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wordsinhaled · 2 years

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all the business of living – a Hob Gadling playlist

i. max richter // old song ii. phildel // funeral bell iii. house phone // drinking song iv. the amazing devil // blossoms v. mirah // bones & skin vi. david wirsig // black eyes vii. the oh hellos // cold viii. the jane austen argument // maintain the madness ix. david keenan // flow illumination x. tunng // eating the dead xi. max richter // the departure

notes – I like to imagine this playlist as songs Hob might hear that would speak to him – and speak to the ways Hob might examine and grapple with and understand himself through music – as an immortal person who has already lived a very, very, very long time, and made many grave mistakes that have never left him and which he refuses to forget I'm fascinated by the fact that Hob, today, is this deeply kind, loving, giving person – but where did this kindness and love grow from and what is their shadow side? I think his growth doesn't come without being fiercely committed to nurturing it through profound self-exploration, and that Hob would not shy away from accountability or honesty. he is always looking toward the future, but to do that, he must be in constant conversation with both the world's past and his own*

*this isn't a Dreamling playlist outright, but it's not without some Dreamling energy... because, well, his past is intertwined with his stranger, after all

I hope you enjoy!

– selected lyrics for each song under the cut –

i. max richter // old song

february the tenth. sunday. noise. peace.

ii. phildel // funeral bell

my cruel friend is a funeral bell and it rings in the day, and it rings in the evening oh, i could pray but it won't stop you leaving shadow in black, you are grim from your reaping oh, can't you spare just a day for the weeping? oh, lover, i know you're there and i'd follow you anywhere

iii. house phone // drinking song

i might’ve been a good man oh, who loved someone with all he had and did right by the ones he'd known and gave away the wealth of him until the purse was empty even so, you would forget me like a dying star i burn until i'm dark 'cause you won't rewrite history to commemorate the likes of me and you would not believe me if i tried to tell you all the things i've seen and all the places that i've been so pour the hall another cup of wine so pour my friends another cup of wine

iv. the amazing devil // blossoms

so i gather up the candlelight jangle the chimes and mop up what is left of my lungs and i climb up the ladder had i taken more care i might havе seen all the rot in the rungs and i hurl myself, i heal myself i drag myself like a rug in the rain and my saint, she is dancing as every step i choose to take begins to set the world aflame and i stare at the soldiers before me all my blossoms that have waited to fall and i walk, and i walk, and i walk, and i walk knowing every last one of them is painted in light as i make myself acquainted with the saint of never getting it right

v. mirah // bones & skin

will i be this way when i’m dead? will i go home and go to bed? will i wake up and wonder, did something happen here? don’t forget, you've got love you've got bravery, you’ve got trust you’ve got bodies, responsibilities there’s still mountains, they're pushing up from underneath you’ve got pain, caused plenty of it’s not so strange but now you’ve had enough don’t forget your bones and skin or where you go, or where you’ve been

vi. david wirsig // black eyes

it's that old recurring dream where you're drowning flailing your arms out, fearful and frantic and black waves are curling and pounding down onto your head somewhere in the atlantic and oftentimes i am awoken at three in the morning by screams in the attic i'll run upstairs, wrench the door open call out a warning, and try not to sound panicked but my hammering heart hears the voices of spirits that tempt us, the scorn that they've spoken i'll remember the sad frightened noises of an old friend who dreamt once of storms on the ocean and black eyes looking up from below

vii. the oh hellos // cold

when the feeling leaves you, it moves so slow like the loose change from your front pocket you don't even feel it go when the bitter creeps in to bite you whole a spectre unreflected, oh, it keeps you cold you paved your hades with precious stone made an heirloom to patricians and the rich alone and the toll for crossing i'd owe charon would atrophy a half of me, the heart of gold well, i'm not quite ready to turn to bone to petrify the shred of life i''m holding onto

viii. the jane austen argument // maintain the madness

and i went to san francisco with my best friend to sing in a bar full of gay men who wanted me but they did not know me, though they thought i sang pretty i made love to the microphone so they would not feel so empty inside on this wintry night in this city of madmen and loners and stoners and lovers forgotten in favor of rotten misfortunes with money but i still went home alone so next week, i'll go to iceland, then on to london and into the arms of my favorite stranger(s) oh, but then onwards, because i cannot i will not–i will not–i cannot–i cannot–i will not–i will not i cannot–i will never stop i've got to maintain the madness just so the stillness makes sense to me

ix. david keenan // flow illumination

your light makes darkness visible the legends say you are holistic the smell of sulphur looms in my room i'm superstitious – eat me up need serotonin, need to sweat animal wild now, in need of a rush while travelling to the core of the source i died and was reborn devoid of remorse my heart – my heart, it is a tea chest of both memory and ambition i love yous, strangers' tears, circus tents and piss-stained dawns flow illumination – lick my neck like a welcome breeze but in the morning, like an omen, you call me by somebody else's name how do you not know me by now? how? how do you not know me by now? how? for every morning, like an omen, i called you by somebody else's name worry not – worry not! there is darkness in us all it's what we don't do with it that counts

x. tunng // eating the dead

eat the coffee and the pancakes eat the films and fucks in bed eat the days the kids were born the day we found out jean was dead eat the roaring, blazing rows eat the never-ending hugs eat the anger and the kindness most importantly, your love so they, they, uh, they say to learn to die is to learn to philosophize. that is – you get wisdom from the fact that you realize there is nothing to fear from death, and therefore there is nothing to fear from anything. and what you should concentrate therefore is on all the business of living. meditation of the wise person is a meditation on life, not on death – because death is nothing to us...

xi. max richter // the departure

instrumental

#the sandman #hob gadling #dreamling #Spotify

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dreamingstarkly · 2 years

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hi hello my brain has also combined the amazing devil with ofmd

there are so many lyrics that fit well but the one that’s driving me the most insane is “this isn’t a breakup, dearheart, it’s a season finale” like ???????? fuck dude it sure is

FUCK I didn’t even think of that!!!!!!!!!

Here are some more for you please burn with me:

So I gather up the candle, I jangle the chimes / And mop up what is left of my lungs/And I climb up the ladder, had I taken more care/I might have seen all the rot in the rungs

I will bring you ruin in everything I do/It's never my intention, but it happens all the same

You were a king and his castle, I was every dirty rascal/If you asked me for my lighter mate, I gave you my fire/I'd call as you climbed/And I'd catch you every time you fell

I'm the captain of courage that you've eternally lacked/I'm the Jesus of wishing to Christ he'll come back

Cause I when I stand oh those folks will run/And tell the tales of what I've become/They'll speak of me, oh in whispered tones/And say my name like it shakes their bones

If I don't make it back from where I've gone/Just know I loved you all along

Also drinking song for the socially anxious is just a modern Stede/Ed AU.

#ofmd #our flag means death #the amazing devil

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wallpaper-inside-my-heart · 3 years

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Day 12 of my TAD lyric advent calendar: Blossoms (Part 1)

Lyrics used:

The weight of my phone like a tablet of stone, seems to grow with the words I just read// And it silently falls from my hand to the floor With the wonders I wished I had said// And for a time there is timelessness, endless furore// To the dark I said pour and forgot to say when// And the words that you wrote come back blacker than smoke:// "I’m so sorry, I’ve done it again"// So I gather up the candlelight, jangle the chimes and mop up what is left of my lungs// And I climb up the ladder, had I taken more care, I might havе seen all the rot in the rungs// And I pack what is needed, for thе journey to come, all my books, all my bracken and booze

#the amazing devil #neural blender #tad ruin #lyrics #unreality tw #tad blossoms

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hithernthither · 3 years

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So I gather up the candlelight Jangle the chimes And mop up what is left of my lungs And I climb up the ladder Had I taken more care I might have seen all the rot in the rungs And I pack what is needed For the journey to come All my books, all my bracken and booze And the door shuts behind me And I breathe in the air And say yeah, well I’m sorry too

#m #haha #p8cr8 breakup song : )#also disciple pate and zero #ok this is probs the last tad song ill drop on here #this one has been in my head all day and its just so good all around #the call back to 'Love Run" from their first album too aaa

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charlotte-sloane-writes · 5 years

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1 - A Wicked Little Thing

It’s finally here! Chapter 1 of this Zatanna Zatara x John Constantine fic has killed me for nearly a year. If you love it as much as I do, please reblog and comment. If you want to be added to the tags then send me a message, reblog, comment, just let me know! The chapter is under the cut, the taglist at the very end. Much love, Charlie.

“Anna,” Buddy called over to the young woman dressed in yesterday’s work uniform.

“Hm?” Anna turned her head and brushed out the earbud nestled to the side of her head, flicking a few strands of her black hair behind her to size up her boss who decided whatever he was about to say was more important than ‘We Will Rock You’ on its 3rd consecutive play.

