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theshelbyclan · 4 years

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Family Secrets

Summary: Polly finally lets slip what the real Shelby curse is and as the youngest Shelby, with a little encouragement from John, you feel obligated to use it to your own advantage

(Gif by @mistress-gif) A/N: I wrote this one when I couldn’t sleep, a long time ago, fuelled by my own frustration of being picked on as the youngest. This has been a headcanon of mine for ages and I finally put it to paper. I never had any intention of posting it, but because I’ve reached the 500 followers mark, I decided to share. It’s short, fluffy and a lot lighter than the actual series. Enjoy!

Words: 3220

***

“Give me the fucking book, John!” you bellowed through the kitchen. Your aunt was adamant that you’d all eat together, one day a week, on Sunday. These dinners were great and important, but they always ended in chaos. Tommy usually left early to get on with work, so he was never part of the sibling banter that ensued.

You had just finished eating and while Aunt Polly was busy clearing the dishes, you thought you could read a little. How wrong you were.

Holding the book out of your reach, the most annoying brother in the world was grinning broadly at you. “I will punch you in the fucking throat…” you threatened. This only made John laugh harder and he threw the book over your head towards Arthur who caught it nimbly. “How about me, little sister,” Arthur said playfully, “Are you going to cut me?” With a sigh you turned around and made another failed attempt at grabbing the book. Arthur threw the book back at John and a little game had started that you had no energy for. Still, you wanted that fucking book. “Forget the book, Y/N,” Ada commented from behind her own book, “Let them have their fun.”

But you were too stubborn for your own good, “I’ll be damned if I let them win…” which gave rise to more laughter from your brothers. So you grabbed the nearest tea towel and threw it in Arthur’s face. Before he could remove it, you pounced and actually felt the book beneath your fingers now. Polly paused her work and watched the scene with interest, partially because it was sweet, in a very Shelby manner, and partially because she wanted to put a stop to it before her kitchen got destroyed. You were so close, but Arthur grabbed you around your waist and managed to get the book back to John. Now you were well and truly stuck. “Right, what now?” he teased in a low voice. “Get the fuck off!” you screamed, when John walked over to you and dangled the book in front of you. Stretching out your arms as much as you could, you could almost reach it. But John, evil as he was, used his other hand to tickle your ribs and you immediately crumpled down in Arthur’s arms. The second brother soon joined in and now you were being attacked by two pairs of hands. You dissolved in a mess of giggles within seconds and there was nothing you could do. Sliding down onto the floor, with very little hope of rescue from your sister or aunt, you were at their mercy completely. And then, like some miracle, Ada intervened. She grabbed John by the collar and pulled him back. You gasped for breath as soon as you could. “She’s had enough, John,” Ada said sternly, “Back off, or you’re next.” Arthur looked down on you with a huge grin on his face, “Ada, we both know she can take much more than that…” “Noo!” you whined and without waiting for him to finish his sentence, you rolled away on your stomach across the kitchen until you bumped into your aunt. “Should’ve punched him in the throat,” she said softly to you. “Don’t be a baby!” John called out, “It’s your own fault.” “How the fuck is it my fault?” you replied indignantly from the floor. “For being so fucking sensitive,” John grinned. Arthur joined in, “That’s right. Just turn it off.” You rolled your eyes almost audibly.

John scoffed and pushed Ada away, “You’re fourteen now, Y/N. Time to learn.”

Polly turned around swiftly, “Oh, like you ever did!”

“What?” your head shot up.

Ada looked at you with a smirk, “What, you thought you were the only one?”

As you got to your feet, Polly helped you up and said meaningfully, “That’s the real family curse, sweetheart.”

Years of them pinning you down and teasing you bubbled up in frustration, “Are you saying that I’ve been going through torture for all these years, thinking that it was just me, when all this time…”

Arthur shrugged, “You’re the youngest and smallest. Comes with the territory.”

“Besides, we’re stronger,” John added smugly. He was right of course, which made it all the more annoying.

Polly threw down the washing cloth and theatrically said, “Welcome to the Shelby family, feared by all in Birmingham and where everyone is ticklish as fuck!” Your entire worldview had been altered in seconds. Apparently this wasn’t news to your siblings, because they all looked completely unimpressed by this bit of information, while you stood there with your mouth hanging open in surprise. After thinking about all of this for a while, you asked, “Even Tommy?” “When we were kids we used to make fun of him,” John recalled with a glint in his eyes, “It’s just his ribs, but if you poke him suddenly, he literally jumps.” “He went absolutely feral,” Arthur nodded. An idea was taking shape in your head, “Would that still work, you think?” “You’ll only get yourself killed,” Ada commented in her usual bored tone of voice. “Do it!” John urged, “Come Ada, you know she’ll get away with it.” You and John had always been the most mischievous in the family and you shared a look with a similar twinkle in your eyes. You finally knew something Tommy didn’t know. This was your one chance to catch Thomas Shelby by surprise. ***

For the next couple of days, you tried to get your brother alone. It was strange, because on the one hand you couldn’t wait to try out your plan. Envisioning how he would react was brilliant already, but the feeling of power you had was even greater. However, you also feared his reaction. Thomas Shelby was a busy man and he had very little time for anyone these days. When he did spend time with you, it was short and it often involved him reprimanding you. In all honesty, you were a little scared of him, but not scared enough to let a prank like this one go to waste. You’d deal with the consequences, whatever they were.

John might’ve been even more excited than you were and whenever Tommy left to go somewhere on his own, he motioned you frantically to follow him. Finding the right time proved almost impossible though. So you decided just to get on with it. This was the day you would find out if your brother shared the family curse. Unfortunately, he’d been in a bad mood all day. He’d called a family meeting at breakfast and had left quickly after that. They’d all reconvene in the evening. Dodging all your other responsibilities, you shadowed Tommy for most of the day, but he had one business meeting after the other. His mood was getting darker and darker, and you began to wonder if you were actually suicidal. But then, unexpectedly, you found yourself alone with him outside. “Y/N,” he said strictly, “Tell me what’s going on.” You’d come outside for some peace, because today was one of the busiest days at the shop and you’d had enough of the noise. Outside, you planned on reading your book and you’d forgotten about Tommy for a minute. Until he had appeared suddenly. “Nothing,” you said, looking up.

“Then why have you been following me all day, eh?” He sounded annoyed almost and all courage left you.

Improvising quickly, you said, “Missed you at dinner last Sunday.” “I was there,” he lit a cigarette and sat down next to you on the stone steps.

“For five whole minutes…”

“There was business to attend to.” “And there’s family to attend to as well,” you replied, without missing a beat. Silently, he side-eyed you and a small smirk played around his lips, “You’re right, I’ll do better next week. Am I forgiven?” “No,” you feigned anger. He turned his head towards you and he smiled, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

The bond you had with Tommy was a complicated one. In many ways you were very similar, but the war had changed him the most. Sometimes you felt like you’d lost him completely, when you thought of how you used to talk and laugh with him when you were younger. These moments were so rare now. And these exact thoughts did the trick and you decided that you had to be the one to make that old Tommy come back, if only a little. So you said a silent prayer, decided not to overthink it and poked him in the ribs once. The effect was immediate. Thomas Shelby shot up and nearly rocketed himself off the steps. With a wild look of betrayal he turned his eyes on you and you almost burst out laughing. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” you asked innocently.

He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair and sat back down. Apparently, we’re pretending this never happened, you thought.

A few seconds of awkward silence later, you poked him again. This time, a small yelp escaped him. The most feared gangster in Birmingham yelped, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing any longer.

As you were still trying to regain composure, Tommy pointed at you with a menacing finger, “Do that again and you will not live to tell the fucking tale.” You could only snort in reply. He was trying so hard to act all scary and while that had an effect on most people, you just couldn’t be bothered right now: It was too funny. Besides, you thought you could detect just a hint of mirth behind those pale blue eyes and decided to risk everything on just that.

“I mean it, Y/N,” he repeated, raising his eyebrows, “Do it again, I fucking dare you, and see what happens.” So you did it again.

In a flash, he was up and dove for you. But you were faster and jumped out of the way. Like the two of you were a part of a bad play, you started circling each other around the small yard. Neither said a word and seconds felt like hours. Then Arthur called from inside the house, “Tom!”

“You called a family meeting,” you reminded him, while relaxing a little at the prospect of escape.

Tommy’s eyes stayed on you and he cleared his throat again, “Fuck, alright. You’re coming with me.” And he lifted you up and threw you over one shoulder. Your shrieks filled the house as he walked through the betting den, over to the table where the family was already gathered, with you still on his shoulder. Without blinking, the leader of the Peaky Blinders announced, “Right, well you’re all here. Let’s talk business quickly…” Aunt Polly pointed vaguely at your arse, which was sticking up in the air, “You do realise you have my niece in your arms?” “Well aware, Poll,” Tommy continued, like it was the most normal thing in the world, “Business! We’ve done well this week. John’s shown me the books and we’re making more money than ever. Next week, we’re buying a new horse and I’m going to race her.” Flabbergasted, the family stared at Tommy. You could see the million questions on their faces, but they decided to wait until he was done talking. You had also refrained from protesting by now. “Poll, as treasurer I need your permission to buy the horse.” She blinked a few times and mumbled, “Buy the horse. Y/N‘s still…” Tommy held up a hand, “Not finished,” and everyone closed their mouths again, “John, I need you to talk to that old widow down the road. She’s recently lost her son and she should become part of our fund. Arthur, for fucks sake, get the books from the Garrison in order.” “It’s those bloody numbers, Tom…” Arthur grumbled in reply. “Are we all clear on what to do?” Tommy finished off in a hurry. When no one replied, he answered for them, “Good!” With this he plucked you down from his shoulder and held you in his arms bridal style. With a grave and business-like tone he announced, “As you all know, this is Y/N Shelby, youngest member of the family. While we were away in France, she kept the fort and she has often provided us with some relief in times of stress ever since we’ve come back. But not anymore.” John started to get nervous and looked from you to Tommy. Had they gone too far this time? But then he saw Arthur grinning and even Ada had a small smile on her face, so he knew Tommy was only playing. “Gentlemen,” Tommy continued, “This is the day that Y/N Shelby dies. Say goodbye to your sister.”

And that’s when you decided not to await your fate, so you made a sudden movement and jumped out of Tommy’s arms. Dashing past the table, you sought refuge behind Polly’s back.

“Told you this would happen, Y/N,” Ada said, not helping at all.

For some reason, Polly got up and left the room, while stating triumphantly, “The secret’s out, Thomas. Deal with it.” Now you just had an empty chair for protection. Tommy pointed at you directly and practically growled, “And it’s going back in.” With three of the largest steps he was at your side once again.

So you held up your hands, “Okay, wait, I can explain.”

“Too late, little sister,” Tommy said in a low voice, “These are family secrets that are not spoken of.”

“You’re such a drama queen, Tommy,” your sister commented, while getting up to leave. And all you could think was: why would you leave me alone with these mad bastards?

