion, since he hasn’t yet worked up the courage to say it in front of his parents.

“It’s pretty important to him, I guess,” Steve says.

He sits on the edge of his bed, unlaces his shoes, and swats Bucky’s calf. “Make some room for me on my own bed, James.”

Bucky lets out a long-suffering groan and kicks Steve in the ribs—softly, of course, because he wouldn’t dare risk hurting him for real. Steve wishes, that just once, he could convince Bucky not to handle him with kid gloves.

“Shit on a shingle, can you not do that?” Bucky asks. “It’s so weird when you call me James.”

“Why? It’s what everyone else calls you,” Steve says.

Bucky kicks him again, even gentler this time. Then he drapes his feet across Steve’s lap and says, “Yeah, well, you’re not everyone else, now are you?”

Steve’s cheeks grow warm. Even though Bucky said that blithely, like it doesn’t mean anything special, it means a lot to him.

“Put your stinky feet somewhere else. I’m not your footstool,” Steve says.

His voice cracks on the last syllable, like it’s been doing lately when he’s nervous. Because Bucky is a jackass, he laughs. Steve wants to tell him to shut up, but he’s afraid his voice will break on the anger that’s burning in his chest, welling up in his throat.

Bucky’s voice seemed to drop an octave overnight, skipping right over the wavering pitch that’s been humiliating Steve for the last three months. A small, petty part of him resents Bucky for that—and so much else: his strong body and handsome face; how he picks up new skills like he learned them in a past life, so quickly that it’s almost eerie; the way he always manages to sail his way out of trouble, charming everyone from classmates to nuns with nothing but an endearing smile. It all comes so easily to Bucky, while Steve works twice as hard only to be overlooked, bullied, and mocked.

It might be hard not to hate Bucky if Steve didn’t love him so much.

They lie in bed, halfway dozing under the shine of sunlight too sharp for autumn. By the time the day wanes into dusk, Bucky has fallen into a catnap. Steve feels him shifting against his side, sleepily searching for a comfortable spot—and then Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s waist.

They’ve slept alongside each other for years, a practice his mother started them on as babies. According to Winnie, Steve wailed like a banshee whenever he slept anywhere besides Bucky’s bed. Ma says they worried at first, because Steve was a fragile baby, underweight and already plighted by a cocktail of ailments. Bucky was sixteen months older than Steve, and like most toddlers, he had a tendency to grab things too forcefully. But by all accounts, Bucky behaved like an angel with Steve by his side. Never held him too tightly or played with him too roughly, not even once.

Steve has spent a whole lifetime sharing beds with Bucky, but it’s never been quite like this. That fluttering feeling has settled in his stomach again, and somehow it makes him nervous and happy at once.

Without giving it much thought, Steve leans back, settling his body more closely to the curve of Bucky’s: head nestled against the slope where shoulder meets throat, back aligned to Bucky’s chest, their legs tangled together. They’re pressed close, every inch of Steve cuddled up to Bucky, and he feels so safe and peaceful, caught in a warm embrace.

He’s almost asleep when he feels Bucky startle awake. There’s a moment when they’re both frozen, still entwined—and then Bucky cusses, jerks away, and says, “Eww,” in the same way he does when he smells something gross.

Steve doesn’t dare say anything, because if he opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what kind of wounded noise will come out.

Bucky scrambles off the bed, shuddering like there’s a bug under his shirt, and says, “If you ever tell anybody that happened, I’ll skin you alive and make a jacket out of the leather.”

Bucky laughs when he says it, but Steve can tell he’s serious about wanting to keep this quiet.

He’s known Bucky too long not to recognize the disgust in his expression. Steve can’t bear to look him in the eye right now, because his whole body feels heavy, weighed down by shame.

It’s too messy to parse out and make sense of, so Steve pulls his shoes on and says, “We better get back to your place before our mothers come looking for us.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Don’t want to miss the honey cakes.”

Steve does his best not to think about the way he cuddled close to Bucky, seeking out something he’d rather not acknowledge. It’s a hard memory to lock away, but not as difficult to forget as the look of revulsion on Bucky’s face when he woke up and found himself entangled with Steve.

A perfect distraction presents itself on October 29th, but it’s not nearly worth the trouble it brings.

The stock market crashes two weeks after Yom Kippur. The papers print nothing else, and it’s all their parents talk about. Steve doesn’t understand how one bad day on Wall Street could be such a disaster for everyone, but hard times answer that question quick enough.

Shanty towns pop up all over New York, tiny cities within the city, where homeless folks sleep in scrap metal shacks. Most people call them Hoovervilles, after the president, but Steve doesn’t see how that’s very fair, since Herbert Hoover didn’t crash the stock market. He watches grown men stand in line at soup kitchens, waiting for a free meal. By his twelfth birthday, Steve, his mother, and the whole Barnes family are standing in those lines too.

Ma keeps working at Kings County Hospital, even though most of the nurses got fired. Doc Wallace says she only held onto her position because she’s the best nurse they’ve got. Her pay gets cut, though, and when Steve outgrows his old back brace, she cries because she can’t afford a new one for him.