Buddy recentered his balance on one hip and tilted his chin up, an unkempt not-quite salt-and-pepper eyebrow raised as he asked, “That thing ever run out of battery?”

“Trust me, Buddy, you’d know if it did.” Anna flashed him a saccharine smile and shoved the earbud back into her brain, moving on to the next room that needed cleaning, her cleaning cart’s loose wheel squeaking for mercy unheard over Anna’s playlist.

Buddy scoffed behind her back, another attempt to connect with the twenty-something-year-old failed rather spectacularly on his end. He shoved the tickets to the local college’s ‘Battle of the Bands’ show back into his pocket and whistled to make himself feel like the exchange was done in total nonchalance with zero premeditation. Lifting his ‘Lagheur’ watch to his chest, he noticed the ticking needles of the ripoff luxury watch in a slight delay, taking maybe a half time longer than an actual second. Buddy once saw a movie where this happened to show time slowing down. He couldn’t place the actual scene anywhere, but it seemed funny enough to him that the science fiction promises of his childhood were echoed through the cheap realities of his adulthood.

“Regina,” Buddy threw over his shoulder an aging rainjacket, once clear now yellowing around folds and stitches. Regina at the counter, a recent retiree with all the looks to take to Boca Raton but none of the self-awareness to stop working looked up at her boss from the dusty concierge seat.

“Boss?”

“I’m out for a smoke, I’ll be back in ten. Anyone calls for me, take a message.”

“Sure, sure, if anyone calls.” Regina looked down at the answering machine behind her counter, fixing her coke-bottle glasses back up on the ridge of her boney nose. It was new twenty years ago when she last checked in at the hotel, sleepy and dazed children in tow, asking where their mother was. She’d never seen the light even flicker on that machine.

Buddy walked across the populated lounge, tourists, and locals alike crowding the hotel to get out of the rain and have a drink. Some of them might get rooms by the look of it, though none seemed too eager to book one. Unlit cigarette stuck between his teeth, Buddy pulled his cap up over his head and walked out onto the back terrace. On stiller nights, the courtyard was a beautiful display of soft city nature and twinkling lights. Hopefully, he thought to himself, Anna will have remembered to cover up the sound system speakers hidden in some of the bushes. He wasn’t ready to shell out another grand to replace them.

The lighter Buddy took out from his jacket pocket should’ve been replaced a week and a half ago. Swishing lighter fluid gradually making a crack in the plastic casing just a little wider didn’t bode well for Buddy’s innate flammability. The wrong swipe of a finger while lighting his cigarette opened up his thumb and Buddy- as he took the first draw of his cigarette- watched blood prick up from the fat pad of his digit, little globes of red sprouting along a visceral ley line down to the crux of the first joint. He’ll have to remind himself to throw this lighter out and get a new one when he gets the chance again.

“You know,” He spoke to himself, more than aware he was alone on the creaky back patio “this place used to be the gem of Palo Alto, before Jobs and Wozniak, Amazon and Google. This place...I sound like my great grandfather. How did that happen?” Buddy scoffed and took a step forward, leaning against a beam at the top of the small stairs giving way to the waterlogged marsh of a luncheon garden. Before he could even take notice, the roaring gutter above his head flipped on itself, bringing forth a cascade of rainwater and grime down onto Buddy’s head. He didn’t even have it in him to curse. He just shook his head, bit the inside of his lip raw and flicked his dead cigarette into the rain.

__________

John Constantine wasn’t often seen in the kitchen for actual food, an old tome tucked under his arm with blue lettering of an ancient language only slightly obscured by the wrinkled sleeve of his dress shirt.

“Woah, careful, Johnny. You need help?” A young and dashing mop of black hair named Behrad Tomaz bounded into the kitchen with open arms.

John slightly wavered, eyes darting around as his cheeks reddened. He cleared his throat “I’m fine-,”

“-Dude,” Behrad took the wine bottle Constantine had been balancing on a multi-sectioned plate of what looked like saltine crackers, a hard-boiled egg, some fresh smelling garnishes, a small cup of applesauce, a mug of brothy soup with something bobbing in it, and a jar with pieces of fish floating around it. “I’m impressed you got this far with all this stuff.” Behrad looked at the wine label, wanting to discern a year but couldn’t read the letters on the label. He shook it off, blaming his dyslexia for the mess of shapes on the label “You heading to your room with this stuff?”

“Yeah.” John nodded, quieter than usual as he gave Behrad the gefilte fish jar and placed the plastic cup he had taken upside down on to the neck of the wine bottle.

“This stuff looks good.” Behrad looked over at John’s plate as they walked down the austere corridors of the Waverider, immune to the shock of the odd clicks and clangs.

“You don’t have to lie.” John scoffed a laugh, biting his top lip.

“Is it for a spell?” “Not really.”

“Munchies?” John turned to face Behrad, those innocent puppy dog eyes peering over John’s exclusively hard stare. “Thanks for helping me, mate. Cheers.” He managed to balance everything back into his arms and moved into his room, locking the door behind him.

Behrad stood there, perhaps a little too perplexed for his own good “Have a good time!” He called out, making his way back to the kitchen.

Sara Lance wasn’t expecting to have to get into John Constantine’s business again, but the idea of the mage acting shifty didn’t sit very well with The Captain. “What was that?” She asked Behrad, intercepting him before he reached the kitchen.

“What was what?” Behrad shrugged, crossing his arms with a dopey smile “I was just helping John get his food to his room.” “Uh huh.” Sara’s light blue eyes narrowed, nodding along with Behrad “What was he carrying?”

“I don’t know. Some fish, crackers, wine. Had this old book under his arm. You know John, can’t read if it’s not totally silent. He must’ve gotten hungry.”

“Yeah.” Sara nodded, the truth dawning on her with a small, easy smile “Okay, let’s make sure to leave him alone today. He’s clearly got something important to do.”

John took his time lighting every candle he had in his room, turning the lights off and letting the little flickering flames set just the right reverential mood he was feeling. There was stirring between his ribs. He got the feeling every time he took out the Haggadah. Opening the musty book brought back memories, ones he kept reenacting every Pessach. As beautiful as the book was, ancient binding and intricate hand-printed text, it would never replace the one he found when he was twelve in his father’s attic. He remembered climbing up the cobwebbed ladder, his older sister whispering a word of caution behind him. Cheryl never really understood it, why he climbed that ladder. She never understood why he would intentionally lock himself up there for hours among the beetles and dead pigeons. Among that pestilence and dust was a box marked ‘Mary Anne - Beth-Tikvah, LON’ in big block letters. When John’s father, a big burly man whose accent was the only thing thicker than his eyebrows, found him wearing his great uncle’s kippah with the edges clumsily touching his brow while he read his mother’s old ‘Elementary Hebrew’ workbook, tracing the lines of his mother’s juvenile scripture, Thomas left welts on the young boy’s thighs that didn’t abate until the next month.

Thomas had thought he’d burned everything in that box that very day. He didn’t suspect or know to look for a pocketbook the size of a theater playbook, with flimsy blue binding and doubled text in every page. One side in English, the other in Hebrew. The one thing John managed to keep from that little book was the page-marker. A picture of his mother at her younger brother’s Bar Mitzvah. She looked to be about 16 years-old with boundless ringlets in her hair and a face-splitting grin. John felt it in his throat every time he looked down at that picture. He’d sob repeatedly, from the chest out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He’d bang his fists, palm-upwards, towards his head as he let the remorse of a stolen childhood shudder his lungs with a force only a soul in desperate need of rest could offer.

“Hi, mum.” John now whispered, taking the bookmark out of his over-compensatory Haggadah, letting it rest against two candlestick pillars. “Thought I’d read to you out loud this time.” His voice felt raw and crackling on his tongue like those lungs on anti-smoking adverts. “Happy Passover.”

Taglist: @golden-rosezz @smol-flower-kiddo @beepbeepyabitch @angel-hunter-winchester @groovinomicon @zatara-zatannas @fandomneeds @interstellarflare @eliotsbambimargo @aliypop @themanthemyth-thelegend @superrezzy00 @fanficy-imagines @toomanystoriestoolittletime @starsscribble @addicted-to-dc @arkhamsdarkestknight @narnian-neverlander @thefastarrow @tgwltw @theliveshipparagon @deirdre-queen @writing-doesnt-discriminate @a-really-bi-girl @interstellarflare @soarocks

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vintagediavolo · 6 years

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Insecurity

Percival gripped the porcelain sink before him, knuckles near white as his eyes bore into the reflection in the mirror, a wary man staring back in return. He’d never been so… conscious about the signs of age present, but after growing an affection to a certain magizoologist and discovering that his feelings were mutual, he subconsciously began doubting himself in miniscule ways. At first, the decade and two years between the two men didn’t phase him whatsoever, but Newt was ethereal in his eyes, and he couldn’t begin to fathom why the angel of a man fancied a greying, frown-lined man twelve years his senior. Sighing, Percival stood up straight and released the cool edge, flexing his fingers due to the ache remaining from his tight grip and raising his right hand to the silver hair at his temple, expression resembling one of disdain.