You really should’ve known better but decided to go for the cocky approach, “There’s no point in trying to scare me now, Tommy, knowing what I know.” You raised your eyebrows in an attempt to show him you were still in control. You weren’t. In a flash he’d tackled you to the floor and had you pinned down, while whispering ominously, “You picked the wrong brother to fuck with, Y/N Shelby.”

And for the second time in a week, you cursed your own sensitive skin as dexterous hands attacked your sides. Incapable of little but laughing and screaming, you flailed around hopelessly. Tommy’s face was slowly softening into a smile as well.

“Tommy!” you pleaded between giggles, “It was John, not me!” “Was it now?” he taunted without stilling his fingers, “And who was the fool to listen to his ideas, eh?” He moved up to your ribs, which made the pitch of your laughter increase. “Toohoohoom! Wait!”

Now, it was no secret that your major weakness in life was your sensitivity. Usually it was John who took the most advantage of it, being the mad joker that he was, but he often got Finn or Arthur to join in. Arthur on his own could be absolutely brutal, which was due to his strength as well, so there was no hope for you at all. Ada didn’t bother much, but when she did, she was merciless, much like Polly. But Tommy, he was a whole other story. You didn’t have many moments like this with him anymore, but when he did play and did get his hands on you, it was hell. He knew exactly how to reduce you to a small heap of giggles, pleading for your life and regretting all life choices up to that point. And this was happening right now. His smile was widening and he shook his head, “You thought you could beat me, eh?” “Yeheeeheees,” you admitted. Then he stopped for a second, allowing you to breathe, “Alright, you little devil, I’ll give you one a chance to speak.”

Residual giggles were pouring from your mouth, “Never… listen… to… John.” Tommy looked up at his younger brother who was showing zero remorse on his face, and he nodded slowly, “Good. What else?” “I’ve learned that Thomas Shelby sounds like a girl when…” but you never got to finish that sentence, as he continued his assault.

“Wrong answer. And you are way to ticklish to have an attitude like that, Y/N,” he said calmly.

As he dragged your arms up and dug his hands under your arms, you squeezed your eyes shut, “NOOOO, I’M SOOHOORYYY!” “Are you?” he asked, now smiling broadly at your reaction, “Then tell me what you’ve fucking learned from this, eh?” “YOU DON’T FUCK WITH THE PEAKY BLINDERS!” you managed to shout out between laughs. “That’s right,” Arthur commented, watching the scene while sitting back in his chair, “Finally, she gets it.” Tommy paused and looked at both of his brothers, as if he was waiting for their verdict. “Nah,” John decided to cause more trouble, “I don’t think she has…” Still struggling unsuccessfully to get out of Tommy’s grasp, you shouted, “John, shut your fucking mouth or I swear to God…” Tommy rolled his eyes and interrupted you, “Get her, boys,” he called out, “Let’s teach our sister some respect for her brothers.” So now there were three brothers trying to keep you in place, while you were being tickled from all sides. Why did you listen to John? Why did you not know better than to challenge Tommy? Spluttering, kicking and fighting like crazy, you managed to kick them a little bit at least, but the fact that they were all grinning down on you still meant that it didn’t help much.

Tears leaking out of your eyes, you shrieked, “YOOOUAAHAHAH AHAHAHALL SUAHAHACK!”

Then Tommy stopped them and crossed his arms in front of him. The amusement was twinkling in his eyes, “Had enough?” “Yep,” you said quickly, wiping the tears from your eyes. “Whatever Polly has told you,” he widened his eyes and brought his face close to yours, “Family secrets are not spoken of.” “Fine!” you called out, “They’re not spoken of.” His smile grew again, “Remember this, Y/N. And remember this was nothing compared to what we can do and what I will do, if you ever feel the need to cross Thomas fucking Shelby again.” You got up, again, and brushed yourself off while sending a death-stare to each of your brothers. But when Tommy smiled at you, there was a certain warmth to it that you hadn’t seen in ages.

“Wankers…” you mumbled carefully. Tommy smirked slightly, “You brought this upon yourself, Y/N. Now you know what happens…” “…when you fuck with the Peaky Blinders. Bladibladibla…” you finished his sentence. Making your way to the door, you turned back for a moment, “To be fair, Tommy, I did just saw you jump up about a foot because you’re actually fucking ticklish. So much for the whole gangster act, I should say.” Tommy’s eyes narrowed, John burst out laughing and Arthur managed to shout out a quick “Oi!” And before anyone could react, you sprinted away. Somehow, this still felt like a victory. Sure, you were the youngest and probably the most sensitive in the family, but you had discovered your own weapon now. John would be next, just for setting you up. Arthur would involve more planning. But finding Tommy’s weakness, that was the real triumph. Behind you, you could hear Tommy sit down and sigh, “Well, boys, we’re well and truly fucked now…”

And you grinned to yourself. The game was on.

***

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aliensunflower-fics · 4 years

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Attitude - [Bustier Salt]

[ I had a teacher like Bustier back in highschool, I was depressed and being bullied at the time among other horrible things so I REALLY dont like Bustier’s character for reminding me of that. So I based this fic somewhat on an actual event that happened with that teacher it was therapeutic! Hope you enjoy! ]

Marinette sighed, a mix of amusement and annoyance gracing her features as class was interrupted for the third time that day, this time it was Kim and Alix the competitive pair loudly declaring war on one another this time over who could procure the better mark on Bustier’s upcoming test. It was certainly the least destructive challenge the two had ever entered but Marinette could already see the many ways they could and probably would take it to far. She’d bet that Max would end up in a tug a war as both challengers would want him as a study mate and Marinette guessed that Kim would likely ignore sleep to cram while Alix would try to study and skate at the same time. Bustier called for the class to be quiet plastering on a cheery smile as she reminded everyone that it was almost time for lunch and that they could all talk then. Marinette fidgeted in her seat eager to bolt out of class and join up with Kagami for lunch at the bakery.

The two girls had grown close ever since Lila had ‘took over’ as the supposed class queen though it was more like everyone humored her In truth the girls threat had never actually come true. Marinette enjoyed a healthy relationship with all her classmates Alya and her were still friends and if anything Marinette felt she should thank Lila for helping her learn her own value. In the short while where Lila had been queen Alya and the others drew away not intentionally or maliciously they were just so busy listening to such grand tales they sorta forgot about Marinette. And in that time Marinette had bonded closely with Kagami the fencer giving her the push she needed to be more assertive and confident in herself! And when she was she noticed that suddenly Adrien wasn’t so amazing. He was a good friend but she didn't need the crush anymore she didn't need the validation she was happy and confident as she was.

And not long after that Lila’s new-ness wore off and everyone caught on to the fact that Lila could sometimes stretch the truth or be a bit over sensitive. In the end, Marinette still sat at the back and she still had to deal with Lila on the daily but she still had her friends and if things kept going as they were with Kagami well… Hopefully she’d have more than just a friend soon! The only real problem lately had come from the most unlikely source. Mme Bustier. Marinette wasn’t sure if the teacher had just fallen for Lila’s lies hook line and sinker or if maybe just maybe she’d ALWAYS been like this? It was a thought Marinette didnt like to entertain but it was hard to ignore the permanent fake smiles that never quite reached the eyes or how ever since Marinette became more assertive and confident how the teachers once compliments became criticism.

The sound of the bell caught Marinette by surprise and she moved to gather her things. Kim and Alix raced out of class first trying to beat each other. Adrien dodged Lila’s clutches sticking close to Nino, Alya looked back to Marinette giving her a thumbs up and a ‘go get her!’ Before chasing after Nino. Soon the class was empty save for Marinette and Mme Bustier. Hauling her backpack over her shoulders Marinette headed to the door only giving a curt nod and smile to her teacher on the way out trying not to notice the ever present fake smile and the cold look in her eyes that just didn't match, right as Marinette reached the door however-

“Marinette? Could you stay here please? And close the door would you, we need to talk.” Bustier’s voice as usual held a cheery tone but Marinette could easily hear the underlay of aggression.

Closing the door Marinette moved back to her teachers desk hoping that this wouldn't take too long. For Mme Bustier’s part she looked to be in no rush carefully taking her time to sort papers humming slightly her ever present smile plastered on as if desperately trying to look the part of the friendly teacher, instead of actually being it. Shuffling from foot to foot Marinette resisted the urge to tell Bustier they could talk another time after all Kagami was waiting for her! Surely Mme Bustier would understand? Finally Bustier slid a packet of papers in her desk drawer before she turned in her chair to address Marinette her smile growing wider more forced crinkling the side of her face before she spoke.

“So Marinette… I was thinking that you should spend your lunch in here!” She blinked once, then twice. But Bustier just kept smiling no hint of joking on her features.

“E-Excuse me?? But why?” The words were careful but Marinette could not stop the very clear confusion and annoyance from slipping into her voice.

“Mmm~” Bustier hummed pleasantly. “Well you see Marinette, I was not a fan of your attitude today in class.” It was stated as if it were gospel, a fact easy to understand. But Marinette understood little.

“I'm Sorry?!” The words came out quiet but strained shock, annoyance but mostly confusion evident. To her credit Mme Bustier didn't even blink.

“Your a good student Marinette, but your attitude is a problem. How can you expect to lead your classmates if you keep up this behaviour? So you will be staying here at lunch.” It was said so sweetly so kindly with such gentle tone yet still Marinette felt like she'd been slapped.

Had she done something? That was Marinette’s first thought. Doubt and panic creeping into her body twisting her stomach making her feel sick and sweaty. But she could think of nothing. All class she’d sat quietly taking notes when they were needed doodling if they werent. Answering questions when called. She’d been a model student! Even when the rest of the class became disruptive she’d sat quietly waiting for Mme Bustier to do her job- Unless. Was that it? Did Bustier expect, no demand that Marinette take responsibility for her classmates? Was this her teachers sick version of forcing Marinette to be an example of a perfect student a base for which others were expected to follow!? A cold feeling washed down Marinette’s back and her eyes hardened at the teacher still sitting still smiling. Did Bustier expect her to smile and apologize and sit quietly going hungry? Because if so she had another thing coming. Tightening her grip on the strap of her bag Marinette marched passed Bustier’s desk toward the door. In shock Bustier stood her voice raising.

“Marinette! Where do you think your going!” Even in her panicked state shocked by Marinette’s defiance she tried to force her voice to be calm and gentle she tried to smile but her widened eyes betrayed panic.

“I'm going to lunch.” Marinette spoke flatly not betraying the cold icy rage in her heart.

“Now Marinette. Your just proving my point. You clearly have an attitude problem. Stay here for lunch and let's talk about it.” Bustier was trying to regain control. Trying to keep her voice even and calm. Trying to make her command seem friendly.

“No. I don’t think I will.” She took another step, Bustier moved quickly taking a step from behind her desk now. Still smiling that horrible fake smile still trying to be friendly.

“Marinette. If you keep up this attitude I’ll have no choice but to take you to the Principle and call your parents! You WILL stay here for lunch.” The smile was so forced so ugly her little cold eyes piercing into Marinette.

