#I’ll keep punching ‘til my knuckles start breaking/I’ll keep going through the blood that I’m tasting | Cinn the Cheetah-Fox | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sockablock · 4 years

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(TW for panic attacks and discussions about trauma)

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The thing is, Beau's friends are shit fighters.

To be clear—she's not saying that they're bad at fighting, gods know Veth's a force of nature with her crossbow and all of the spell-slingers can kill with a word—it's just that when it comes to fighting, actual fighting, that down-and-dirty fist-on-flesh shit, her friends suck. Most of 'em just run, or they’d sweet-talk a surrender, or go back to slinging spells.

Beau would never admit she misses the Soul, but at least those people knew how to block. At least Dairon would make her work for it, wouldn't tell her to please, gods, Beau, stop punching me, I give!

Fjord's better these days, but not good enough.

Which is why, on their third morning back in Nicodranas, when Beau opens the door to see Yasha looking restless, she knows exactly what's up.

"Should I get my staff?"

Yasha shrugs. She usually does.

"I'll grab it. Down in five."

Beau considers grabbing some toast too, but she remembers how antsy Yasha seemed and figures she should try to avoid puking in Marion’s yard.

Yasha is stretching when she gets there. The gate swings behind her with a gentle clunk, and she kicks her shoes off, curls her toes in the grass. The sun is barely broken above rooftops and towers, and the first chime of church bells ring out overhead.

Beau yawns a little, but it’s just for flavor. Mind games. She’s not actually sleepy.

“We do not have to—”

She quickly waves her hand. “It’ll wake me up. You know, get the blood pumping.”

Yasha smiles a little at that. It’s always such a small one, but it’s getting to be familiar.

“I got up early. I couldn’t sleep. Er...sorry.”

Beau doubles her effort to be dismissive. “Don’t apologize to me, Yasha. C’mon. You think I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to?”

This seems to be a winning argument. Yasha nods, like she can’t imagine Beau doing anything she doesn’t want.

Maybe it’s the crisp ocean breeze, maybe it’s the way they circle each other in the yard. Maybe it’s the fresh brush of gauze on her fists.

Beau wants to win.

She dives in, pulls low, uses her quick movement to catch Yasha off-guard and get in as closely as she can. Yasha’s tall, broad, strong as an ox, and even holding back, she could wind Beau with a punch. She presses even closer, limiting Yasha’s motions, sweeps out a leg and cuts up when Yasha moves. The two of them duck and weave and push, neither allowing the other an inch, fists flying, blows being blocked and sweat beginning to pour down their backs. Beau lands a hit that leaves Yasha grunting, then stumbles when a wild haymaker knocks her back. It’s clear that Yasha was never taught any form, just scraped it all together by surviving on the moors and her chaotic movement, high endurance, and reckless confidence just make her deadlier.

Beau tries to close in again, but a lucky kick forces her a pace too far. Her knuckles are bruising in that numb, seething way, and so she darts to the side, grabs her staff, vaults up and then arcs her foot to Yasha’s face—

The dance starts again, this time hardwood hitting forearms and on anyone else, Beau might even feel guilty about it. But Yasha barely seems to register the thwack, her teeth bared in a sideways grin, her eyes hard and excited and alive. Beau’s probably wearing the same expression. She hears herself laughing, and knows that she is. Up-swing, down-swing, slide left, throw a punch, block one, dart back, duck and then—

Yasha’s fist catches her right in the gut, sends Beau lurching flat into the dirt. She chokes her own breath, coughs up dust, barely gets an elbow up with Yasha leaning over her, blotting out the sun, raising Beau’s staff for a finishing strike—

Halts.

It’s like watching a tower fall. Yasha staggers back. She drops the staff. She lifts her hands and stares at her palms and Beau hears a mangled breath. Her knees give. She collapses on herself.

Beau scrambles up, aching limbs forgotten.

“Yasha?” she says. “Yasha? Are you—is—what’s wrong?”

Yasha sucks in more air, but that just seems to make things worse. Her shoulders tremble and her lungs sound ragged.

“Aw, shit,” says Beau, “I mean—fuck—uh—”

She half-runs, half-crawls, ‘til she’s at Yasha’s side. She wants to put her hand on Yasha’s arm, thinks better of it, panics a little more. She wishes she were Jester. She wishes she were Cad. They’d know what to do, they’d be better at this than her, anyone, hell, Marius would be better at this than her—

But it’s her, and everyone’s still in the house, so she shakes her head and stamps the fear down.

“Yasha, I...aw, fuck, I’m—I’m here, it’s okay, nothing’s wrong—” clearly something is wrong, idiot, “—I mean, um, you’re safe here, okay? It’ll be alright. I’m here, and I’ll stay if that’s what you want, okay? I won’t go anywhere, if you don’t want. Uh...can you shake your head if you want me to go? Is that...possible, can you—”

A frantic shake.