Winnie loses her job at the textile factory. She starts waitressing at the kind of bar decent women shouldn’t even see the inside of, and spends her days cleaning houses for all the rich ladies in Brooklyn Heights. George searches for work, but there aren’t many jobs for a man with no skills beyond trench warfare, and besides, he’s too anxious to last more than a month anywhere.

Bucky drops out of school in the spring, two weeks before he turns fourteen, so that he can take a construction job for the WPA. The classroom feels empty without Bucky sitting at the desk to his left, the lessons slow and boring. They barely see each other these days, because Bucky spends most of his free time taking care of his sisters.

“Dad needs to get off his ass and work,” Bucky says. “Ma is just about killing herself raising the girls, keeping house, and cleaning for half of Brooklyn Heights. I’m busting my butt too, building stupid sidewalks that nobody needs. We shouldn’t have to do all that while he sleeps day and night.”

Steve knows it’s not his business, but George is a kind, quiet fella, and it’s not fair to blame him for being sick. “Your dad can’t help that he’s shell-shocked, Bucky.”

“What do you know about it?” Bucky snaps. “I’m gonna be a damn idiot reading kids’ books for the rest of my life, thanks to his useless ass.”

Steve ducks his head, because Bucky is right that he can’t understand. Ma insists that he has to stay in school, and even if she changed her mind, nobody would hire an eighty-pound asthmatic with a bent back and heart trouble. Steve’s broken body keeps protecting him from the challenges other people have to face, and he hates that even more than the pain it causes him.

Still, he worries about George. Steve knows what it’s like to be so sick that you burden your family. He wonders if Bucky thinks he’s lazy too, but he can’t bring himself to ask.

Six months after Bucky takes the WPA job, George stops being useless; he puts a gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger while his family is at church.

Steve missed Mass because he’s still recovering from a cold, so he’s the one who hears the gunshot. He hurries over to the Barnes’s apartment, heart beating an erratic rhythm in his chest.

He finds George in the bathroom, a grey (red) stain splattered across the wall behind his head. Steve has the stupid, passing thought that it almost looks like a paint-speckled canvas that he once saw at the MET.

Then he closes George’s eyes—pale, heavy-lidded, shaped exactly like Bucky’s—and takes three deep puffs from his inhaler until the threat of an asthma attack passes.

Mrs. Copeland, his downstairs neighbor, finds him in the bathroom. She screams so loud that it hurts even Steve’s ears, then covers her mouth with the back of her hand and makes a choking sound. Maybe she’s trying not to throw up.

Steve wonders, in a vague, distant sort of way, why he isn’t screaming or puking. Boys aren’t supposed to cry, but he knows—knew—George, grew up down the hall from the Barnes family. So shouldn’t he feel something?

Mrs. Copeland takes a few deep breaths, wipes at her nose, and says, “You shouldn’t have to look at this, Steven. Come with me, and I’ll call the police.”

Steve shakes his head. “Bucky told me that Jewish folks don’t leave their dead alone. I think it might be real disrespectful to run off with him like this.”

Shmira, Steve remembers. He thinks it means watching.

“Then let me get Mr. Hoffman to keep watch,” says Mrs. Copeland.

“No, I should stay,” Steve says. “I knew George better than anybody besides his family. But it’d help a lot it if you’d go to our church and tell Winnie what happened.”

He can’t stand the thought of her walking in on this sight, much less Bucky or the girls.

Mrs. Copeland frowns, but it’s sympathetic and soft around the edges. “Of course I will. And I’ll send up Mr. Hoffman to help watch over George with you.”

“Thanks,” Steve says.

After Mrs. Copeland leaves, he takes George’s hand. It’s growing cooler by the moment. Mr. Hoffman joins him in keeping a vigil over the body, but he doesn’t speak. He simply stands aside and lets Steve say goodbye.

When he touches George’s chest, it’s warm. As if the space around his heart hasn’t yet caught up to the coldness that’s settling in everywhere else, and Steve realizes that death doesn’t happen all at once. It creeps over a body, shutting down each part, piece by piece, until life leaks out entirely.

He thinks of all the times that George sat in a corner chair, staring off into a distance that no one else could see, a look of pure yearning on his face. Like he’d glimpsed some peaceful paradise, but it was too far away to reach.

Maybe he’s found it now. Steve hopes so.

George left four letters on the kitchen table: for Steve and his mother, Winnie, the girls, and Bucky. Steve can see from the thickness of the envelopes that the letter to Bucky is by far the longest, and he wonders what George had to say to the son he always disappointed.

A police officer and the Barnes’s rabbi take his body to the synagogue for preparation. Steve and his mother stay up all night, mourning with their neighbors—their family in all but blood.

Winnie holds Miriam and Delilah close, while Steve’s mother cradles little Rebecca, who isn’t yet old enough to understand what’s happening.

Bucky has been sitting on the floor, elbows propped on his knees, staring straight ahead, for the better part of the last three hours. All day, he’s refused to comfort his sisters, let his mother hold him, or talk to anyone. When Steve tried to touch his shoulder, he flinched and told him to go away.

After Winnie puts the girls to bed, she walks over to Bucky and says, “You can’t sit there all night, James.”