But all Marinette wanted to do was laugh. Bustier was so sure of herself so sure of her power and position so sure that she was the most beloved and friendly teacher that all her students would accept even the most unfair punishment because if Mme Bustier said it then clearly it was true! And maybe… Just maybe. If Marinette lacked the confidence she now had, if she was still the Marinette from before Kagami, the Marinette who craved validation from a crush who genuinely believed LILA could take away her friends. Maybe if she was that Marinette things would have gone the way Bustier wanted. But for Marinette’s part. All she did was laugh, a cold dark laugh a laugh that still didn't break the fake smile on Bustier’s face but the shock was clear in her eyes. When Marinette was done laughing she took a breath before speaking her voice coming out cold.

“Fine. Take me to the principal's office. Phone my parents. I'd be delighted to hear what you’d tell them when they ask why you were trying to force their daughter to go without food.” Bustier’s eyes widened considerably her smile twitched but didn't drop.

“This attitude of yours is getting out of control Mari-“

“What attitude?! Mme Bustier? The one where I sat quietly in class taking notes? Or the one where I calmly answered questions when asked? Or maybe the one where when the class got disruptive I didn't do your job for you?” Anger filled Bustier’s eyes and her smile twisted into an ugly look.

“Don’t you think your going a bit far. Marinette.” Bustier’s voice was sickly sweet barely hiding the venom behind it.

“No. I don’t think I am. In fact id go so far as to say that the only one here with an attitude problem is you. Mme Bustier.”

“How Dare You!-“

“No! Mme Bustier! How dareYOU! I am not your perfect shining example, or your substitute teacher! I am a student! And the only thing wrong ive done today is let you waste my lunch!”

Bustier’s smile was gone replaced with an open mouthed look of surprise before being twisted into a sneer. She could not believe this! Her model student was daring to talk back to her? To make a scene? This was not what she was supposed to be this way! She was supposed to set the example to stop her classmates when they got out of hand! To acknowledge Bustier as a caring teacher who only had the best in mind but here she was fighting her!? Would she truly need to drag her to office? No that couldn't be this was just a mistake! Marinette was just acting out a little then she'd settle down and spend the rest of the lunch sitting quietly reflecting on how she could have done better how this attitude of hers was ruining everything! But then why was she trying to leave again?!

“W-Where do you think your going?! Get back here! This attitude of yours has gone far enough Marinette you are spending your lunch here!” The pretense was gone the sweetness lacking shock evident the desperation seeping in.

“No… I’m not. But you know what. If you really think I’m acting out. That I have an attitude problem? Then do it. Take me to the principal call my parents I’ll love watching you bury yourself.”

Cold fear washed over Caline, this was not her Marinette! Her Marinette had been quiet and resourceful she never made a fuss or upset anyone! Why was she suddenly acting out? She wasn’t being treated unfairly! She was being treated with extra responsibilities like all mature children should! Yet Marinette was acting like she was the victim and it was ridiculous if only the old Marinette would come back! Then everything would be easy like it use to be! Finally finding words she moved to speak she just needed Marinette to realize that all this tantrum would do is lead to an Akuma! Maybe, just maybe someone was being a bad influence on her star pupil! It could be that Kagami girl always so aggressive! That was it! She just needed Marinette to stop hanging around such… Unreasonable people. Surely the moment she would she’d go back to how she was and make peace with her role as the model student and Lila. Sure it was stressful to be an example but it was also an honor!

Meanwhile Marinette was having very different thoughts. As she eyed up Mme.Bustier she could see the teacher she once respected thinking her way through Marinette’s words. And if Marinette could guess her teacher was most likely trying to ignore the fact that Marinette had threatened her. But that WAS just like her, to avoid the real issues, the real problems, and instead soften everything until you let it go feeling ridiculous and guilty for something that wasn’t your fault. That’s what she’d done to Marinette during the Chloe and Lila incidents. And Kwami be damned if Marinette let her do it again! Kagami cared for her, stood up for her, was always there for her! And Marinette could hear her now in the back of her head urging her forward demanding she defend herself that she lay the line in the sand. Mme.Bustier would never stop not unless Marinette was firm. So when the redheaded teacher finally gathered her wits and opened her mouth to poor out yet more sewage about her responsibility to her class Marinette was going to remind her of HER responsibility!

“Don’t.” It was a sharp command. “Don’t you dare tell me who I am, or what I must do.” Marinette had no idea how much pent up anger she had at her once favorite teacher until that moment.

She needed to remain cool so she took a deep breath and centered herself thinking of how Kagami’s armd felt the last time she’d picked her up twirled her and called her ‘her dazzling sun’. She could do this.

“If you were to take me to Mr.Damocles about my attitude problem. What do you think I would tell him.” Bustier looked confused and angry and flustered.

“I would hope you would apologize!” Oh Kwami was she serious?

“I would tell him to review the footage of today's class. And do you know what he’d see?” Bustier paled somewhat trying to stammer out a response.

“He would see Alya at the start of class. Arguing with Chloe and you doing nothing to stop it but look over at me waiting for ME to play peacekeeper.”

“W-well it comes better from a fellow student and shining example then it does-“ Marinette wasn’t even listening.

“By the time you do stop them 10 minutes of class have been wasted. And me? Well I was reviewing notes waiting like a good student for my TEACHER to do her job.”

“Well I-“

“Later, Mr.Damocles would see you letting Lila interrupt class repeatedly to lie-“

“Now we don't know that-“ Marinette grit her teeth but proceeded.

“To LIE, about something relevant to what your teaching. And you let her, she gets zero discipline for repeatedly disturbing the lesson or making up lies. And where am I in all this? Reading ahead. Waiting for my teacher to do her job.”

Caline looked rightly embarrassed her face going from red to purple to white. Marinette didn’t care she wasn’t yet done.

“And then finally he would see Kim and Alix fight. Shoving each other, yelling, and what do YOU the teacher do? Again you look to me.” Marinette sighed.

“Face it, you expect me to do your job FOR you! But I am a student and like every other student here I deserve to go to school and be taught by a teacher who does her job! Instead of putting her responsibilities on a student while also expecting that student to neglect her own feelings so that bullies and liars get an easy pass.”

“That is enough! Marinette this attitude problem is worse than I feared! You will apologize!” Marinette sighed heavily.

“No.” Caline looked slapped. “Because I haven’t done anything wrong. The only thing this conversation has made clear to me is that if anyone has an attitude problem. Its you.”

Before Bustier could think of a response. Marinette was gone. Her confident strides taking her out of the classroom with no room to protest. Finally Caline took a breath it was shaky like her legs. She stumbled back slightly and sank into her chair, the normal happy smile she plastered on her face to show her students that positivity meant everything even when your upset was noticeably missing. Marinette harsh words kept replaying in her head. She couldn't be at fault… Could she? She didn’t have an attitude problem, no Marinette did she had to! Why else would she talk back?! Yet the words kept haunting her and a smile even her perfectly practiced ones seemed impossible to muster. And things remained that way even when lunch ended and her students returned all accept for Marinette who unknown to Caline Bustier was at home wrapped in the supportive embrace of Kagami as she finally told her parents everything that had been going on at school. As it turns out Marinette’s parents also thought Bustier was the one with the ‘attitude problem’.

[ There ya go! Hope ya’ll liked it! Thank you everyone who has followed and sent nice asks or left comments you have no idea how happy it makes me!!! ]

[ Wanna Support Me? Donate HERE! ]

[ Wanna Read More? Masterlist HERE! ]

#kagaminette #marigami #my fic #bustier salt #ml salt #its really mostly salt but i tried #if you cant tell yet i am a filthy multishipper #you cannot kill me

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sergeant-spoons · 3 years

Note

Hi! Just saw your author ask post, how about C (with any/all of your long fics), F (with the same), M, and Z? thanks! 💙💙

Sure thing! Thanks for the ask, dear anon! 💕

C: How did you come up with the title to (your OFC fics)?

Oh boy this is going to be a long post 😂. I’ll do bullets for this one, below the cut.

Cobblestones - Sutton Flynn-Marshall

I was just about done writing the second chapter of Sutton’s story before posting her introduction moodboard when I realized I needed a title. I took a walk outside and on the way I kept tripping over loose gravel, and my thoughts kind of went “gravel-stone-need to fix this gosh darn road-cobblestone? cobblestone.” Not the most meaningful of my girls’ titles, but there you go.

Scripted Tides - Jules Hartmann

Jules, right from the start, has been a writer. Also from the get-go, I knew where her story would end. It’s a tumultuous tale- we are in the middle of a war, after all -and there’s a lot pushing and pulling at her through the course of the fic. I also like water metaphors (I overindulge in them in my writing, for sure), so that certainly came into play. I think the biggest thing for me with Scripted Tides is that the title refers both to the natural to-and-fro of Jules’ life, but also reminds the reader that her path is quite literally predestined.

Also- I will be publishing Jules’ chapter 3 today, accompanied by a new, vital character to her story: her younger sister.

Le Défi des Français - Éva Delafose

This one was fun to think up, as well as pretty quick. I wanted something that showcased the determination of her character, hinted at her involvement in the French Resistance, and denoted her proud French heritage. Thus: “The Defiance of the French”, in French: Le Défi des Français.

Prose’s Passion - Olympia Bird

The reasons for this one are sort of a cross between Sutton’s and Jules’. I love me my alliteration, so I tried to come up with something that started with the same letter each major word. Then I started to think of her character and how letters and books are a big part of her story, and how she’s a rather frivolous romantic- “the passion of a rose” led to “the passion of prose” which ended up as Prose’s Passion.

In Defense of Chicanery - Verity Rich

Forgive my preferentialism for a moment- In Defense of Chicanery is my favorite title of all my girls’ stories. ‘Chicanery’, not a very colloquial word, is defined by Merriam-Webster as “deception by artful subterfuge”. Verity, giving up her entire life to serve her country in its time of need, must become someone else entirely, thus the deceit. I wanted to add the first part of the title, In Defense..., because she is not a deceptive person by nature and debates with herself for the better part of the fic if she is doing right by herself, her dear father, her comrades in Easy, and her country.

Also, the acronym is IDOC, and her love interest is ultimately Doc Roe, so there’s that little easter egg, too. 💕

There Goes My Flight - Bernadette Noel

One of the more comedic titles of the bunch, this one came to me when I was listening to Berni pitch ideas in my thoughts. I wanted it to be themed around her profession as an ATA pilot. She, ever the sassy (and somewhat snarky), declared, "Well this is a waste of time," to which I thought, "What, you got a flight to catch?” and bam- there it was.

Petals - Phyllis Dotson

A more sentimental addition to this list, there are a lot of reasons why I think the title Petals fits the story. Phyllis is, for one, mute; flower petals typically make no sound when they fall to the earth. One of her favorite pastimes (which she ultimately incorporates into her home-based business) is collecting flowers and dry-pressing them into pretty arrangements on paper or in books. Also, most flower petals are soft and gentle, like Phyllis herself.

Gallant Heart - Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Maeve, my brave darling! She is selfless and courageous and determined and goodness do I love writing her; her title came to me almost immediately after I created her introduction moodboard. “Brave heart/Braveheart” was way too on the nose (never minding the blockbuster movie associated with that name), so I went to my flip dictionary [a thesaurus, by all means and purposes] and voilà: ‘gallant’.