Leaning his head back, he could catch glimpse of Newt in their shared king-sized bed, face placid and auburn hair splayed against the white pillowcase beneath his head. If he narrowed his eyes and focused enough, he could begin to see the freckles that kissed every inch of his complexion. Due to his strenuous work schedule, it wasn’t unusual for him to wake prior to the redhead, so during the minutes before Newt awoke, Percival would just lay on his left side and admire the man that was his. It only became less enjoyable to him when he realised how youthful the man appeared compared to him; the only thing that was ever noticeable was the crinkle around his eyes whenever he smiled as he woke up to Percival’s gaze upon him, or simply while he tended to his creatures.

Being one of the rare days that he didn’t have work, Percival took one last sparing glance at the bathroom mirror before sleepily trudging from the room, socked feet scuffing against the bedroom carpet as he walked back to his bed, carefully slipping under the navy duvet so as not to wake his sleeping beauty. Moving himself over inch by inch, he positioned himself so that his face with in line with Newt’s, self-doubt practically melting away at the sight of the man who was hugging one of the pillows to his chest, a soft snore accompanying his breathing. He restrained the urge to brush a hand over the other’s cheek, or replace the pillow with himself, but he kept still in order to not wake him. These efforts didn’t matter though, for that was when Newt forced his sleepy eyes open and gifted him with his usual smile, eyes a shining blue and skin wrinkling at the corners. His breath was forced from his lungs. “Happy Birthday, baby,” were his first words to him, voice quiet and raspy.

Those three words had him crashing back to earth and he struggled to keep his face from falling as he managed a half smile, unable to meet Newt’s eyes. “Thank you.” The words sounded genuine enough, he supposed.

Newt noticed, though, and his smile vanished as Percival fiddled with the blanket, refusing to look at him. He had begun to notice his lover becoming more and more reserved the longer they were together, even though it should’ve been happening the opposite way around. He normally ignored the growing concern within his gut, but now, as Percival retained his distant expression on his birthday, he couldn’t go on like that any longer. “What’s wrong, Percy?” Stormy eyes met his, emotion rampant and swimming through them, but he still didn’t open his mouth. “Talk to me. What has gotten you upset lately?” He asked gently, caressing the side of the man’s face in the same way that Percy wanted to unknowingly do to him earlier.

He momentarily leaned into the comforting touch, but shook himself from the trance Newt so easily put him under and shifted his body so that he laid on his back, face pointed toward the ceiling. “Do you… know how old I’m turning today?” He all of a sudden looked much more tired than he did moments before, noticeable even though he didn’t wake up all that long ago.

“Yes…” Newt answered, brows furrowed with confusion. “But what--”

“Why do you like me, Newt?” Genuinely concerned at where the conversation was going, Newt sat up and moved so that he was propped up on his elbows, face over Percival’s so that they made eye contact.

“What about you isn’t there to like, Percy? Or what do you think I don’t like about you?” His tone was soft and Percy wanted to lose himself in it; he wanted to surround himself in that silk and let the smooth material caress his rough skin, akin to the way his mother’s hugs engulfed him when he was child and rendered him calm even if he was in the most distraught condition. Before he could respond, realisation fluttered through Newt’s eyes. Do you know how old I’m turning today? “Baby,” he started, in a near-whisper at his lover’s uncovered insecurity, “Do you think I care about your age?”

The man’s silence answered the question for him. “Percy, I don’t care one bit about how old you are.”

Percival’s chest felt tight and he could only gaze up at Newt’s face, which was getting closer and closer until their lips met, making him release breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. It was soft and unmoving, but the heavy beating of his heart thought otherwise. When the man above him pulled back, he kept his eyes closed, only moving when Newt laid down on his chest so that he could hold him closer. Newt, to his astonishment, began singing in a hushed voice that made his skin tingle and he only tightened his grip on the man as he listened to the words.

And I am telling you

I'm not going

You're the best man I'll ever know

There's no way I can ever go

“Thank you,” Percival breathed, eyes abnormally wet as he nuzzled his face into the mop of red hair that was tickling his chin. He could feel Newt’s hummed response vibrate against him. They remained in their position for about ten minutes before Newt slowly rose.

“I wanted this to wait until later, but I think you deserve your gift now. You have to come with me though.” Percival’s eyebrows rose, but Newt seemed to know what he was thinking again. “Yes, I got you a gift, and you’re coming to see it right now.” The man could only nod and rise after Newt, who grabbed onto his arm and pulled him up from the bed. The man could only view the magizoologist’s wide, excited grin with curiosity. What could he have gotten him? Newt grabbed his suitcase from where it was stationed next to the bed and after releasing his arm, the last thing he gave him was a backward glance before climbing down the ladder. Pursuing at a moderate pace, he met him at the bottom, his grip returning to his arm before leading him out of the workshed and out into the faux sunlight, warming the both of them. In the world outside, it was midway into January and a thick layer of snow coated the entire city, making the generated warmth refreshing even though Percival enjoyed the winter weather.

Past all of the creature habitats they went, the both of them greeting all of the animals that acknowledged them in their passing, until they ended up in an area Percival couldn’t recall existing within the magically expanded suitcase a few days ago. Towering, dense trees spanned all the eye could see and the time within the setting had to be dusk, for it was dark enough to appear eerie but light enough to still be able to see. A new chill also situated around the both of them, their breaths rising from their mouths in small clouds of air, floating up and dissipating above their heads. “What is this, Newt?” Percival tried to ask, but the redhead turned to him and held a finger to his lips, indicating for him to be silent. On they trekked for a few metres before Newt stopped, Percival joining him at his side and swivelling his head around to see if he could catch sight of anything before looking back at Newt when the man began making a peculiar noise. The curiosity that bubbled up in his throat went ignored, not wanting to disturb the silence that was required of him.

Nothing happened for a few empty minutes, but the sound of leaves crunching under a footfall had them both turning to something emerging from between the tree trunks to their left. The first thing he saw was a hoof, but as his eyes roamed upward, he released a silent gasp at the sight of the thestral foal nearing them. “Hey, girl,” Newt greeted, hushed as if speaking to a child, kneeling down to the ground and reaching out an inviting hand. Percival sank too, only watching with wide eyes as the creature gave its left wing--it’s only wing--a tousle and trotted forward a bit quicker, laying its head in Newt’s outstretched palm. “I found her in the Forbidden Forest during my trip to visit Professor Dumbledore a few weeks ago. I don’t know what happened prior, but as you can see she’s missing a wing.” An ache of sadness pinged within his heart as he could see the scarred flesh of the creature on the opposite side. “I helped stitch her back up and heal, but she’s in no condition to be released back in the wild. I remembered when you told me thestrals were your favourite magical creatures, so I thought you’d like to have one under your care. I haven’t named her yet.”

Percival could only shift his glances between the two ethereal beings, words abandoning him in the dust. Newt’s ears tinted a light pink at his silence, but he continued scratching the side of the thestral’s head, who seemed to be enjoying the touch. “Newt, she’s… amazing. You’re amazing,” he finally spoke, making his entire face blush that time.

“Lift your hand up to her and let her come to you on her own,” Newt said, only smiling in response at Percival’s compliments. He complied, and he watched with breath held as the foal lifted her head away from Newt to offer him a curious glance. A minute passed before she slowly stepped forward, lightly nipping the tip of his index finger before butting her head against his hand. Releasing a shaky breath, he resumed what his lover had been doing while in pure awe of the gaunt, but beautiful creature in front of him, eyes shining at the emotional moment. “What do you want to name her?” Newt asked, watching their interaction with a smile so bright that it could rival the sun on its brightest days.

Breaking his gaze from the thestral, Percival stared right into Newt’s eyes as he answered with a smile of his own. “Artemis.” Newt was surprised at the man choosing his middle name to be the name of the creature, but he quickly got over it, a shier myself overtaking his bright one as his cheeks turned a delicate pink. “Artemis it is.”

And there the pair sat within the dense forest in Newt’s suitcase, laughter ringing through the trees as Artemis had nipped at Percival’s ear from him ceasing in his petting to give his attention to Newt. For the first time in a long while, Percival was happy with the person he would now proudly call the love of his life and the thestral who he would now give his undoubted care for. He would never let his insecurity rule over him again.

“Insecurity is a waste of time.”