“Oh good, okay, thank fuck, then I’m here. I’m right here, Yash. I’m not going anywhere.” She tries to pitch her voice calm, takes deep, long breaths, and continues to murmur as reassuringly as she can until after...seconds? Minutes? Yasha’s trembling slows.

There’s a pause. Yasha inhales and lets it go. It’s shaky, but apparently good enough because finally, eventually, she turns and looks back at Beau.

“I’m...okay. I am okay.”

Beau sinks back into the grass. Then she lies down. “Oh, cool. I’m, uh, glad.”

“I’m so—”

She holds up a hand. “Nope. C’mon.” She pats the ground beside her.

“Er...what?”

She pats it again, emphatic. “Lie down. C’mon. I think we’ve earned a break.”

She stares up at the sky while Yasha shifts around, and eventually there’s a gentle thud as she lies down. Seagulls cry in the distance and clouds drift slowly past their heads.

Beau swears, but mentally. A private thing.

“So, uh...do we...want to talk about it, or...?”

Yasha is quiet for a moment. That’s not surprising. Then:

“It...reminded me of when I killed you.”

“What? Oh—”

“Almost killed you,” Yasha amended. “Both times.”

“Right,” says Beau. “That’s...right.”

She thinks about saying—almost. You only almost killed me, so really it’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. And you kill people all the time anyway, right?

She blinks. “Wait, you kill people all the time, Yasha. Is it always that bad? Shit, does it always...does it always make you feel like this? Only...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you...break like that...”

She regrets the words immediately. Stupid, Beau, that’s a stupid thing to say.

But Yasha answers the question earnestly. “It’s usually different,” she says to the sky. “It usually...doesn’t matter. Er...no, not that it doesn’t matter, it just...”

“Doesn’t matter,” Beau sighs. “No, I...sort of get it. Man, that might be fucked up. Of us.”

Yasha shrugs, which rustles the grass. “It’s how it has always been for me. That is just what life is like.”

“I’m sure Jester would disagree.”

“Jester is...nice. I am not. I...have hurt a lot of people. And not just people who were fighting me, or trying to hurt me, but people who were innocent, who did not need not to be hurt, people who care about me, and, and people who I...”

She trails off. Beau can’t see her face, but right now, selfishly, she is glad for it. She feels anger bubbling up in her stomach.

“You were being controlled,” she says fiercely. “You didn’t do it. Someone made you do it.”

“But...part of that...part of it was still me. Since...since you all freed me, I...I remember parts of it. I remember doing it. Those were my hands.”

Beau can practically hear Yasha’s fist tighten. She definitely feels it when Yasha hits the ground.

“If I was better, or if I was stronger, if I had broken free faster, none of that would have happened, I could have stopped him sooner—”

This time, Beau doesn’t hold back. They’re lying down, so it’s incredibly awkward, but the first thing she can think of is to grab Yasha’s hand.

She sits up, and waves it over Yasha’s face.

“But you didn’t,” she says, then falters, then wants to smack herself. “Fuck, no, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is...” Then she stops. “No, you know what? Fuck it. You didn’t break out faster. And that’s because it was a miracle you managed it in the first place. Yasha, you were being controlled by a devil. You were being controlled by the Chained Oblivion. The fact that you were even a person the first time we met—and you were a person, you were funny, you charged me money to, to, well, you charged me five gold, remember that?”

Yasha blinks. Her wrist is slack in Beau’s grip.

“I...do, yes, I remember that.”

“Right. The fact that you were a person then meant that they couldn’t keep their claws in you. Because you were strong. You were better. Better than everything they tried to make you. You kept breaking free.”

Yasha does not try to squirm away, only stays there.

“But...I needed help every time that I did escape. I never managed it on my own. First it was...it was Kord, and then you all—”

“Of course!” Beau throws her other arm into the air. “Who the fuck could do it on their own?! All that means is that when you had a chance, the second you had a chance, you were outta there. In your heart, you knew what was right. You knew it, and held onto it, even when I’m sure it would’ve been so easy to stay there, to stay in that hell and just go through the motions and lose yourself in...in grief, and loss and...and all that. But you didn’t. And now look at you.”

She cracks a goofy smile, all desperation to make what she’s trying to say heard.

“You’re an angel, Yasha. Remember?”

Yasha slowly sits up too. Her hair cascades down her shoulders, black turning white, with little blades of grass.

Beau is made painfully aware of the fact that she’s still holding Yasha’s hand. She lets go. Then she swears again, and hopes that Yasha doesn’t think it’s because of anything s—

“I am, aren’t I?”

Her gaze shoots up and Yasha's wearing a goofy smile too. Small, a bit nervous, but real and warm.