Destiny Carries a Wrench - Leslie Sheppard

The other of the more playful titles here is Destiny Carries a Wrench. For a good while, I’ve known that Leslie sticks by Don Malarkey’s side throughout the entire war. She’s there for him no matter what, almost like a guardian angel, almost like it’s destiny that they keep each other alive. She’s a jokester, like her best friend (cough cough), as well as a gifted mechanic, so I thought an amusing title would work best for her story. I, for one, think there’s something funny about the image of a guardian angel marching up to someone, smacking a wrench against her palm (but maybe that’s just me).

Also- shout-out to the lovely @tvserie-s-world who let me run a few title ideas by her before helping me settle on this one. 💕

To Find Unbroken Ground - Harlow ‘Harley’ Gibbs

Last but not least, my most recent addition to this list: Harley! The wild child of the bunch, to be sure, and I love her for it. Her title is actually inspired by a lyric in the song “The Wanderers” by The Sweeplings. The lyric goes: “The open air invites each one of us/to find unbroken ground”; I think this fits Harley well because of her explorative, adventurous nature and the way she approaches life with a wry yet earnest optimism. As such, "The Wanderers” is a firm staple of her playlist.

Would you look at that? What a perfect segway into the next question...

F: Is there a song or a playlist to associate with (your OFC fics)?

Yes! I have playlists for each and every one of my girls, even the ones who I have not introduced yet (and may not for some time yet). I collect songs through radio mixes, my personal tastes, and recommendations from friends. For instance, @vintagelavenderskies has a brilliant (and unbelievably long) playlist for her masterpiece Bleeding Hearts (go read it!) that I have certainly ‘stolen’ a few songs from for my own characters.

M: What’s the weirdest AU scenario you’ve ever come up with? Did it turn into a story?

I didn’t particularly think up this one- all idea credits go to the lovely folks of the Band of Boyfriends discord server -but this Y/N as a pair of scissors fic (that somehow turned a little smutty??) is definitely the strangest thing I’ve ever written.

Z: Is there a story you’ve written that doesn’t seem to get much love?

I was hoping someone would ask this: yes, indeed! I’ll link a few of my one-shots here that I wish would see a little bit more daylight.

I Get Along Without You Very Well (Donald Hoobler x OFC reader) || tumblr || ao3

Avis (3-part interwoven one shots; Band of Brothers) || tumblr || ao3

A Flower’s Beauty (Shifty Powers x OFC reader) || tumblr || ao3

Faith In Felix (Eugene Roe x OFC reader) || tumblr || ao3

Messenger to Montgomery (Ronald Speirs x OFC reader) || tumblr || ao3

What Are You Tryin’ To Say? (Joe Toye x OFC reader) || tumblr || ao3

Happy (Dick Winters x OFC reader // Winnix) || tumblr || ao3

Champion (Baberoe) || ao3

Any and all of my ‘feature-length’ fanfics (with the OFCs that I discussed above); links are to the masterlists for them || tumblr || ao3

WOW this ended up as a long post. Thanks again for the ask, dear anon! 🥰💖

#ooc post #get to know op #writing post #writing meme #time to ramble about my girls 💕#love 'em

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100hearteyes · 4 years

Photo

Clexa Week 2020 - Day 7 - Free Day

(thank you @butmakeitgayblog for beta'ing and cheering me on 🙌 and @dreamsaremywords for helping me avoid the pitchforks and torches)

Read it on AO3.

–

Eventide

“Your Majesty?”

A queen did not start.

A queen did not get distracted while being courted by a handsome foreign duke, either, but Clarke had never been quite like her peers, for better and for worse.

She dragged her gaze from the horizon line and met the kind eyes of Duke Finneas; a boy who meant well but could never be her equal match.

Perhaps he too meant well. Though Clarke’s heart yearned for the kind of devotion he would give, her brain craved a wicked mind like hers. Someone just as brilliant and terrible as her.

Someone else.

“You are distracted today.”

He said it kindly, amusement clear in his voice, and Clarke hated him for it. Still she bowed her head, as she should, and blushed like the besotted girl she was supposed to be.

“My apologies, Finn.” He preened at hearing the sound of his nickname, as he had asked her to call him by it countless times before. “I sent the best of my Queensguard to the border and they are expected to return today. I can barely wait to hear whatever news they bring me. And I am… naturally worried about their safety.”

He smiled softly at her. “Few would be so concerned about the lives of those who are sworn to protect them. You have a noble heart, my queen.”

The irony almost made her smile.

The Captain of the Queensguard knelt before her, head bowed and a fist closed upon the left breastplate of ornate, light grey armor.

“As I am sure you remember, Your Majesty, your cousin, Earl Aden, lost both his parents to the harsh bite of winter this year. He has requested to spend the next winter with you, so as to avoid further tragedy.”

Clarke nodded, thinking fondly of the boy with unruly blonde curls and a gentle smile. “I shall make arrangements in that regard. Is there anything else?”

“Your Majesty, the rest of the information I bring you,” distrustful eyes landed on Prince Finneas, “is meant for your ears only.”

Clarke did her best not to roll her eyes. The Captain of her Queensguard was extraordinarily competent, dedicated, and brave, but had a drastic tendency to be dramatic. There was no need for such showmanship, yet the Captain seemed intent on fanning out feathers and strutting back and forth like a peacock.

“If you say so, Captain,” she conceded at last. “Would you care to accompany me to the balcony?”

The Captain stood up and the two of them strolled past the thick curtains that separated the throne room from a balcony that oversaw acres upon acres of beautiful, green fields and thick forests.

Clarke walked up to the railing, resting both her hands on it. At times like this, it was soothing to feel the rough stone under her palms, scraping at the fair skin.

It grounded her.

She steeled herself as she felt the Captain sidle in next to her.

“Did you have a safe trip home?”

Clarke felt more than she saw the Captain nod next to her. She hadn’t expected any different. When she glanced at the elegant figure next to her, she found the Captain’s gaze trained on the horizon.

“What sensitive information is this that you requested a private audience?”

Green eyes finally met her own, dancing with mischief and something else tender and forbidden. “Everything was in order while we were there.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “So you wasted your queen’s precious time to tell her everything is exactly as it should be?”

The sky was painted in broad, reckless strokes of pink and purple, and the sun had started to hide behind the skyline. The moon would soon take its place on the throne with the stars as her witness.

“I would not go so far as to say it was a waste of time.” The Captain’s tone was teasing, but laced with fondness. “I gave you the chance to see the sunset, I know how much you like it.”

Clarke liked the night best. It was at night that stolen moments were a solution rather than a problem and sneaking, when the palace was cold and silent, didn’t feel so scandalous anymore. Sunsets were the promise of night. A promise that just for a few hours, she could take the crown off her head, leave the corset on the bed, and be just Clarke. The girl in love with another girl.

“Your absence was felt.”

Lexa’s lips twisted minutely. When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “Be careful, my Queen. The walls have ears.”

The Captain’s cautious words were betrayed by the tips of long fingers brushing against Clarke’s on the balcony rail.

Their hands were concealed by coats and dresses, but Lexa’s touch was featherlight nonetheless. It still gave Clarke pause; her entire body’s focus was on the points where their skin came into contact and her heart was a fist banging at the doors of her chest. It wanted out, as it always had; it yearned to flee its golden cage and tell the secrets the walls around them would have killed to hear.

“The stars have eyes, too.”

“Luckily, they haven’t mouths to tell a secret.”

Lexa’s words may have been meant to be soothing, but they awakened Clarke’s mind. They reminded her of the boy in the throne room, of long walks along the palace gardens and the crown atop her head.

“Duke Finneas of Traisson will be staying at the palace for a few weeks. He has stated his intention to court me.”

It was only because she was so attuned to Lexa’s touch that Clarke felt the sudden absence of delicate fingers against her own, so light had the pressure been to begin with. Nevertheless, it felt like a stab to her chest. The world around her dimmed, colors became duller. Clarke felt trapped in a world in tones of grey.

“He took me to the orchards. It seems to be a popular spot for courtship.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We found this… carving on a tree. Very queer.” A smile played at the edge of her lips, teasing at more carefree times. She found it mirrored in the Captain’s clever eyes. “Couples ought to be more discreet, don’t you think?”

“They ought to.”

“Can a queen ever marry for love?”

The bench they sat on, made of stone only, wasn’t the most comfortable to perch on. However, the way the moonlight slanted and made the orchards look like a pathway to heaven more than compensated for a stiff behind. When she turned and saw how Lexa’s features looked in the same light — cheekbones sharper, lips fuller and eyes prettier than she had ever seen them —, Clarke realized she could spend days sitting on that bench, never moving.

Lexa looked like those otherworldly spirits mythology books told tales about, so impossibly, painfully beautiful one may turn to stone just from looking into her eyes. Clarke would’ve taken that risk. She would’ve dared never moving again for just one chance to bask in the glow of Lexa’s eyes. For all of the Captain’s aloofness and penchant for speaking as few words as possible, her eyes spoke loudest than any Clarke had ever seen. Their expressiveness… The way they could never hide what Lexa was feeling… Clarke had tried to replicate them on paper countless times, only to come up short. She’d usually get the shape, the lights, and the shadows right, but— something in those eyes was simply unrepeatable.

Human hands couldn’t recreate it. Lexa had been shaped by the gods, and her eyes were the map to eternity.

And Clarke was always oh so close to unlocking the secret, to reaching the summit, but something always pushed her off a cliff and sent her hurtling back to the ground.

“Love is weakness, Your Majesty.”

Clarke was used to the impact. It didn’t hurt any less. Still, she stood, then and again, and braced herself for the climb. One day she would make it to the top.

“And civilizations are fickle. History is ephemeral. We live and die and whatever mark we leave on this world can easily be erased by war and pillage. Love is forever.”

“It lasts only as long as those who feel it.”

“No,” she countered, stubborn as ever. “It lasts longer. Love is immaterial, it lingers in the air around us, beneath our breaths and through this life and the next. Castles and parchment stay here until someone burns them. Love travels with us to the afterlife.”

Lexa stood up without a word and waited for Clarke to do the same, before taking off on a brisk pace towards the castle.

Catching up to Lexa was neither easy nor dignified, but Clarke eventually fell into step with the Captain, who took pity on her and slowed her pace to a languid stroll. Now going at an appropriate pace for a queen, Clarke took her chance to admire the trees around her, with ripe fruit hanging from thin branches and pulling them towards the ground.

No matter the heights one reached, gravity always did its bidding and pulled one back to earth. Clarke felt its effect now. She had reached for the stars once and been pulled so violently back she’d lost her footing. Then again, and again, and again. Every time, Lexa was there to catch her fall. And Clarke would swear the earth had turned upside down, it had to have, for Lexa was the very stars she had been trying to grasp.

How lucky she was, to touch the stars without having to lift her feet off the ground.

It had only been much later in life, when she’d been told to find a husband or doom her kingdom to ruin, that Clarke had realized just how cruel it all really was — the stars would always be within her reach but she would never be able to catch them.