- Diane von Furstenburg

Love, BelovedBey

#gramander #newt scamander #newt #scamander #percival graves #percival #graves #slash #gay #fanfiction #fluff #fic #fantastic beasts and where to find them

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deathberryhime · 5 years

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The 100′s new season is around the corner, so here’s a recreation of one of my favorite scenes. Toothstridcup.

FFnet || AO3 || Wattpad

tw: blood, torture, strong language

Hiccup took a breath and steadied his shaking fingers. The dried blood just wouldn’t come off no matter how hard he rubbed.

He looked over the cot with bloodshot eyes; Astrid still laid there, pale and barely breathing. He had managed to pull out the knife without puncturing her lung, but he couldn’t have predicted the poison.

He risked a glance at the closed hatch just as lightning struck outside the dropship. The rest of the kids were coming inside, huddling for warmth. Even that hubbub did nothing to drown the screaming from above. It had been almost two hours since Heather joined the torture and the Grounder still wouldn’t talk.

Hiccup went over Astrid, sniffing as he checked her pulse; weak, and growing weaker. Tears threatened to spill once more as he took in the sight of his best friend. It was his fault. He had been the one that was caught, that fell and almost broke his leg, that was held hostage, and the one that forced Astrid to come rescue him. It wasn’t fair. Why should she pay the price for his shortcomings?

Gently, he lowered his lips to her forehead and checked her temperature. Still high, her shivering wouldn’t stop either. Astrid moaned in discomfort, her back arching in pain. Hiccup took her hand and murmured on her skin.

“Shh… It’s okay, Astrid. It’s okay. You’ll be okay… You’ll be alright.”

Above them, another scream hushed the gentle speaking of the others. As one they looked up, just as the emergency lights started blinking. Another scream made the younger kids whimper.

Hiccup looked over and spotted the small blonde mop in seconds. “Cami.” The young girl that had taken to follow Astrid and Hiccup around the camp, scampered to his side.

“The bad man is still here?” She asked with a tiny voice that tore Hiccup’s heart. Yes, the Grounder was still here. But as for him being bad… Hiccup still remembered the Grounder nursing him back to health, setting his foot right and keeping him fed. Aside from keeping him inside a cave, the Grounder hadn’t given him a reason to call him bad.

Hiccup’s group, on the other hand, hadn’t hesitated to resort to torture without a second thought.

He understood the reason; Astrid had been one of their leaders since the moment they touched down, setting up perimeters and hunting parties that kept their camp safe and fed. But outright violence never sat right with Hiccup. And he had an inkling Astrid would have agreed with him. She would have stopped and listened and wouldn’t push him aside the moment the enemy had come in sight.

At least he hoped she’d have.

Cami buried her head in his fraying shirt when another scream echoed. Hiccup focused on the little girl.

“Cami, I need you to do something for me, okay?” Gently, he sat her on his stool, “I need you to keep Astrid company. Take her hand, put your fingers there --that’s it! And count, okay? If after a minute they’re below 40, call me, alright?”

Cami nodded eagerly and looked at the electronic clock on the wall. Hiccup took a breath, and with a final look to Astrid’s pale body, he climbed up the ladder.

The odor hit him first, sharp and metallic, it made him gag. Blood.

“What are you guys doing ?!”

Snotlout turned and sneered at him. “Getting some answers, Useless. Now get lost.”

Hiccup was too busy staring at the bloody mess to properly answer. The Grounder was suspended by his wrists, naked from the waist up, and bleeding an ocean. Despite his first intimidating impression, the Grounder was a sorry sight. The dark scales on his body were dirty with mud and blood, some missing and the others broken.

Yet his eyes were still a bright draconic green that bore in his soul.

“Go downstairs, Hiccup. Astrid needs you.” Heather was the only one facing the Grounder. Her shoulders shaking, her posture tight; she looked ready to explode. And in her tight fists, she held...

Hiccup paled.

“Heather, please. This is madness!”

She ignored him. With a snarl, she thrust the cables to the Grounder’s skin. He roared in pain as the lights flickered. Hiccup almost stopped breathing.

“Heather, stop! If you kill him, Astrid dies too! Is that what you want?!”

“He has the antidote!” Heather turned her sharp eyes on him, “He’s the one that put Astrid on that table! He’s the one that’s killing her by not talking!” She rounded on the Grounder again and she tore another scream from his throat. “Unless you have something useful to do, go downstairs.”

Hiccup fought a flinch at that. Heather was the only one (besides Astrid) that treated him like a person, like he was more than a waste of air. The Grounder hissed at Heather, his green eyes slitted in anger and his fangs bared. Something clicked in Hiccup’s mind then, because the Grounder had helped him. He had taken him in. He had nursed him back to health.

The Grounder hadn’t let him die in that ditch.

Swerving around Snotlout, Dagur, and the twins that tried to grab him and force him out, Hiccup got in front of Heather. With a smack, the cable wires were on the ground and Heather stumbled back.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

Hiccup ignored them and stepped closer to the Grounder. “Please talk. What’s the antidote?” He ignored Dagur’s scoff and got to his knees. Shaking his pouch, he took out the box with the vials, “Please, which one is it?”

He took turns in pointing at them and looking up at his expression. It remained unchanged.

“Please. She’s all I have left. I can’t lose her too.”

It was like talking to a wall. The Grounder remained quiet, staring him down his nose. Hiccup bit his lip; he knew that look. He wasn’t going to talk. Time to change tactics.

Whipping the dagger out --the dagger he had taken out of Astrid, the dagger that had put the poison in her body-- Hiccup slashed his arm.

The change was instant.

The Grounder’s eyes widened, panic filling his face. He came forward, the chains biting into the scales on his wrist as the whole wall groaned under his weight. A low growl tore from his throat, as he scowled at Hiccup.

“Oh shit .” Snotlout cursed in the back.

“If you don’t help her, then help me.” He ignored everyone else and focused on the man that had saved his life. “You didn’t let me die back then. You helped me. You healed me.” Hiccup took a breath and ignored the growing buzzing in his ears.

“Help me again. Which one is the antidote?”

No one moved, too busy staring at the battle of wills in front of them.

It felt like an eternity later when one moved. With an indignant huff, the Grounder pointed his chin on the left, to a bright yellow vial right by his foot. Hiccup snatched it and hurried to stand. He almost fell over. Someone grabbed his shoulder to keep him up, but he shrugged them off. Hiccup looked over the Grounder with glazed eyes.

“Thank you.”

He almost flew down the ladder. With swift movements, he diluted the antidote and gave half to Astrid. He only took his half when he was sure she could breathe with ease.

And when the pallidness left her cheeks, only then did he allow himself to move to the upper level of the dropship. And it was when everyone was deep asleep that he smuggled the Grounder out of the camp.

“I never learned your name.”

The Grounder looked him with his green eyes, pupils dilating in the darkness. He stepped closer and put his palm on his cheek.

“My name doesn’t translate in your tongue.” The Grounder’s voice was low and raw, the consonants as if dragging in his throat. He grinned and Hiccup was surprised to see that some of his back teeth missing.

“But you can call me Toothless.”

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pyro-technically · 7 years

Text

The legend of Captain Purkiss part 1

Before I start this LONG story, keep in mind that this is just something I've imagined about for a while now. Also, I think @space-australians and @space-australia-stories would possibly like this. NOW LET'S GET TO IT.

She was a force to be reckoned with, her fame and presence was known across the intergalactic space net. The entire space continuum knew what she was capable of and they feared or admired her. She had a swagger that showed her knowledge and power, it was as if her 5 foot frame were 2 feet taller and a bit scarier. Built lean and ready to kill, she led the entire intergalactic fleet with her crew which also were the best of the best. From a young age of 7, she was taken from Earth and raised in the main vessel as well as trained by Adtor'iik whom of which was considered the greatest of them all with little ol' Erin Purkiss coming as a close second. She spoke 13 languages as well as two languages for the deaf and hard of hearing. It was no wonder she was considered an impossible story.

"...and as tale tells, she fought a great battle with only the skin of her teeth and her own body standing beneath her, taking down the Myrrhj empire single handedly before disappearing without a single trace." The blind story teller came to a close as 30 adamant ears listened closely to the precariously told story. Erin Purkiss must have been a myth the humans started, either that or someone wrote a fake epic about this damned godly being. Mi'jal ran to the other side of the archive and asked for any books on "Erin Purkiss". As a jelly finger pointed to a dusty bookshelf a little high up. He excitedly climbed the steps on the wooden ladder as the floor trailed away beneath his 10 appendages. He searched through the books until he hit the jack pot.