It’s getting to be familiar.

Beau snorts. She snorts so loud that it might dislodge something in her chest. She hits Yasha gently on the arm.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t, uh, don’t let it go to your head.”

She can see Yasha nodding in the corner of her eye.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Then, after a brief battle over whether or not to bring it up, “I don’t...I don’t...for the record, I’m not mad about you stabbing me. Or whatever.”

Yasha looks stricken, and Beau regrets it instantly. “Shit, should I not have reminded you of—”

“No,” Yasha sighs, and her face softens. “No. I am...glad that you are not mad at me.”

“Should we, like...go to a cleric about this?” Beau asks. “Is this going to be something that happens in, like...fights? Because if it does, it might put you in danger. Also, it’s...it probably sucks for you. Right?”

Fjord would probably have something to say about the way she’s handling this conversation. He’s not here now.

“I...don’t know,” Yasha says eventually. “It hasn’t happened before. It was only...just now. And...just with you. It...hurting you reminded me of being controlled. It...brought me back to all the times that my mind was not my own.”

“I’m sorry,” Beau says, because she’s not sure what else to say.

“No,” says Yasha. Beau looks up, surprised by the weight in her words. “If I am not allowed to be sorry to you, you cannot be sorry to me.”

“Ah,” says Beau. She feels a grin pulling. “In that case...I’m not sorry.”

Yasha nods, like this is sacred, and Beau can’t help but snort again.

“C’mon,” she says. “We can...work this shit out later. Or start to. With a cleric if you want, or not, if you don’t. But I just got my ass kicked, and I’m thirsty. What do you say to some drinks? I think there’s juice. Do you like juice?”

She stands up, and sticks out a hand.

Yasha takes it.

“Okay. I like juice.”

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cruciology · 4 years

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His and Hers

Requested by Anon: “Sandor x Pregnant! Reader”

You never enjoyed the death matches. You weren’t a fan of blood and gore, but you especially hated the “trials by combat”. You weren’t sure how exactly slicing the head off of another man proved your innocence. You sat next to your older half sister, the reigning Queen Regent, right in the front row. She was in much better spirits since her husband had died and her son crowned King. She had never been cruel to you, her attention was usually focused on Tyrion, but she had now been almost kind to you in the time since becoming widowed.

“Lady Lannister,” You heard from your side. You couldn’t help the smile that came across your face when you looked up at the large man who had appeared at your side. His place was technically by the King, but no one would question if he stood by the Queen’s sister. He had been charged with guarding your chambers more than a few times. That’s when you had gotten to know him. But it wasn’t until last night that you had first kissed him. You smiled a bit wider remembering it.

“Nice to see you, Hound,” You said. You saw his mouth twitch, but he kept his mask of stoicism. You couldn’t help but think what would have happened last night had you not been interrupted by your brother knocking on your door. You wondered if he would have taken you right there in your chambers. You were hoping he would. He had seemed just as disappointed as you were when he had to pull away and stand in the corner of your room, pretending he hadn’t been on top of you in your bed just moments before when Jamie entered the room. Jamie didn’t question why the Hound was there, he assumed he was doing his job and protecting you. You hoped he would be assigned to guard your room again tonight. Maybe then he would finish what you started last night.

If it were your choice, you would grab his hand and take him back to the castle. You were sure he would rather be there too, knowing how he felt about his brother. He had told you how much he hated seeing the Mountain and he was once again the champion for the King in today’s trial against a Dornish man who was accused of stealing from the Red Keep.

The usual cheers came for the Mountain as he entered the arena. Any hint of a smile left the Hound’s face immediately. Boos rang out over the crowd as the Dornish man was pushed into the center. He was a big man, not as tall as the Mountain but at least as wide. Maybe he would have a shot. The Mountain did his usual rounds, getting cheers louder for him. The Dornish man took the opportunity to lunge towards the Mountain, toppling him over. The Dornish man held his own for just a moment, but the Mountain flipped them over, sitting his whole weight on the man’s chest. He squeezed the man’s head with both hands. You gasped, grabbing onto the Hound’s arm in surprise as the Mountain ripped the man’s head off of his body, the spine coming with it as blood poured onto the ground. You felt sick to your stomach. The whole thing lasted less than a minute. At least it was over.

You realized your hand was still on the Hound’s arm and you pulled away, placing your hands in your lap.

“Well, that was quick,” Cersei said with that polite smile of hers. “The Gods must not have wanted their time wasted.”

“Or the Mountain is just a beast,” You said. Your sister shot you a look.

The King stood up, clapping excitedly with his wicked grin on his face, his betrothed looking as horrified as you felt next to him in her chair. “Gregor Clegane, a good show as always. How many battles have you championed for my family? Over a hundred I expect.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” The Mountain confirmed.