Why love a star if you cannot have her heart?

As they neared the edge, Lexa halted, eyes locked on a tree in one of the final rows. Clarke followed her gaze and felt her lips sketch an outline of a smile.

Feeling reckless, Clarke followed a short, but uneven trail towards the tree and laid a hand on the rough bark. Her palm grazed the bumps and ridges of an age old carving and she read the words without seeing them.

L + C

Feelings cut into wood a lifetime ago, indelible as they were immutable, able to endure generations for the robustness of their canvas. Only human hands could erase them; only human words could disprove them.

Clarke felt Lexa’s presence behind her and turned around, her hand never leaving its home. They shared a secret smile, although Lexa’s was somber as her eyes swept over the entire orchard. One of many trees. As if it ever fell, it could be replaced with another. The earth it drank from and gave its strength to, however, could not.

Clarke knew the knife was coming before it embedded itself in her heart.

“If we are to be judged at the gates to heaven,” Lexa started, voice not quite trembling, though thin and weighed down by regret, “let it be because I failed my heart rather than the people I am sworn to protect, above all you.”

Clarke knew that song from heart. Lexa would’ve died before being selfish and taking something, or someone, for herself. And Clarke would’ve given her the world, yet she couldn’t afford to relinquish the political hold on her own heart.

Clarke and Lexa held the axe in their hands and little by little they were chipping away at the trunk. Human hands and human words.

Lexa turned around, ready to return to the palace. She stopped only at the sound of Clarke’s voice, scraping like sharp claws against the walls of her throat. “One day they will weigh my heart and find it heavy with sin and regret. None greater than for allowing the world to convince me to let go of you.”

“Duke Finneas proposed today.”

Clarke could see Lexa stiffen despite the dim light. The Captain turned on her heels and approached the window, laying a quivering hand on the parapet, back turned to her sovereign.

It was unusual for the Queen to visit her Captain’s quarters. The rumor mill surely would’ve started running the moment Clarke stepped inside Lexa’s chambers if not for the circumstances they found themselves in.

Lexa’s room was as Spartan as could be in a royal palace. Moonlight shrouded it in mystery, much as it did its owner’s expression, whose features were unreadable from ten feet away.

Words weren’t a clue, either, when spoken blankly. “Have you given him an answer?”

Clarke desperately wanted to let the ensuing silence speak for her, but she knew she owed Lexa a proper answer. She, who helped take down their tree, should swing the axe.

“I said yes.”

For a moment, Clarke thought she saw Lexa’s knees buckle and she might collapse. However, the Captain stood tall and brave, and Clarke admired her so for her stalwart asceticism.

“I see.” Lexa’s voice was brittle, no more than a murmur, and it was only the grim silence that carried it to Clarke and cut her with it.

Clarke bled, and with the pain came resolve. She took a step forward, then another, and a third. A deep breath later, she’d gathered the courage to take the leap.

“It’s my last night of freedom. We could finally—”

“No,” Lexa interrupted, turning to face her.

The Captain’s tone left no room for discussion, but Clarke had never been one to be content with the space she was assigned. She felt the need to push the walls, expand the perimeter and win back the room she had been denied.

So she stepped closer even, broaching Lexa’s personal space. “I cannot fathom a world where I don’t know the taste of your lips.”

Lexa’s eyes shone with agony, as though Clarke had struck a dagger to her gut and was twisting, and twisting, and twisting. They were mere inches asunder, so close Clarke could feel Lexa’s shallow breath on her cheek. She couldn’t remember a time there had been less than the width of her crown between them.

“You can’t say things like that, Clarke. Not when—”

Lexa reached for Clarke’s face, but froze before allowing herself to touch. Her hand hovered, fingers yearning and twitching minutely above a pale cheek. “I shan’t let you disgrace yourself for me.”

Clarke closed her eyes, sighing, mustering the courage to lean away from Lexa’s absent touch and speak the words that lingered in the back of her mind since she’d said yes.

“Then I am letting you go.”

Lexa lowered her hand as though she’d been burned, but made no other motion to draw back. She remained steadfast as Clarke watched the questions flit across her eyes, all of them going unasked.

All but one.

“Why?”

Clarke swallowed, though it did nothing to untie the knot in her throat. “I am setting you free,” she husked, resisting the ever-present urge to take Lexa’s hands in hers. “I can find another captain, someone you would recommend. Just… Please go, Lexa. Find someone else. Love someone else. Be happy.”

This time, Lexa recoiled, face twisting with resentment. She would have looked less affronted had Clarke slapped her.

For once, Clarke wished the stars would bear witness to one of their trysts and grow mouths to yell at Lexa to go and never look back — to love someone else, anyone else. Someone who would not chain her to a love story without closure.

No great epopee ever ended with a broken heart.

“I will not leave, Clarke. I shall stay and see you married and love you like the day I carved my soul into a tree.” Lexa took a step towards her, closing the rift she’d created moments ago. Clarke counted the lashes resting on the elegant bow of her cheeks, long and dark and thick like the night that hid them from prying eyes and outstretched ears. Lexa’s lips were parted and Clarke would have given her kingdom to be able to brush a finger over the bottom one; to feel the supple flesh give under her thumb. Longing green eyes danced between Clarke’s own and dropped to her lips for just a moment, before once again plunging into pools of midday sky blue. “Who I love is not my choice to make. My heart has never been my own, Clarke. I believe you’ve held it in your hands since long before we were even born into this life.”

No great tragedy ever ended with a smile.

Clarke was dressed in white and gold when the letter arrived.

Amongst a thousand apologies, Finneas relayed about how he had fallen in love with one of her ladies in waiting and decided to run away with her before the wedding. Clarke would have felt humiliated, if she’d cared for anything except the way her heart sang for joy.

She was free.

Clarke all but ran up stairs and down corridors, towards the hall where she knew her most faithful soldier stood waiting and suffering, withering under the weight of their most dreaded day.

There Clarke found her Captain, and something about her (perhaps the light shining in from the window and setting her hair on fire or the way her eyes widened with concern when Clarke barged through the heavy double doors; maybe it was simply that freedom made everything look twice as beautiful) almost propelled Clarke to start crying a river at the mere sight of her.

So focused was she on the object of her adoration, Clarke didn’t register everyone else filing out of the room at the flick of the Captain’s wrist. It was but a coincidence that the moment the door closed behind the last intruder, Clarke fell to her knees at Lexa’s feet, taking flummoxed hands between her own. Her fingers trembled, but she had never felt so steady.

“He’s gone. He ran away with one of my maids.”

The stricken look on Lexa’s face — the tragic, mechanized selflessness — made Clarke love her just that little bit more. “Your Highness, I am so sor—”

“Don’t you finish that sentence, Captain, for I am not.”

Clarke brought Lexa’s hands to her lips and kissed the knuckles one by one, tasting the salt of her own tears. When she looked back up, she found them mirrored in Lexa’s eyes. “What will you do now?”

The question yanked a laugh from Clarke, wet with tears and husky with bliss. She brushed a kiss to long fingers and held Lexa’s burning gaze, unfaltering.

“I swear myself to you, my love,” she whispered reverently. “My heart is your heart, my soul is your soul. My life is now yours. I needn’t a ring to speak my vows.”

“Clarke, you can't—”

“I can,” she stated, pushing to her feet, “and I will. Let the people know I’m no less of a queen without a man at my side.”

If anything, she would have been less of a queen for not being brave enough to follow her heart, Clarke decided. How could she be expected to make hard decisions for her people if she couldn’t make them for herself?

“What about the throne, Clarke? Your kingdom needs an heir, or else it will be at the mercy of its enemies,” Lexa insisted, raising mountains across the road of Clarke’s dreams. “I will not accept that.”

Clarke’s will knew no boundaries or chokeholds however, and she’d weave roads around mountains and over precipices to meet her goals. This time, with or without witnesses, and despite the slumber of all stars but one, Clarke would finally make promises she could keep.

“I plan to train Aden to be king and appoint him as my heir. He will carry on the bloodline and keep the crown from falling into the wrong hands.”

She knew Lexa had a soft spot for the young Earl and would gladly help her broaden his shoulders enough to trust upon them the burden of sovereignty. Meanwhile, Clarke would be so powerful and so ruthless none would dare question the absence of a king consort. Human hands and human words bore the power to devastate, but also to mend what was broken and etch new life into faded vows.

She looked out the window; the sun was setting, hanging new oaths on the sky and yielding up its holy perch for the moon to take. Sunsets held the promise of tonight, when a lifetime’s worth of dreams could finally become true.

Lexa’s voice pulled her focus back to the present. “If this worked… How would I fit into it?”

Clarke had always been bravest at eventide.

With hands that no longer hovered, she grabbed the back of Lexa’s neck and reeled her in for a kiss.

#Clexaweek2020 #Clexaweek2020 Day 7 #Day 7 free day #free day #mine #my fics #clexa #clexa au #aesthetic #eventide #royal au

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oh-theres-a-woman · 4 years

Text

Flowers in a Peaked Cap; Prologue

A/N; The very first Shelby Sister story that I’ve written, I wanted to give her a little bit of a whimsical vibe. A young woman with her head in the clouds, closer to her gyspy roots in loving to be on the road and travelling. Instead, she’s contempt with staying with her family in Small Heath. Pouring her soul out onto paper into the long hours of the night without her brother’s knowledge. After all, most of the tales she writes is about the glory days before the war.

Due to the request of her being much like the love Luna Lovegood, I thought it was fitting that Tillie’s face claim was the lovely Evanna Lynch.

Thought I’d add a few extras to the tag list whom I thought might like this story!!!

Requested By; @csigeoblue

Parts; [ 1 ]

Taglist; @zodiyack, @itsfrancisneptun, @amys-small-world, @fandom-fucking-shit, @hesagod-notyet, @hinagiku0, @dylanlover24, @amirahiddleston, @a-dorky-book-keeper, @theamuz, @csigeoblue & @smallheathgangsters

Word Count; 1021

Mornings light these bought in the oddest sorts from the streets into the betting shops, not that Tillie minded at all. She watched all unfold from her place on the stairs. Minding her own business, taking in each character pinned on a bet. Making up a story for every single one of them. Of course, she already knew the regulars, but there was no fun in that. Tillie liked to think of the whimsical things as her Aunt and brothers went about their workings, well, all except Finn. He tried, yet, seemed to get in the way. A lot.

Nibbling at her nails the girl poked her tongue out at her twin brother, teasingly. After he’d been told off for getting in the way of the others. Watching Finn scrunch up his face at the teasing gesture. The girl picked herself up from the confine of her stairway. Wandering away from the quietest place in Betting Shop. She landed herself beside her oldest brother Arthur. “Do you lot need me ta do anything then?” Tillie asked Art with a light purse of her lips. “Or can I go that reading from the store down the Lane, they have some interesting ones out at the moment. Read about them in the paper,” The girl beamed only to be shut down by her older brother, a frown creasing her brow.