“Watch me.” His voice sounds flat and unfeeling, so colorless that it barely sounds like Bucky.

Winnie squeezes her eyes shut tight, like she’s trying to stave off more tears.

Steve wants to shake Bucky. It’s not fair, he knows, because Bucky just lost his father, and however he feels right now should be respected. But it’s hard to watch him hurt his his mother when she’s already suffering so much.

Winnie turns away. She probably doesn’t want Bucky to see her crying again, but it doesn’t matter. He isn’t even looking in her direction.

Steve’s mother sets her hand on Winnie’s shoulder and whispers, “Let him be, Win. You need to rest, and James wants to be alone right now.”

Bucky is still sitting on the floor with a terrifyingly blank expression on his face when Ma pulls Steve back to their own apartment. For once, the doors of their respective homes stay shut, and he wishes it was enough to keep the Barnes’s grief from seeping across the hall.

Ma kisses him on the forehead as he climbs into bed. “You were so strong today, Steve. You stayed with George all that time, just to make sure his faith was honored, and I haven’t seen anything so brave since your father enlisted.”

Steve grabs her hand and squeezes tight. “It was awful,” he says.

Ma pulls him into her arms, rocking him like he’s a baby still, instead of a boy almost grown. “It’s all right, love. Let it out.”

Steve clings to his mother, hanging on so that he can keep himself together. There’s an ache in his chest, choking him, and it feels like he’s crying even though the tears won’t come.

It’s selfish, but now all Steve can think about is that it will be him someday. He’s going to die trapped in this body that has always felt like a cage, and his mother will probably be the one to find him. She’ll have to feel the heat leech out of his hands, watch cold death crawl from his fingertips to his heart.

“I don’t want to die,” he says.

Ma shakes him, and she sounds sharper than he’s ever heard her when she says, “Listen to me, Steven Grant Rogers. You have too much good in you for it be meaningless. Too much good for you to die young.”

Steve nods against his mother’s shoulder. He wishes that he could believe her, but it’s hard to accept after what he saw today. Sometimes loss is just loss, and there’s no rhyme or reason to it.

Dawn light steals through Steve’s window and slinks across the floor. He lies awake, every part of him sore from a sleepless night, watching wan sunlight cut through the shadows of his room.

Ma peeks in to smile at him and say that she’s heading to work. “There’s chicken noodle soup on the stove. Please try to eat some, all right?”

Steve nods, even though his appetite, usually delicate, has disappeared entirely.

He’s still wide awake an hour later when he hears the front door open. He wonders if it might be Rebecca, who’s developing the habit of toddling across the hall to cling to Steve’s mother when she’s scared.

But no, Rebecca’s little feet wouldn’t step so heavily, and Steve knows every detail that makes up Bucky Barnes, right down to the sound of his footsteps.

“Buck? Are you okay?”

Bucky rushes to the bed and burrows beneath the thin blanket, yanking Steve close. It shortens his breath, being held onto so desperately, but Steve doesn’t mind. That blank expression has been wiped off of Bucky’s face, and it’s a relief to feel him reaching out for connection. Choosing Steve as his anchor.

He runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. It’s dirty, strong with his boyish scent, and strangely pleasant to touch.

“I hate him,” Bucky says. “I know it’s not fair, but it’s the truth.”

Steve tightens his arms around Bucky’s back, embracing him with all the strength he has.

“He was a goddamn coward,” Bucky says. A broken pitch roughens his voice, and he tucks his face against Steve’s chest, burying his tears. “He should’ve fought to get better. He should’ve fought for us.”

There’s nothing Steve can say to fix this, no platitudes he can offer for the sake of giving comfort. Not without lying, and Bucky despises lies above everything else.

So Steve holds on with all he’s got. He swears that he won’t let anything hurt Bucky this badly ever again. He’ll walk through fire to keep him safe, tear down the whole wide world if he has to.

“You’re gonna make it through this,” Steve says. “I’ve got you.”

It hits him, while he watches Bucky sleep: what the painful joy in his chest is, what the hot shiver in his stomach means. Steve is heartsick, so hungry to belong to Bucky that he can barely breathe without him.

And it makes perfect sense, that his devotion could grow in a new direction, because the distance from one kind of love to another isn’t all that far.

Bucky stirs and stretches, blinks his sleepy eyes. They’re vivid, beautiful, and in an ocean of dull grey, startlingly blue—the only color that Steve has ever been able to see.

Notes: Many thanks to @xxlovendreamsxx for all her help as a beta! You’re the absolute best, dear.

I had too much fun writing this story. It gave me an excuse to research the Great Depression, 1930s New York, and the treatment of WWI veterans upon their return home. And, of course, writing teenage Steve falling for Bucky was pretty sweet too! ;)

This fic is the first of four interconnected one-shots. The next piece, “a perfect soldier,” takes place during WWII, and it will be from Bucky’s point-of-view.

The quote at the beginning is by Lang Leav.

#stucky #stucky fanfiction #stucky fic #captain america fanfiction #captain america fic #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stevebucky #mcu fanfiction #suicide #minor character death #PTSD #ableism #my fanfiction #blind but for blue

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