"The tales and history of Captain Purkiss and the Armandii fleet." Sliding down the ladder, he landed with a soft thud against the white marbled floor. He ran home with his bag full of books on the "fools tale" as some called it. His semi-transparent limbs carried him home as he held what he knew was an epic, a tribute to the galactic fleet that always ensured the protection of the galaxy and that they kept their promise of loyalty and obedience to royalty. He quivered at the thought of being up there one day, commanding an entire fleet with everyone willing to back him up, but for now he has to deal with being shoved in lockers and toilets.

When he got home, he bolted up the stairs straight to his room and slammed the door shut as he got weird looks from his family unit. Spilling the books onto the bed, he fervently read through each and every single one faster than a jack rabbit would take off. Each book talked about her tales and stories as they showed the heroic status of this one individual. It was all incredible really! He delved into his last book as he expected it to be the same stories and rumors. What surprised him was that it had pointed out her blood family and who she trained with and who was in every fleet and yada yada. One thing he noticed was that in her last battle (The last Stand of 5000 of which was right before she disappeared) she talked to her comrades about going home to Earth or taking up the job as a freelancer. He used his holotech, who was named "Athena", to look up what a freelancer was.

"A being who spent their career hunting down assassins and bounty hunters"

He froze at the thought of this, what if he could bring back captain Purkiss back into the fleet and reassure the myths and rumors, that was if she was alive or even real in the first place. The book also noted that her last known location was on Ikora (ya it's a destiny reference) and that she was alive and well.

He grabbed a note book and wrote down some notes and a plan to get her back.

She loved sushi (what ever that was)

Last known location was ikora

Should be alive

Talk to Adt'ran princess as well as fleet (somehow) and propose this plan

Since E. Purkiss pledged loyalty and protection to the princess specifically, she should arrive in the time of the royalty's danger

Get someone to potentially "assassinate" the princess

The fleet/princess talk to Purkiss

Idk buy some tacos????

It was fool proof. He needed to somehow contact the fleet AND the royal authorities and considering he was next to nothing to both parties, he had to work hard on this project and not get rejected the first time around. He was nervous and shook with anticipation. He didn't know if she was even real or if it was all a story to tell your kids around a camp fire.

He trudged over to his desk and turned in the radio. He turned to local news as he only used the outdated tech to listen to news, local police, or maybe he'd occasionally pick up obscure contact attempts. He had once gotten in trouble with the galactic court as he listened in to secret transmission of the main vessel to another military vessel as it talked about a rogue attempting to attack wrong doers.

He smiled at the thought of something that would help him and little did he know that just exactly that came on.

"We have gotten reports of an unidentified sos call from the distant planet A3TB6712. Here's the recording. "

"Hello, is anyone there?! My ship is destroyed and I'm severely injured. I repeat, my ship is destroyed and I'm stranded here with little food. I've lost alot of blood and I don't have proper medical equipment with me. Please anyo-" as the radio crackled to an eerie silence as the female voice came to an end, the previous announcer came to life on the intercom again and stated that it had sounded like the illusive Erin Purkiss herself.

It was like Mi'jal won the lottery! It was his ticket to meet his role model and what he thought was his warrior. He spent the rest of the night planning until he saw a smoke trail in the light of the 2 moons that rose in the sky a little off in the distance. Curiosity got the better of him and he packed necessities and even a medical pack with the hopes of it being the legend herself.

Excitement tore through him as he snuck off into the night, hoping to not be caught by authority. As he followed the black clouds as they caressed the night sky, his mind wondered a little too far as he thought about what would await him. It wasn't too far now, he only needed to travel about 10 minutes more before he reached his destination. He stopped. What if it was her? Would she punish him for breaking the Ad'riian law? Mi'jal shivered before he continued his journey.

She was human and humans were known for being ruthless and merciless to their victims. But they were friends with the Ad'rii, right? Right???

He let out a shaky breath as a ruined ship lay before him. It didn't seem like it crashed too long ago but long enough that the transmission made it onto the radial news. He looked around for any evidence of life as he turned on his ancient radio set again.

"-lease save me, anything would help, anyth- is worthless. These dammed creatures are probably sleeping by now-" He couldn't believe his hearing cavities, the same female voice, presumably Erin's, said that exact phrase of hopelessness? He had to persist if she was still alive. He examined the area around and inside the ship and found that the radio was torn out, shards of glass as well as blood and boot prints were leading out into the forest. What he assumed was the food storage was raided and the medical cabinet was empty. The only thing that was left behind was a golden plaque. It had terran writing on it but he didn't recognize the words as he was barely learning human tongue. He grabbed it off the wall and shoved it into his duffle bag as he raced into the wilderness, following the bloody book tracks left behind.

-----

I was light headed and on the verge of death as nausea took its place in my abdomen. "Damn it" whispered it's way out of my mouth as the fire in front of me kept me warm as I stuffed the last of my clean cloth into my wound. How I'm still alive, I'm not sure, but I escaped my old friends, my team, my family as that is what I cared about right now other than the blinding pain in my left kidney as I poured fresh water into the wound to try to keep it clean. That damned ship had enough medical supplies to mop the floor with but not sew up my f**- I sighed as the thought made its way into my mind. I used to be a hero, a legend to be told, but now all I do with my life is hunt down criminals and use my last dying breath to kill them before some miracle saved me from the cold hands of death. I was trained to work with other people, this lone wild thing was a pain in my as- "Arrgh!" Another bolt of pain shot through my gut.

Suddenly I felt as if I was being watched. I looked around as the hair on my neck stood on end, it felt as if by surroundings got colder. "W-Who's there!" A shaky figure came out of the bushes as he made his way forward. I kept my hand by my trusty quazart pistol.

"Who are you?" I said sternly as the small jelly creature stopped. "WHO ARE YOU!?" A shrill shriek made its way out of his lungs as he fell to the floor as if he was dead. I sighed and pulled him over to the fire. I muttered a quiet apology and explained that I was just startled by his appearance. He seemed to calm down a little bit but still remained still with fear. I kept my hand on the bloodied cloth that kept my wound closed and he seemed to notice this. He beemed with sudden confidence and spoke in a language that I long have forgotten. I gave him a confused look and he shoved a medical kit into my hands, a full kit with everything I needed.

Another miracle. I threaded the needle with the durable thread and started to disinfect my wound without hurting myself too badly. I had sewn the cut closed and prayed that I still had enough blood to function enough to not die. I'm still amazed I didn't pass out from blood loss honestly. The semi-transparent alien spoke again as the words were familiar. U slowly pieced together the words until it all clicked together in my mind. He was speaking English, I hadn't speak it since I left that fleet.

"Excuse me for bad English, but what is your name, human?" I contemplated telling him who I really was. He must've been too young to know why I left, why I vanished off the grid.

"Erin." As soon as those sounds left my mouth, it was as if he became possessed. He grew excited and shook with a new look in his eyes. He asked me millions of questions of how life in the fleet was and how did you become so brave and why did you leave.

As the foreign words left my gooey lips, she looked away, a ping of guilt settled in my gut.

"I left because I did something I shouldn't have."

Wonder and amazement took over his mind. How did she single handedly hide from the scouts and officers of the fleet, authorities, royal authorities, as well as avoided attention from everything else? She looked back over.

"When I stood there, facing all of those soldiers, I saw someone who was cruel and evil but the galactic fleet saw nothing of that. So I killed him myself when I got the chance and ran. The galactic court now wants my head for what I did, so I hide where I will be invisible until I can run without being seen. I crashed here about a day ago as I ran into the military vessels 3 and 8, behemoths of power those things are and they shot me out of the sky. They are still searching for me and will kill me when I get the chance."

Mi'jal was engrossed by the sudden confession but sat uncomfortably. "What did prince do?" His broken English again shine through his intelligent look.

"He killed and enslaved my people and took them from Earth to do his bidding. When I wad younger, I was taken into the fleet so I could avoid the chaos that was prince Ejett. They trained me too kill him but since that was so long ago, the price's actions became invisible and what I did was assumed to be wrong."

Silence again filled the space between them as she finished up her story and put the fire out. "If it wouldn't be too much of a hassle, may I stay at your dwelling for the night being?" Mi'jal thought about it and nodded. She grabbed her black helmet which would match the thermodynamic suit she was in the midst of putting on over her under clothing. The suit had a transistor radio, pouches for ammo and weapons, and a sheath for some sort of staff that was attached to the back. She slid the helmet on and helped the young alien up as they traversed the wildlife back to civilization.

#humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians #space orcs #story #aliens #space australia #space australians #humans are weird to aliens #long story #sorry

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daughter-of-war · 7 years

Text

Fruk Day Six: Just Like Clockwork AU

----Your little metal heart is just as fragile as mine, isn’t it?----

For @frukheaven‘s #FrukSpringFestival2k17

Pairing: FrUk (Aph France/Aph England)

Pairing Type: M/M

Words: 2,466

Rating: General Audiences (My first PG fic so far okay wow)

He looked upward, sleepy eyes going a bit wide as he saw the time. 10:38 pm. He'd been working late again without knowing. A tiny paw began to poke at his pant leg, and he looked down to see Skippie's tail waging back and forth as her pendulum kept time. Her head shook in a quick spasm that caused her to halt her pausing momentarily as the little glitch passed and she reset. He felt the tapping start up again.