“Oi, don’t you be giving me that look. Those readings are a bloody waste of money,” he flicked Tillie’s brow for the end of his point being made. She rubbed the tingling spot in her knitted brow that hurt from the flick. Ignoring her brother’s laughter; Finn. They’d always had this happen of laughing at each other if they got in the shit. Honestly, it was a family trait that followed them all through in some regard. The older boys; Arthur, Thomas and John, however never really laughed at Tillie like they did Finn.

She was a different sort; more sensitive than the lot of them. Often found herself blue and down when not about to run free. Or get lost in her own imagination. Unlike the gangsters in the family. Sweet, dear, Tillie was the soul of a writer. Enjoying days like these to just wander down the Lane towards the quietly kept bookshop. Where many creative souls, mostly men read their tales. The youngest Shelby never had the balls to stand up and speak before a massive crowd, let alone a few people here and there. Today was to be the chance, but it was going South so quickly.

“It’s not that kind of readin’, please, Art?” Tillie asked with a number of growing tears in her eyes, before the eldest shook her off once more.

“No, go back to whatever you were doing prior, aye. You’re getting in the way, Till.” The Shelby eldest warned and watched her drag back up the stairs, head eased against the stairs. Not at all a lady-like appearance, but it felt like an active protest.

Thomas watched his sister from where he stood in the shop, looking to Arthur with a sigh. There were other ways to put things than expressing someone’s piece of enjoyment was a waste of money. Plus, there’ll come the day where Tillie would become smart enough to use their own pleasures against them; whores, booze and Tokyo. He didn’t know of the little world inside her head; but he knew that she was elsewhere compared to them. Her world was the fairytales they all thought and dreamed of during the war, or back when Finn and Tillie were little babies that needed stories to sleep.

He also knew, just by looking at his sister that she was tireder than normal. However, dressed in her favourite and cleanest dress. One that Pol had made a big deal about getting for her birthday. It had suited the lush blonde hair that she had gained from their mother’s side. Uncle Charlie had light hair as well, so it was mostly the strong family trait. Yet, the cream accents of the dress made the Shelby blue of her eyes stand out a little moment. In the braided bun she always had pinned into place, there were flowers neatly tucked in there. Making her look every bit the gyspy, but also like a proper lady should in some regard.

Ink stained her hands that rested over her stomach, ignoring the rest of the things going on. Before she got the balls to nick back upstairs. Slamming her door behind Arthur’s protest about her staying at the stairs. The Shelbys’ needed to present as a united front. That was the bullshit that they kept selling, and spilling. Tillie else her back against the door to her bedroom, sighing softly looking at the sight of her novel bound and perfectly ready for the reading at the bookstore.

It was her chance to get it published, the tales of some sort of fantasy epic she hadn’t quite found the name for yet. Something that was perfect for the children with a wee bit of kindling for spiriting away.

So, she tucked her novel; complete. Within a scathe bag, and flung it over her shoulder. Opening the window. Tillie carefully climbed across the neighbours fence, then jumped down into the streets of Watery Lane. Dashing through the puddles not caring at all for them soaking her stockings. There was just a wild excitement with her heart. Finally, Tillie would be given the chance to read her stories and spark a chance for them to possibly be published.

Become something for herself that her brother’s never knew was in her whimsical soul. Perhaps, she was a little bit like that orphan girl Montgomery wrote about. Tillie just had an overbearing and protective family that feared that she’d end up like Ada… Only Pol knew of these tales and often spoke of how they’d sell millions of copies worldwide. They’d be the voices for little children need to learn their little lessons in life.

Before anything though, it’s author needed to to find her path and come into her own.

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cecilspeaks · 4 years

Text

174 - Radio Jupiter

This is Radio Jupiter calling out to all who hear. Please respond. Awaiting your reply.

[different theme song]

This is Radio Jupiter. I’m not sure who is listening. I’m not sure if there’s anyone to listen. I can only verify my own existence. I can only verify the void around me, the apparent fact of stars, the swirling atmosphere of the planet below me. I cannot verify much. I don’t know who I am or where I came from. I woke up here, and all I have to go on is my call sign. So this is Radio Jupiter, reaching out to whoever there is to be reached out to.

It is so beautiful here on my perch, here in my place, in the cosmos and the universe about which I know nothing but feel everything. I don’t know if everywhere is as beautiful, or even most places. Did I happen onto the one beautiful place in the all of it? Without perspective, there is only what is nearby. Without the burden of comparison, everything is beautiful.

If a person is the sum total of every experience they’ve ever had, is a person without memories still a person? Or are they a different creature altogether, made either limited or limitless by the possibilities of a clean slate? I am either trapped or I am more free than anyone who can hear this. If anyone can hear this.

There is a framed photo in this room. It is an elderly woman. Maybe my mother or my grandmother or an aunt. Perhaps merely a photo I saw in a magazine once and liked for whatever reason. I have no way of knowing what kind of person I am, what kind of photo I would keep. Perhaps it is a photo of you. Do you present as an elderly woman? Would you like to? I think perhaps I would like to, even for just a little while. But I only am what I only am, I ever am, whatever I am.

[distortion] This is Radio Jupiter calling all cars, all (species), all… [fades out]

Cecil: Is that any better? Is that better? Can you hear me? [clears throat] OK, my producer is giving me the signal that we are now back on the air. Sorry about that, not sure what that other signal was, but it completely took over ours, which is rude. We’re currently looking for the source of the signal. We’ve narrowed it down to up. Just right up there somewhere, beaming on down to us. But we’re back in control and we do not expect any more interruptions. Of course, we didn’t expect that interruption either. I don’t expect almost anything that happens to me, my life is full of mystery and surprise, as is yours I’m sure, but still, we seem to have this one technical issue addressed. With that settled, I think we can get to the news.

Our top story concerns… [reluctantly] Susan Willman. OK. Sure. There has been a lot of talk in town since the whole incident with the Obelisk, in which Susan Willman learned the name of an immortal all knowing being. This name now exist in her head, an object of great power reverberating through her thoughts. She has withdrawn from her duties as director of the Night Vale Community Theater and the Night Vale PTA. Oh darn, we’ll miss her and her prosaic, muddled staging and grandstanding about home-work life balance.

Susan has instead taken residence in a booth at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner. There at all hours, toying with a half drunk coffee and playing with the reflection of the sun in the back of a spoon. At night, the mint light of the sign outside sends strange shadows across her face, and her friends say they sometimes don’t recognize her at all. Steve Carlsberg, who is taking over her role at the Night Vale Community Theater, went to talk to her about some finer details of the casting process, and said that she was less than helpful. She was weeping, and the only thing she said the entire time he was there was that she was afraid to speak, lest the awful name slip past her lips. “No one was meant to carry such death inside of them,” she whispered, and then said no more. “Oh sure, yeah yeah, makes total sense,” said Steve, as he (-) [06:51] down some invisible pie. Well, I think we’ve given Susan enough attention for now, moving on.

In other news, the new beer cave at the Ralphs has been closed for repairs due to occasional time loop issues reported by certain customers. Manager at the Ralphs, Dave Ball, issued a statement by spelling out words with cantaloupes in the parking lot, saying “everything is fine with the beer cave, it’s a great and refreshing addition to Night Vale. Please don’t go inside or even look at it, as we don’t know why it’s doing what it’s doing. Everything is fine, please stay safe and stay away.” Dave then rearranged the cantaloupes to create complex fractal designs that made me dizzy to gaze upon, but were beautiful nonetheless. When reached out for a comment, Ralphs corporate said they had no records of any branch in a town called Night Vale, and were tired of receiving prank calls with bizarre tales about a made up store. When provided with pictoral evidence of Night Vale, a representative at Ralphs corporate began to bleed form the eyes while shouting: “This can’t be real! My god, this can’t be real!” More on the story of the beer cave if anything happens [distortion, fades out]…

Agent N-223: [--] out there, out there? Not sure if any of this is getting thru, but continuing to narrate on the off chance anyone will hear this and come, you know, to collect me. I’ve been doing some digging through the spaceship, and I’m disturbed by what I’ve found. Weapons. Many, many weapons. Racks of guns, cases of grenades and explosives, radar that I instinctively know is for tracking combatant space crafts, even though I have no memory of receiving that training. I am armed to the teeth and ready to wage war. But on what? There are no living beings in sight, and for all I know, there are no other living beings anywhere. Perhaps I’m here to wage war upon the planet below me, that swirling gaseous titan. Maybe someone had enough of it and sent me up here to put Jupiter back in its place. If so, I think the weapons they gave me were insufficient. I experimented by shooting off a round or two out the airlock, but the bullets soared into the upper atmosphere of the planet without slowing at all. My attack had no appreciable effect on my victim. So maybe the planet is not my target. Could it be the stars themselves? I am sent here, a pinprick in the side of God to cast myself as the stars, shouting threats and tossing grenades until the entire (-) [09:42] of the universe cowers and surrenders. Perhaps that.

Or perhaps I am at war with you, whoever is hearing this. Maybe I was given this radio in order to threaten and terrorize before I attack. So be afraid, I am coming. O-once I figure out where you are. I have no idea which direction to start moving and I don’t even know if this space ship has any way of controlling movement or if I’m just stuck in this orbit. Either way, this is Radio Jupiter apparently declaring war. [distortion] Consider it declared and [fades out].

Cecil: Can you hear, they can hear me? OK, I apologize, we’ve been doing all kinds of troubleshooting, including shifting the angle of our broadcasting tower, updating all of our software, and yes before you ask, we did try unplugging it, doing a ritual spilling of blood and plugging it back in. The issue we’re having is that these broadcasts are being sent out on military frequencies, which unfortunately automatically override ours. I’m unclear why the military would be getting into broadcasting, that’s more of a community radio thing, so let’s all stick to what we’re good at. I’ll keep doing radio shows that inform and delight, and the military can spend three trillion dollars on a plane that instantly explodes if anyone tries to fly it.

We have reached out to Rudy DeJardin, the local representative of the military industrial complex. He has a little table set up outside of the hardware shop, and anyone who has any questions for the military can just ask him, and he’ll do his best to answer. Most of the stuff can’t answer because it’s classified or embarrassing, but sometimes he’ll say a few cryptic words. In this case, his only answer was to make “mm-hm” sounds and shake his head frantically, while rolling his eyes toward the heavens. Not clear what to make of that, but I sure love whatever this broadcast is off my frequency, Rudy. Any time you want to get on that.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s show is brought to you by Nature’s Caress Fountain of Youth gentle flushable wipes. Did you know in most of the world, they just wash after using the toilet? They have a whole thing specifically for doing that. It takes a couple of seconds, cleans thoroughly, and doesn’t create mountains of paper waste. If you dirty your hands, do you wipe at them frantically with an even less robust version of tissues, or do you use water and soap? Why would it be different for anything else? Because it just is, that’s why. It’s the American way, love it or leave it. Nature’s Caress Fountain of Youth gentle flushable wipes: clog the world with your debris. This has been a word from our sponsors.

And now, as a special treat, Mr. Lee Marvin himself will perform act 3 scene 5 of Shakespeare’s classic tragedy “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. This is the scene that contains the immortal line “I never knew the meaning of fear until I kissed Becky.” [distortion] OK, Mr. Marvin, take it away!

Agent N-223: This is Radio Jupiter speaking to you from a time of peace. Yes, there was that brief episode of war, and it was regrettable. I fired upon an innocent planet, although that planet seems none the worse for my crimes. In any case, that war is now over, as far as I’m concerned. I have no interest in battles and conflict, especially when I have no memory of what that conflict could involve. I have no interest in killing anyone, and I have no interest in dying quite yet.

So, peace in our time. I’m jettisoning all the guns and other weapons. Let them scatter out harmlessly into the universe, most of them swirling down the gravity well of Jupiter, where the immense pressure of the inner atmosphere will compress them into diamonds. I don’t know if that idea is scientifically sound, but I like the thought of it. All these worthless guns made glittering jewels, swirling in the endless storm of a planet that doesn’t even know they’re there.

As for me, now that I’ve declared peace upon the galaxy, I would like to know what is out there. I have found the controls for the ship and it seems I must have been trained in their use, because whatever I do appears to work as I want it to. I am turning away from the only star I’ve ever known. Because my memory is short and it’s the only star that has been there for the last two hours. I’m turning out to the dark unknown, and I’m casting myself into it. I hope there is a grander universe out there, I’d love to see it. This is Radio Jupiter, letting the cosmos know that I am on my way. I’ll see you soon. Or, given the size of space, most likely I won’t see you. But we’ll both exist, and [distortion] won’t that be nice?

Cecil: [clapping] Wow, wow wow wow. Thank you, Mr. Marvin, truly a performance for the ages, and what a treat… What? What happened? When? Oh not again!

This is Cecil Palmer of the Night Vale community radio station. I don’t know if you can hear these words, but if you can, we have identified the source of these intrusive broadcasts. She is agent N-223, sent during the early years of the space program on a secret mission. She was put into hibernation so that she could wake up and serve as reinforcement in the Blood Space War at some point in the future. But it appears that the hibernation damaged her memory, and anyway the Blood Space War doesn’t happen for another thousands years, so eh, she won’t be much use in that battle yet. Ah, thanks to the anonymous tipster who snuck us this top secret info. We owe you, Rudy.

Oh, uh it looks like we might be having more interference due to some Rough weather.

[“The Faded Red and Blue” by David Berkeley http://davidberkeley.com/]

Agent N-223: This is Radio Jupiter on the tail end of the tail end. If there was anyone listening back near that star, I think I’m getting out of range. I feel you getting out of range. Whatever presence I felt that I was speaking to, that feeling is getting hushed and fuzzy. The way I’m sure my voice is for you now.

You’re gonna have to go on without me, I suppose. Be brave about it. Or be scared. Your feelings are not my problem anymore, if they ever were. I have new problems now, problems of void and cosmos, problems of dark matter and lost memories. I am adrift in a universe that does not know I exist, but then you are too. I don’t know what is out there, but I hope I live to see it. Won’t that be something, if I get to see whatever happens next? I hope I do.

Well, this is Radio Jupiter signing off for the last time. [echoing] Stay safe out there, I’ll try to stay safe out here. Goodbye.

Cecil: The signal has faded out. It seems she has finally left our world and also left my radio frequency. I’m not trying to speak badly of a strange remnant of a war that has not yet happened, floating out into the nothing beyond the nothing, but come on, please, use a different frequency. It’s just rude. The military, through Rudy DeJardin has disavowed any knowledge of Agent N-223 or her mission. “Nope,” Rudy said through clenched teeth, “Never heard of her. Iiii certainly wouldn’t just say her name on the radio, after being asked not to. That’s not something I would do Cecil,” he said. So I dunno. Maybe we got the story wrong.

It is something, isn’t it? We are bits of life floating in a whole lot of non-life. The fact is true for us in both space and time, we are brief on any measure. And yet we can reach out our voice and be heard, even if only for a moment. And that has to mean something, doesn’t it? Doesn’t… it?

Stay tuned next for an angry buzzing from inside your cutlery drawer, but you’ll be too afraid to open it and find out its source.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Agate is a girl’s worst enemy. Emerald is a work acquaintance who a girl hung out with once and then it just – never turned into anything more.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 174 #radio jupiter

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vincentvangay2-0 · 3 years

Note

About the cute asks thingy:

And your favourite number from 20 to 29 :3

30. one regret you have? I don't know, really. I never know how to answer this question.

39. who do you miss right now? umm my dad ;-; and i probably shouldn't be. idk.

26. put your music on shuffle and say the line you like most in the song

"In the paper today Tales of war and of waste But you turn right over to the TV page" -dont dream it's over by crowded house

#vincent.txt #asks

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tallboyben · 4 years

Text

fray

word count: 1.0k a/n: i didn’t think i had it in me to write a turn fic but...here we are. this was written for halemadge week 2020. today’s theme is classics. no warnings except for mentions of death and lots of angst. summary: washington is intent on taking new york, caleb is gone, and ben is no longer head of intelligence. he didn’t think it would end this way. (in the show timeline, this is in between 4x08 and 4x09, after ben confronts washington about his obsession about new york and subsequently loses his position as head of intelligence.)

It didn’t end the way it was supposed to.

Yale, Ben remembered in brief flashes, but even his own life had disintegrated into some odd amalgamation of memory and perception. He could recall the brick dormitory ― New College ― standing against a pale dawn, the bite of cold air during winter, the understanding that Nathan was a permanent fixture in his life. Back then, uncertainty had been about where he would go to teach and if he would find someone to marry; if he would get caught for breaking windows and if his father would be angry if he found out.

Uncertainty had never been whether he would see Nathan or Setauket or his family again. Uncertainty had never been whether his life would end at the tip of a bayonet or with a musket ball lodged in his chest. Whether they would retake New York or die trying.

Vanity, Ben had said to Washington, and he had meant it. He could be court-martialed for insubordination. But it didn’t matter, because he didn’t regret it ― not even if it meant handing over his post as head of intelligence, not even if it meant tearing through whatever trust had grown between him and Washington. He hadn’t joined the army to let his men march into an impossible battle.

Even if they were facing death in New York. At least he had tried.

Ben sighed and turned to the loose pieces of parchment on his desk, reaching for a quill. He’d call himself weary, though he was beginning to realize exhaustion was to be his default state until the end of the war. Or his death ― whichever came first. The latter was beginning to seem a lot more likely. Ben tried not to think about New York.

He set down the quill, thoughts still drifting far away with some odd mix of regret and resignation. The parchment was blank, and though Ben intended to at least write to his father before they marched on New York, words escaped him. They always did, and always at the times in which he needed them most. Again, he thought of years past, and this he remembered in snatches: still nights broken only by the scratching of his quill against paper; candles flickering low, burning out with a faint wisp of smoke; the nib of his quill tracing a name that had become as familiar as his own―

Before he knew what he was doing, Ben stood from his seat, crossed the distance to the edge of his tent, and threw the flap open, already intent on walking the short length of road to find Caleb. He faltered a moment after stepping out of the tent.

Caleb, too, was gone.

Perhaps he was in Virginia already. It didn’t really matter where he was. He wasn’t here to tell Ben that Washington was insane. He’d probably come up with a more creative qualifier than insane, even if it was Ben who went to Yale and studied English literature. Maybe Caleb would offer him a drink, even if he would refuse. But it didn’t really matter what Caleb would do. He was gone.

Ben stood at the mouth of his tent in blank uncertainty. A few soldiers walked past, conversing quietly. From the other side of the row of tents, there was the vague clipping of hooves against road. Trees rustled in the distance, and a gust of wind bit at his face.

He wondered if they would lose the war when Washington marched their men into New York.

But then again, they had already lost a man in New York, hanged from a tree, his last words invented instead of recorded, his body lost instead of recovered. That soldier had been led to his death because of Ben. Perhaps it would be fitting for him to die trying to reclaim the place where he had betrayed his best friend.

Pythias, he had called Nathan, and Damon, he had signed at the end of his letters, and yet despite all of it, when it came to life and death, he had failed.

The story said that Pythias was accused of treason and sentenced to death. It said that Damon volunteered to be held captive while Pythias returned home to give farewell to his family. There was more to the legend, but it didn’t matter because Ben had already failed and Nathan was already dead and the tale ended there, cut short, abrupt, nothing like the myth of Damon and Pythias.

It didn’t end the way it was supposed to. But nothing ever did.

Perhaps, for all their dreams and lofty ideas and inked pamphlets that spoke of liberty ― perhaps, for all of that, the war would end in blood-soaked bayonets and lost loves. Perhaps history would recount their rebellion as insubordination ― vanity, hadn’t he said? ― and perhaps stories like Damon and Pythias were just myths, after all.

Perhaps. Ben was no longer sure of a lot of things. Once, he had been sure that Nathan would always be within reach. Once, he had been sure that he would fit a noose around his own neck if it meant sparing Nathan.

Reality was far too different. It was not Damon and Pythias and debating the rights of women and writing letters by candlelight to a friend with whom he shared heart and soul. Reality was New York and marching into the city in which Ben’s greatest friend had died alone.

Ben retreated back into his tent, standing for a moment in the stillness of an empty space, unsure what was left for him in this reality of wasted sacrifice and hopeless struggle.

No, he thought, taking a seat at his desk again, reaching for a quill to write one last letter to his father. No, it didn’t end the way it was supposed to.

Nothing ever did.

tags: @classof73 @teaturnedcold

#halemadge week 2020 #turn amc #turn: washington's spies #benjamin tallmadge #nathan hale #ben tallmadge & nathan hale #turn fic #writer!avii makes an appearance

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raulf-o · 3 years

Text

Hafhorn - A Forger Elf

Wake up, boy! It’s 4 AM, time for work. My head thumping with a headache as he keeps shouting. I shouldn’t have stayed up and read all night about tales of magic and miracles. And then you wonder why I’d want to leave this hell. He starts laughing. This is heaven, my boy. You wake up erry mornin’ to work and that’s how it always been for us elves. Be it dark, blood, fairy or human elf, we all work wherever we are. That’s how they respect us. We are immortal beings that can do more than anyone. Unlike dwarves that sit on the top of their mountains smoking pipe and making laws, we have to do what is needed for this world to be the way it is. I sigh as his morning routine as he likes to remind me of our ways for forever. All I hear is that you don’t know better, which makes this hell. As I put my pants on he comes grabs me by the silk shirt and pull me to his eye level. We live forever. We’re old as the dirt we step on. We know everything that ever was and we make everything that will ever be. It is a privilege no one else has. Not the goblins, not the sapiens, or any other race on this face or under it that can do what we do. He gently lets me back down. Be grateful. You could be dying fighting stupid wars or dying of old age and achieving nothing. You’re the smartest elf I met, and I can’t believe you’re also my son. So quit your yappin’ and let’s get working. We got a big one today…

Manorn, Hafhorn, y’all are late. Why do they all love screaming so much? The goblin nobility sent us a letter with a request, he says as hands it to me. Hafhorn, read it. What do they want? I sigh as my eyes gloss over the paper. They want us to make for them farming equipment. 100 plows and 100 cultivators, whatever that means. If we want the job, we need to send back word with however much gold we want for the job. They say here that if we accept, they’ll send half the gold we ask for with some nomad sapiens. Father starts laughing as he yanks the letter from my hands. Botin, what do you think? Two hundred complex machines for the goblin royalty and their settlement. How much work and gold we gonna need for this? Botin scratches his head. We’ll have to check whatever iron ore, coal and rest of the stuff we have. We might need to order some from one of the fairies and their mines. So, I’ll go check on that. Hafhorn, better be prepared to write that letter back, he says as he leaves laughing. I hate you for giving me this name. Father starts laughing. Why couldn’t you give me another name? Like Walkorn, Writhorn, Workorn, why Hafhorn? He continues to laugh. Because you’re no a Fulhorn like your grandpa used to be, and you’re not manly enough to be like your father. You’re Hafhorn, your own wonderful being. Now let’s go… We have work to do. The forges don’t light themselves up on their own.