"Fine, I'm getting up," he said, his voice dragged out by a yawn. He pushed back his chair from his workbench, and stood up, his back emitting a loud cracking as he moved. "I should really stop sitting in the same position for so long." He began to walk toward the door, with Skippie following along in a trot. Occasionally one of her legs would give out and she'd topple, but she never stayed down for long. She rebooted fast.

"Good evening, Mister Kirkland!" A young voice yelled out, awake despite the late hour.

"Good evening to you, too, Alfred," Arthur Kirkland greeted. "Sorry I've been so busy today, I didn't have any time to talk," he apologized, beeing down a little bit to be on Alfred's eye level.

"It's okay," He responded with a bright smile. "We know you're busy."

Arthur sighed, standing up straight again. "Speaking of 'we,' where's your brother?" He looked around the shop, until a mop of blond hair popped out from behind the shelving in the half-length loft.

"Here, sir!" Mathew responded, voice just loud enough to be heard, but still holding its whisper-like tone. He climbed down the ladder as fast as his sleepy body could, rubbing his eyes as he walked over to greet Arthur. "You need something?"

"No, no-" he shook his head. "-I came down mainly to tell you two to go to bed." He straightened out his long brown coat. "You have to get up again tomorrow morning, and it's best to sleep at a proper hour to get up on time." Alfred looked at the ceiling with his cheeks puffed up. "As some," he gave a joking little tap to Alfred's forehead, "seem to forget this fact every night."

"Alright, sir," he pouted. "We're going sir!" He grabbed his brother's hand and headed toward the loft.

"Goodnight, Mister Kirkland!" Mathew waved back with his free hand. They climbed the ladder up, and settling into their thin little bed, they fell quiet as the candle on the floor next to them flickered out.

"Goodnight, boys," Arthur whispered. They couldn't hear him, but he always said it anyway. He headed back to the back of the room, climbing the old bronze-coloured stairs to his workshop. They creaked and groaned under even his light weight, even if he was trying to stay quiet as to not wake up the twins sleeping in the loft twenty feet away.

As he returned to his work, permanently bent fingers gingerly folding and fixing fragile copper wiring and metal gears, he thought about the boys. They were both eight years old, and he'd picked them up from the orphanage about two years ago to work for him. They seemed to enjoy being in his workshop, and doing the tasks he asked of them. They weren't old or skilled enough to build yet, but they cleaned and kept Skippie entertained during the day, making sure she was calibrated and functional. They also helped clean up, and both Mathew and Alfred enjoyed making simple foods, and honestly, those sandwiches were probably the only reason Arthur hadn't died of accidental starvation brought on by never leaving his workbench. They kept his record player from rusting, too, often playing the swing music he never listened to anymore, even if he still loved it. The muffled sound of bass and smooth voices that came through the floor from the warehouse-type area below seemed to make the hours flow together, only interrupted by the knocking of a tiny hand on the door, a smile and tray of sandwiches interrupting his work.

But now, with only the ticking of gears and the pendulum of the bronze clock making a sound, he could hardly focus. Skippie was powered down, her metal heart bumping along with the clock. Her metal gears rising and falling as the little engines of her leather lungs pumped out smoke like a lady's cigarette left a sweet scent of oil and ash in the air that clung to Arthur wherever he went. His long brown coat was in a heap on the floor, becoming a most comfortable cat bed for Skippie. His dark grey suspenders hung loosely on hunched over shoulders, as his brows creased in concentration. He played with the bronze gears of a pelvis, trying to figure out how to fix the ball-and-socket joint that had begun to rust. He used a thin toothbrush soaked in weak acid, trying to shine up the bronze.

After another hour go work, the clock began to sing again, calling out the hour in a baritone chime. After the twelfth calling out, he decided to retire for the night, putting down his tools and blowing out the candle on his workbench. It was due for a replacement, as it was all but a puddle of cooling wax on the wood, with only a low island of wick left. The low light of moon from the skylight in the roof was obscured by thin clouds of smog over the city. He slipped off his worn leather shoes, and unclipped his suspenders, letting them fall to the floor with a little noise as metal clips hit worn wooden floorboards. He laid on top of old covers and thin blankets, as the night was too warm to properly get into bed.

"G'Night, love," he whispered to the body on his workbench, stationary bronze gears giving back the same reply they had for years: silence. Arthur just sighed and rolled over to face the wall like every night previous to this one.

As the boys got older, they began to help out more, and the two twelve year old twins got involved in more of Arthur's work. Such a large and important project was eased with more hands, even if they were inexperienced. They worked on little things like arms, straightening out wires and polishing gears. Simple enough for the skills they had, but considerably making Arthur's life easier. They asked question like who the metal man was, and Arthur was happy to answer.

He was my most beautiful creation, he'd tell the boys as they sat on his bed, watching Arthur work. I had named him Francis as a bit of a joke, since his voice-box was poorly tuned, so his voice ended up nasally but smoother than intended, like a Frenchman! He'd laugh at this, and even if Mathew and Alfred didn't really get it, they'd smile too. They'd never heard a Frenchman before, so they didn't know what a proper one sounded like. It took me about five years to build him, as I started when I was twenty-five as a side project, to tinker with when I wasn't busy, he'd add at the end as an afterthought, screwing in a gear on a mechanical neck. He ended up being a proper gentleman, but what can I say? I built him after all! The boys didn't doubt that. As nice as Arthur was toward them, he didn't hesitate to scold them whenever they weren't acting like proper Englishmen. Even though they weren't born English, they were certainly raised like it in the workshop. As all do, Arthur'd add on, he eventually became more self-aware, but he did so in about a year, pretty fast, eh? The twins listened to every word. They wanted nothing more than to continue Mister Kirkland's work when they got older. So we ended up becoming friends, and eventually he started to fancy me! Arthur laughed a bit at this, like a father recounting to his children how he met their mother. So I reinstalled his heart, figuring it was glitching or somethin', but nope, poor bloke actually liked me! So naturally, I let him, figuring there wasn't any harm in it, but lo and behold, I ended up returning the sentiments! Alfred wasn't as sure what he was talking about, but Mathew certainly enjoyed the story. He liked novels, so he had an idea or what 'fancying' was. It was hard to believe that Mister Kirkland ever fancied someone, but most people fancied someone at some point or another so he could believe it. Ended up lasting ten years until he decided to break his heart from overuse, and he hasn't worked since, he'd add with a sigh. Ten years I've been trying to fix this idiot, he'd laugh without much humor. So you see boys, try not to fall in love with anyone, especially not one so bloody fragile! He'd push the hay-blond and silver hair behind his ears, and give a sad smile. Mathew'd usually lead his brother back to the kitchen to make a couple sandwiches, Skippie bumping along behind them.

He told this story on about ten occasions, with only the year of time passed changing, each time the boys listening with the same attentiveness as the first. Even though they'd been with his for six years at this point, he felt as if they'd been there forever. And he honestly didn't want to imagine life without them. And despite not being his children, he felt the urge to treat them as such, even if he was supposed to have them as only apprentices as according to papers from the orphanage. He was supposed to be teaching them how to put their skills to work to get a job, but Arthur thought it'd be simpler and better to just have them take over his workshop when they got older. Repairing things and building little machines people requested took skills that could only be learned through a master, and Arthur was proud of the fact that he was one.

He set back to work, finishing up a request for a sweep-er and tidy-er. He had added a little metal dress to the robot, and a bonnet, to protect her from dust ruining her mechanics. Her little steam engine fluttered in her chest as she set to work, testing out her ability to sweep. She stood about a foot and a half tall, and her puffy little bronze dress was adorned with nickel buttons and thin aluminum lace. She looked like a proper little maid. He made her for a poor woman, who requested that she have a little maid to clean up the house, as she had to work all day to support her seven children. She'd asked for nothing fancy, 'the bare bones if necessary' she had said. Arthur decided to make the little maid look nice, and if she did gain consciousness, the tiny bronze lady wouldn't be ashamed of her nakedness. It was worth almost twice what she had paid for, but Arthur truly didn't mind. Making robots was is favorite thing to do, and he hasn't gotten a request for one in a while. As he looked back, he saw her begin to fold his coat, Skippie watching her move with intense curiosity. When she finished, Skippie went back to her now folded bed, resuming her sleep. Doing a little curtsy to Arthur, she sat down, her knees folded beneath her dress, making her look like a roosting hen.

Arthur watched her go to sleep, then resuming his work again, back aching and eyes sleepy. The clock called out again in it's baritone chime, telling him the twelfth hour had begun and it was time to sleep.

"G'Night love," he whispered, yawning, and falling asleep the the sound of only two other beating hearts.

Mathew had decided to take up the project a year after it had been left. The large doll's thin bronze eyelids were still shut over its copper and bronze eyes. Being now eighteen, he had decided to finish up Arthur's project. Alfred called him for dinner, but Mathew simply asked him to come upstairs to help, as he was so close.

"Yeah?" Alfred asked as he popped his head into Arthur's old workshop. "What's more important than sandwiches?"

"I need you to hold this piece in place while I screw something in," he responded, finger pressed on a valve and free hand motioning to his brother to hurry up.

"Here?"

"Yeah, so as soon as I move my finger, you put yours down," he instructed, Alfred following diligently. Alfred ran the shop now, since he was better with finances and management, while Mathew did most of the projects. That's not to say Alfred couldn't, he just wasn't as good as Mathew, so he didn't handle anything that needed an expert's hand.

Mathew placed the final screw in, tiny, smaller than his pinky nail was wide.

"Done," he exhaled, marveling at how the mechanics of the body began to move. Skippie hopped up into his lap as he scooted away from the bench, giving the doll time to boot up. The metal heart began to move, steam rising as the mechanism started. Leather lungs full of water pumped the liquid through veins of bronze piping, the chest rising and falling in rhythm. It's copper and bronze eyes fluttered open, once brown, now bright green in the center.

"Arthur?" He whispered, arms extending shakily. He looked at the twins, his metal eyebrows twisting in confusion. "Arthur?"

"No, not Arthur," Alfred said, a bit awkwardly. "But we were, are, sort of like his kids," he explained, like that made any sense.

"Where's Arthur?" Francis asked, leaning forward on the workbench, his legs now off as he sat on the edge. "Please tell me where Arthur is."

"He," Mathew paused. "He passed away last year." He swallowed hard. "I- I wanted to revive you for his sake, but now I suppose it was cruel of me." Francis' lips quirked downward, his eyebrows scrunched up. Alfred and Mathew were surprised a man made of metal could have such a pained expression.

"Why did he die?" He asked, voice-box choked up.

"His heart gave out," Alfred grimaced, the painful memory of his pseudo father's passing still fresh in his mind.

Francis raised a hand to his chest. He didn't need to say anything. Boiling water droplets fell from his eyes, hissing as they fell onto his bronze legs.

"Alright," he whispered, his voice-box still full of too much water, making his voice warbled. "Things are fragile."

Alfred and Mathew agreed.

They were sure Arthur would, too.

#frukspringfestival2k17 #more of an ACE family fic tbh #APH England #APH America #APH France #APH Canada #fruk #na brothers #fanfiction #platonic sibling relationships are what i live for

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avelyst · 7 years

Text

Impulse

After a cold, snowy night in Marinette’s room, the last thing either hero expects are the new discoveries that follow. Things can only get more complicated from here.

Ch. 1

Chapter Two

The forecast predicts four to five inches of snowfall, and that’s excluding the ice that is sure to come.

Here, in Marinette’s room, Chat is warm – tucked away from the raging flurry outside. Her blankets are soft and inviting, a sweet hint of vanilla worn into the fabric. Adrien nuzzles into them, content pressing low in his belly.

“If you don’t stop it, my bed is going to smell like wet cat.”

His eyes slit open, twin orbs of lethargic green. It’s so unbearably comfortable here, roosted against her over-sized cat pillow.

Marinette crawls over the ladder and onto her bed, balancing two hot bowls precariously. The fact that she managed to climb up the steps without spilling them is remarkable, and Chat sits up as he catches a trace of the delicious aroma.

“I didn’t know how you liked it, so I improvised,” she hands him as small bowl, “Yours has more milk.”

Chat stares at the creamy contents, his ears perking.

“Chocolat chaud?” he remarks curiously.

Marinette folds her legs, hands cradling her own drink as she looks up at him. She blows gently, taking a hesitant sip.

“My parents always taught me that when you host someone, you should make sure their stomach is never left empty,” she’s amused by his visible delight, “I thought, since you’ll be here for a little bit, I might as well get you something.”

The taste is sweet on his tongue, perfectly temperate. There’s a hint of something else – nutmeg? Nathalie, or the cooks on hand, will prepare hot chocolate for him when he asks for it. But it’s never like this.

“This is wonderful, Princess.”

Marinette sighs, “There’s that nickname again.”

Chat draws deeply from his bowl, nearly half-done already. It settles in his stomach, light and frothy – warming him from the inside out. He considers her over the rim, the subtle pink in her cheeks and the dark, disheveled hair.

“Is there something that is more fitting?”

Marinette rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. Chat is heartened by it, and he lowers his bowl, vaguely curious.

She likes Adrien. Or, at the very least, she finds him attractive.

Up until recently, it had escaped him how beautiful Marinette actually was. He was too preoccupied with his modeling, his piano lessons, his fencing, and the extracurricular activities. Being a perfect son, an ideal image of Gabriel Agreste’s legacy, was too demanding. The only person from school he was able to truly make time for was Nino, and with his secret life as Chat Noir, even that could become strenuous.

Somehow she’d become part of the backdrop – the people and places that Adrien barely registered as he tried to plow through his father’s rigorous scheduling.

But here she is. Pale blue eyes and rumpled pajamas, slender fingers curled around porcelain, her small feet tucked under her. There’s something about Marinette’s presence, her house – even her scent – that puts him at ease. Sitting here with her like this, watching her fight a smile and redirect her attention to the bowl between her hands, feels proverbial.

He can’t put his finger on it.

“Lovely?” he whispers.

Her azure gaze flits up to his face, and several seconds pass, her mouth pausing over the lip of her bowl.

Chat leans forward a fraction, and he can see the tentative press of her lips. But she doesn’t rebut or chastise him, and it spurs him on.

“Little dove?”

He lifts a hand, his thumb ghosting the curve of her knuckles, pale from her firm grip on the bowl. She’s very still, and the image of a rabbit comes to him – small and uncertain, frozen in place as the predator circles it.

“Marinette,” he murmurs.

He never noticed it before – the bow of her lips, soft and alluring. The delicate line of her throat as it disappears beneath the collar of her shirt. Her skin looks soft, brushed with a delectable shade of pink.

Chat is still leaning toward her, the space closing between them. He’s not even sure what he’s doing, or where the force pulling him is coming from.

“Chat?”

Her voice is hushed, an intriguing lilt that draws his eyes to her mouth.

“Yes?”

One of her hands comes up to his chest, a gentle pressure. He can feel her small palm, warm against the thin material of his suit.

“You spilled your hot chocolate.”

He starts, surprise sidling through him as he looks down at his lap. Hot liquid stains Marinette’s sheets, the overturned bowl resting against his wet thigh. Chat swallows thickly.

Marinette laughs as he fumbles for her sheets, bunching them up, lifting the bowl in his other hand. She shakes her head, but there’s a smile playing on her lips.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have drinks on the bed. I don’t want to get my sheets dirty,” she observes.

Chat’s eyes glitter, but before he can say anything, she cuts him off.

“I don’t want to clean up any spills.”

His gaze follows her as she scoots off the bed, shimmying down the ladder with more poise than he can expect from someone balancing dishes. Chat hops down from the loft, the messy fabric in one hand.

“This is why I don’t let pets on my bed,” she says.

His voice is mischievous, “I’m your pet now?”

Marinette shoots him a pointed look, setting the bowls down on her desk.

He dabs at his damp legs with the sheets, frowning at the spreading blot on the fabric.

“This might stain,” he says.

“The sheets? Maybe.” she concedes.

Chat glances up at her. Marinette bends over her vanity table, wetting what looks like cloth. His attention lingers on the slender line of her back, the delicate curve of her waist under the pajamas. His eyes snap up as she turns around. When she approaches him, she exchanges the wet rag for the sheets.

“For your suit,” she clarifies.

Her eyes are big, fringed with dark lashes. The pale blue is amplified by his night vision, and Chat averts his attention to the rag in his hand.

The young hero sinks down onto the furniture. He bows over his lap to scrub at the spreading splotch as her lithe figure crosses back to the loft, retrieving blankets from her bed. Marinette plants herself in front of him with an armful of coverlets, peering over them at his mop of blond hair.

“If these aren’t warm enough, please tell me. I can get more from downstairs.”

Adrien’s hand pauses, his eyes lifting to the blankets. He stares at her blankly, looking from her face to the fabric, then back again.

“You can sleep on the chaise,” Marinette offers quietly.