There’s only a handful of us, fully literate elves and they call us engineers. Which means that the rest are what the dwarves call functionally illiterate. And that makes me wish I was somewhere else doing something else. Whether it would be learning magic of any kind, philosophy with the dwarves on top a mountain or roaming the earth with the sapiens, living as a nomadic species. It all feels so wasteful when you are immortal to do the same thing over and over again without an end in sight. Just as that thought flies through my brain one of the forges explodes. The screams of terrified elves echo through the forests as I rush through the trees from one for to the one that went up in flames. Under molten steel, burnt elves now died after millennia of living. Were lucky enough to escape the steel only to be cut in twain by pieces of metal flung from the furnace. They let the pressure build up too much and I had warned them about this. Botin, what happened? He looks at me. Hafhorn, you are here? Then that means your father… I look across the facility, on a wall pinned by a piece of metal through his head. Father! Botin holds me back. There’s nothing you can do! You can’t bring him back. There’s no potion that heals anything like that. I push him off. No! But there’s magic! Necromancy. I’mma learn it and I’mma bring him and those you can salvage back to life! So, don’t burry ‘em! I hate being right…

If you liked this short story, don’t forget to like, share and comment on it, as this story is part of The Pilot Program that is how you choose what will become the short story series for the year of 2022. And, if you’d like to help keep the short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

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rumbelleshowdown · 4 years

Photo

Author: Overpraised Lasagna

Prompt: Aphrodisiac; room full of chests

Group: A

A/N: This is a continuation of my Round One fic, The Book's the Thing

The Legend of the Dark One’s Dagger

“You wanted to see me?”

Weaver looked up at the police officer peering in at him from his office door. “Yes, come in.”

Rogers entered the room, his nerves on full display despite his best effort to hide them.

“Get rid of that uniform. We have work to do,” Weaver growled.

“What?”

The look of pure confusion on Rogers’ face put Weaver at his ease for the first time that morning. He hadn’t been himself since the previous afternoon when he’d met Belle French, or rather, when his murder investigation had intensified.

“You’ve been promoted to detective,” Weaver informed him. “At my request.”

“I, uh, I don’t know what to say.” Rogers stood shell-shocked by the news. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. This job’s about to take us into some very dark places… Now let’s get moving.”

Rogers hesitated before replying. “I was just on my way to the Pirate Cove Amusement Park. They were vandalized overnight.”

Weaver rolled his eyes. “Well, unless there are occult books involved, I don’t want you wasting a lot of time there. Get that squared away and get back here. I have an appointment with Miss French this morning to review photos of the usual suspects. I expect to see you by the time I’m done.” He felt the heat rising up his neck when he mentioned Belle by name.

“Yes, sir.” Rogers replied without moving. “The librarian?”

“Yes, the librarian,” Weaver answered curtly without looking up.

As Rogers started to leave after what seemed an eternity, he suddenly stopped. “Is that a new shirt you’re wearing?”

Weaver glared at him. “Is there a point to your question, detective?”

“Uh, no… just an observation.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.

“Then go use those observational skills of yours to solve a case.”

“Yes, sir,” Rogers replied and left without further ado.

Weaver sighed. It was pointless to be irked by the very skillset that made Rogers such excellent detective material. So what if he was wearing a new shirt? It was practically a replica of every other white shirt that he owned. He’d purchased it over a year ago and it had been sitting unused in his closet. It’s not as if he’d been influenced by the thought of seeing the lovely librarian again today or by the fact that he’d fallen asleep to visions of her and awakened this morning to the same.

The memory of the morning jolted him back to reality. He almost blushed at the state in which he’d found his mind and body. Desires that he’d successfully subverted for years had resurfaced. He’d been convinced that the tea he’d shared with Miss French the previous afternoon had acted as an aphrodisiac on him. There was no other explanation for the desires that had overwhelmed him and the urgency with which he’d had to attend to them. Just thinking back on the pleasure he’d felt at his release made his body twitch with desire again.

Weaver pushed back from his desk and rose abruptly. He needed to concentrate on the case right now and nothing else. Once the librarian had reviewed the photos, he would have no reason to see her again and that was for the best.

He put on his leather jacket, grabbed the mugshot photo albums and headed out the door.

_________________________________________________________

Weaver cleared his throat as he approached Belle French’s office.

“Detective Weaver! Good morning!” He turned to his side to find the librarian waving to him from the acquisition room.

“Good morning, Miss French,” he said, relieved that the sight of her was not triggering his body to react in any unwelcome ways. In fact, the warmth that seemed to engulf him was more of a balm than a stimulant.

“I just finished taking inventory and I have something to show you.” She beckoned him toward her with a smile that seemed to exert an unmistakable pull on him.

Weaver shook his head to clear it. Obviously the pull was his impatience to see what she had uncovered. This could be the very evidence he needed to crack the case.

“Were you able to identify any missing books?” he asked.

“Unfortunately not. Everything is accounted for…” She bit down on her lower lip and looked at him with a hint of shyness in her eyes. “But I did find something that might be connected to your case.”

Weaver was immediately interested. “As I mentioned yesterday, sometimes the least obvious detail can be the most helpful.”

“Oh, I remembered,” Belle replied. “That’s why I thought this might be important.”

The detective noted the slight blush that had risen to her cheeks reminding him of just how attracted he was to this beautiful woman. He smiled to encourage her to continue while attempting to squash his attraction.

“There was one book that I recognized immediately because I’d read it many years ago. It ends with a mystery and a poem that I wanted to read again, but when I turned to the last page of the book, it was missing. Someone had torn it out.” She looked at him to gauge his reaction.

Weaver’s senses were on high alert. “This could be a mere coincidence, but in my experience that’s quite unlikely. May I see the book?”

Belle appeared pleased with herself as she retrieved the volume and handed it to him.

“The Legend of the Dark One’s Dagger,” Weaver read aloud before raising his eyes to hers. “Do you have an interest in the Dark Arts, Miss French?” Every one of his instincts told him she wasn’t a suspect, but he had to consider everything to do his job thoroughly.

“Not if you’re referring to practicing something that’s truly evil! But I do like myths and magic and legends and fairy tales. The book is about the legend of the dagger that controls the Dark One, a being who’s cursed with extremely powerful dark magic. It’s just a legend of course, but the story is so real that it gives you pause.”

“Do you have any recollection of what was written on the last page?” He knew the question was a long shot.

“I do. The book is about the various people who were the Dark Ones over the centuries, but the book ends after mentioning the last Dark One. He was supposedly a very poor spinner who took on the curse to save his young teenage son from the certain death that would come from fighting in the Ogre Wars.”

Belle giggled when she saw the incredulous expression on Detective Weaver’s face. “Yes, I know this is all far-fetched.”

Weaver laughed at her observation.

“But, anyway,” Belle continued, “the last page contained a poem about the whereabouts of the dagger.”

Weaver was once again on high alert. There was no doubt in his mind that the thieves were looking for this dagger. God only knew why. “You wouldn’t remember anything about the poem, would you?”

“I remember every word of it. I wrote it out for you.” Belle gave him a sheet of blue paper with the words to the poem written in beautiful script.

Once again he read aloud:

Deep within a room of chests

the dagger can be found

To she who holds it in her hand

the Dark One shall be bound

A cold draft passed through him, making his whole body shudder.

“H-How did you remember this?” he asked in an attempt to shake the unsettling feeling that had gripped him.

“The poem was a mystery beckoning to be solved. Something about it fascinated me and I read it over and over again. I always wondered if the dagger itself really existed even if there was no Dark One. There’s always some grain of truth to these legends.”

As he’d expected, her voice and words soothed his nerves. He attributed the chill that had gripped him to the realization that his case was even darker than he’d anticipated. The thieves most certainly believed that the dagger existed and they wanted it enough to commit a murder to find it.

“Thank you, Miss French. I can’t tell you how helpful this is. Would you allow me to take the book with me as evidence or do I have to sign up for a library card and check it out?” He grinned at her even as he admonished himself for his pathetic attempt at flirting.

Belle beamed. “Well, I can allow you to take it, but I’d much prefer it if you’d sign up for a card. There are many other good books in the library that may be of interest to you. I’d be happy to recommend some.”

Weaver’s heart stuttered when she chewed on her lower lip again. Was she flirting with him?

A harsh buzzing sound shattered the mood. It took Weaver several seconds to realize that it was his phone. He fished it out of his pocket.

“Excuse me, Miss French, I have to take this call.” He held the phone to his ear and turned the other way. “What is it, Rogers?”

“I’m going to be delayed. The vandals destroyed all of the treasure chests in the hull of the pirate ship at the amusement park and it looks like the same gang also vandalized all of the caskets in the showroom at the Sunset Funeral Home.”

Weaver’s heart almost stopped beating. These weren’t vandals; they were murderers looking for the dagger in rooms full of chests - just as it stated in the poem.

“Don’t move until I get there!” Weaver barked. “Both incidents are related to our case.”

“They are?” Rogers sounded as confused as he’d looked earlier that day.

“Yes, I’ll fill you in when I see you.” With that he hung up and turned back to the librarian.

“I’m afraid I have to leave, Miss French. There are new developments in my case that need my immediate attention.”

“Oh, I understand, detective. I’m just sorry we didn’t get a chance to fulfill our deal. Maybe we can share a cup of tea and I can tell you my story another time?” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“Of course. I was looking forward to it,” he admitted to both her and himself. “I can come by tomorrow at the same time.”

“That would be perfect! And you can sign up for a library card while you’re here and I can review the suspect photos.” She rewarded him with a smile that was like a beacon of light amidst all of this darkness.

His heart, which was already beating rapidly from the break in his case, seemed to threaten to burst from his chest. He thanked her again for her help and abruptly took his leave.

He drove recklessly to the amusement park, anxious to try to tie these events together. But even in his urgency to get to the scene of the crime and gather new clues, he couldn’t stop thinking about Belle French. There was no doubt that the woman had bewitched him - and she’d done it all without the aid of magic or a spell or a crazy dark curse.

#rumbelle showdown 2020 #Round Two entry #author: Overpraised Lasagna #rumbelle fic #woven beauty fic

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