It takes a moment for the recognition to set in, and then pleasure tugs at the corner of his mouth, spreading across his features. She shakes her head, throwing the armful at his head. Chat chortles, batting away the material. When his face emerges, a plush mouthful of pillow thwacks him square in the nose.

“Get that smirk off your face!” she says shortly.

“What smirk?” he laughs.

Marinette props the pillow back over her shoulder, her stance ready for another swing.

“The one you wear when you think you’ve got your way.”

Chat can’t help it. The temptation to tease her is intolerable. He’s enticed in the promise of gracing her cheeks with another obstinate blush, in discovering what other reactions he can provoke out of her. He wants to know what other sides there are to the sweet, shy Marinette.

If she wants to play this game, he’s more than willing to rise to the challenge.

“Whatever could you me-”

She lets out a frustrated sound, and he can just barely see the way she screws up her nose as the pillow connects with his cheek.

“You’re doing it again!”

He throws up his hands, warding off another wallop from her plump weapon.

“My Princess lacks propriety, attacking an unarmed man!”

He faintly registers something soft bounce off his shoulder. Chat seizes it, a thrill jolting through him. He’s on his feet in seconds, Marinette letting out a shriek as he swats at her.

He ducks under her throw, and the boy lunges at her, striking at her ribs. Marinette dances out of his reach, and he laughs gleefully. She’s unexpectedly nimble for a seamstress.

“Get back here!” he growls.

She dodges his outstretched hand, and Chat lets out an ‘oomph’ as her pillow arcs around, socking him in the head. He leaps for an opening, retaliating with a hard slug to the hip. The sound of muffled thumps and smacks fill the cozy room. They continue like this, Marinette laughing openly after several minutes of the playful antics. He can see the flush in her cheeks, the lively glimmer in her expression – and a thought occurs to him.

He expects the noise of disapproval, the disgruntled huff when the only source of light goes out. What he doesn’t expect is how satisfying it is to see the unguarded pout on her face.

“That’s playing dirty, you dumb cat.”

Chat can barely contain the triumphant grin on his face – thankfully she can’t see it, or she’d probably threaten to whack it off.

“All is fair in love and war,” he purrs.

But which one is this?

Marinette grumbles, tensing visibly when she hears the direction of his voice. He can see her head incline, eyes searching the darkness.

The only remaining light ghosts over the floor, pale from the window. Speckled shadows fall soundlessly, snowflakes that kiss the glass and cling to the pane. It’s not enough to see by, but it quiets the atmosphere.

Chat circles her, his interest following the curve of her arm, the edge in her voice.

“Don’t even thi-”

She shrieks as they collide, Chat’s lithe body arching over her as he wrestles the pillow out of her hands. She grips onto it desperately, a tenacious smile curling her lips. It slides off her face when Chat digs his hands into her sides, issuing reluctant giggles through her petite frame. Marinette squirms under him, uninhibited laughter bubbling out of her, and the pillow is abandoned, her cheeks flushing darkly.

Her mirth is contagious, and Chat snorts as she howls under him, batting at his hands.

“P-please!”

Tickling someone has never been so enjoyable.

“Please what?”

Her eyes well, and her stomach shakes as she tries to gasp for air.

“Sto- ahhhh!”

There’s something addicting about the way she writhes under him, a plea on her lips.

Chat stills, his palms pressing into the dip of her waist. Her top has ridden up, and the heated, soft skin of her stomach is exposed to his sharp gaze. Marinette’s chest rises and falls rapidly, ragged breaths tearing through her as she attempts settle down from the hysterics.

His heart skips unevenly, taking in her rumpled appearance. Blue-black hair pools around her head, a lopsided grin on her face. If he knew that this was the way to unwind her, he would have done it far sooner.

“Marinette?”

A curious, concerned voice reaches up through the trap door in the floor. Chat tenses against her, panic arresting him. Marinette bolts up, nearly head-butting the boy. A look of alarm passes over her features, and Chat swallows thickly at the abrupt proximity – despite the situation at hand.

“Oh no,” she hisses.

“Are you alright up there, sweetheart?” her mother inquires.

Marinette shoves at him, and he falls back, eyes rounding.

“Hide!” she whispers fiercely.

Chat scrambles onto his feet, making a dash for her loft.

“What are you doing?” she demands, her voice shrill.

She races behind him, fumbling up the steps as he dives under her blankets.

His voice is muffled, “Hiding!”

The ladder beneath her room creaks, flooding them both with dread. Marinette throws a cover over her head, burying deep into the mattress as her mother unlatches the door.

Silence.

Her breath puffs against his throat, stirring on his skin. Chat lays very still, his eyes unfocused. Her hair tickles his cheek, soft and tousled, and his attention is torn between the girl nestled against him and the fear of discovery.

Chat's heart hammers against his ribs, hands clenched at his sides. He studies the Cheshire grin on her cat pillow, resenting it for the permanent delight on its face.

Absently he imagines the variety of ways her parents could skin a cat.

Chat doesn’t hear the click. It feels as though several minutes have passed, but it could only have been seconds. He feels Marinette’s hand on his arm, her voice against his chin. She says his name softly, nudging him.

“She’s gone.”

Adrien lets out a sigh, relaxing into the bed.

“That could have been catastrophic.”

“Don’t make me hit you,” she warns halfheartedly.

His smile dimples. Chat’s heart has barely settled into a steady rhythm when he feels her shift against him. Their legs touch, her knee grazing along his thigh. This entire night is unraveling his self-restraint.

“So,” he teases gently, averting his attention to playful banter, “You seemed very eager to get into bed with me.”

An obstinate, stuttering protest follows, and he imagines the look on her face. The way her nose might wrinkle, her eyes growing wide as she bites down on a flustered retort. He enjoys this instigation – eliciting reactions and expressions that he wouldn’t otherwise glimpse as Adrien.

Chat’s stomach knots anxiously.

He loves Ladybug.

He’s always loved Ladybug. He loves her surety, her fearlessness, her undefined bravery. He loves her determination, the way her eyes light up, the smile that splits across her face when they win a battle. The way she says his name – exasperated, relieved, amused. All of the luck he could possibly have in his lifetime was concentrated when he met her.

She is the star he can’t reach, the drug he withdraws from, the rain in his drought.

She is his Lady.

Adrien knows this. He knows this with a conviction that leaves him breathless; he’s never been so sure of anything in his life.

Marinette is his classmate – his friend.

A lovely, fascinating friend that he makes weak, rash decisions around and is irrevocably drawn to.

That’s it, he promises himself.

“Will your transformation drop?” she whispers.

He slips from his musings, “Hm? Oh...no.”

Marinette wriggles slightly, and Chat desperately clamps down on his thoughts.

Think of Nino’s collection of hats. Plagg’s smelly cheese. Father.

“You better keep your paws to yourself,” Marinette mumbles.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I’m not feline frisky.”

She exhales slowly, an exasperated noise.

There’s frustration there, and a smile he can’t see – and that’s probably why Chat is so taken aback when her hand slips over his shoulder and drifts to his hair. She laces her fingers through the soft strands at the nape of his neck, tugging gently. Surprise escapes his lips, catching in the back of his throat and rumbling through his chest.

The reaction is instantaneous. He leans into her touch, his purr low and gravelly.

“Silly cat.”

Her voice is hushed, astonishingly tender. Marinette’s fingertips are tantalizing, combing through the tresses and grazing against his scalp. His breath hitches, hands fisting in the blanket. Has she always had this skill?

“If you’ll behave yourself,” she murmurs, “I’ll let you stay.”

Chat groans lowly, eyes falling shut. He arches into her touch, releasing an approving mewl as her delicious fingers begin to rub slow, agonizing circles. At his temple, behind his ear, into the grove of his neck.

He nuzzles into her cheek, and Marinette’s voice is at the shell of his ear, tracing a heated path down his spine.

“But only for a little while.”

He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care how long he has – for the storm, for his transformation, or here with her. It’s immoral and demented. She’s not his lady – not even a girl he’s given the time of day until now. But she’s Marinette. Kind, nurturing, talented, funny, sweet Marinette.

And right now, whatever she’s willing to give him is what he’s willing to take.

He rasps against the line of her jaw, and there’s a sweet intake of breath – a near gasp. The sound coils in Adrien’s abdomen, hot and promising.

The slope of her nose grazes his, and his stomach clenches with something foreign, something laced with irrefutable need. Chat’s lips press to the soft tip of it. Both hands are in his hair, but instead of tugging him away, they’re threading through and dragging him in.

There's hesitation, and his pulse throbs in his ears, her lashes fluttering against his cheek. And when her soft lips slant over his, Adrien has one last, clear thought.

‘That’s it’ my ass.

#i might rewrite these eventually #but for now here you go #marichat #ladynoir #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fanfic #marichat fanfiction #impulse #my writing #mine

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