“It is high time you were properly rewarded,” The King said graciously. You heard an annoyed laugh from the Hound next to you. “You are a man I would be disappointed to see be the last of his line. You may have your pick of a wife, I’ll seek out the most beautiful women in King’s Landing for you.”

You felt sick to your stomach. Of course, Joffrey’s idea of fun was torturing some helpless woman by wedding her to the most cruel and violent man in the country. It wasn’t enough that he had that poor Stark girl torment. You had never liked your nephew. You were closer in age to him than to his mother, he had no respect for you.

“Any woman?” The Mountain asked.

“Be sure to pick one with some lands and a good name,” King Joffrey smirked. “Get your money’s worth, Clegane.” The Mountain’s face split into a grin as horrible as Joffrey’s. You realized he was looking right at you.

“That one,” He said, pointing a blood stained finger at you. You saw the Hound clutch the hilt of his sword beside you.

King Joffrey clapped again gleefully as you looked to your sister. Even her eyes were wide in fear for you, and she didn’t even like you all that much. “My son,” She said, her tone warning, but Joffrey ignored her as he came over to you, pulling you out of your seat and towards the arena.

“My dear aunt, a wonderful choice,” He said as he nearly pulled your arm out of its socket dragging you into the arena. You could smell the death that clung to the air as the hem of your dress dragged in the blood. Joffrey shoved you into the Mountain and the beast swung you up into his arms, holding you like a prize. You stared back helplessly at the Hound as the crowd cheered.

His bandaged knuckles throbbed as he took a swig from his wineskin. The Hound sat on a bottom step, the noise from the feast still audible. He had to resist throwing a punch into the stone wall of the corridor. His bed chambers were still a wreck, his table in several pieces. The maids were too terrified of him to try and enter. If the Hound thought that he was angry the day after the betrothal, when he had beaten his own hands bloody on his walls, it was nothing compared to how he felt after watching you stand before the everyone in the sept, draped in the cloak of his house, declaring that you were now his brother’s property.

He had barely seen you before the wedding and part of him felt like that was the Queen’s doing. He was sure that she knew how he felt about you. He thought that he had hidden it well, trying not to let his eyes linger on you for too long. Maybe he was always too ready to take guard duty by your chambers, or too pleased when she ordered him to walk you through the city when you asked to venture off.

The Hound had wanted to kiss you for some time now. He had been surprised when you had done it that night, just a week ago. Gods, it felt so much longer. If he could, he would go back to that night and take you away. Or at least tell the Kingslayer to fuck off.

Almost as if summoned by his thoughts of you, you turned the corner to the corridor he sat in. You spotted him, your face breaking into a soft smile as you walked towards him.

“I was wondering where you had wandered off to,” You said, standing above him where he sat on the step. You weren’t used to looking down at him. “Plenty of ale in the dining hall.”

“No offense, milady,” The Hound said, still not looking at you. “But I’d rather get my balls ripped off by a direwolf.”

“You think it’s fun for me?” You said, anger rising in your chest. You didn’t know why he was upset at you. You didn’t want to be married to Gregor Clegane. You had no say in the goings on of your life. Your father had tried to sway the King, but Joffrey was changing his mind. You suspected Tywin hadn’t tried all that hard anyways.

“Didn’t say it was,” The Hound said, taking another sip. “He’s going to beat you bloody.”

“You’re being a dick,” You said, your hands on your hips. He gave a humorless laugh. “You’re acting like you don’t even care. You always act like you don’t care.”

“You think I don’t care?” The Hound said, rising up to his full height, towering over you, but you didn’t back down. You knew he would never hurt you. He could never hurt you. “You think I don’t want to kill my brother?”

“You always want to kill your brother, Sandor, that’s nothing new.” Any time you used his name, his real name, his jaw tensed. No one called him anything other than “hound” or “dog”.

“He will hurt you and that little cunt Joffrey thinks it’s a game, a joke.” The Hound grabbed your arms with his large hands, startling you. “He doesn’t deserve to call you his wife.”

“I don’t want to be his wife,” You said, reaching up to touch the burned flesh of his face and he let you.

“You don’t want to be mine either,” He said firmly, grabbing your wrist.

“Why not?”

“You need a good man,” He said. “And there aren’t any here.”

You stood on your toes, lifting yourself just enough to kiss him. He stooped to pick you up, his arms wrapped around your waist. He carried you into the next corridor. You could still hear your wedding feast as you kissed your groom’s brother. He pressed you into the rough brick wall and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your wedding gown racked up to your thighs.

“I may be his wife,” You said breathlessly as he kissed your neck. “But I’m yours. From this day until the end of my days.” You said these words earlier in the sept but now you felt the meaning of them as the Hound’s lips stilled on your neck.

“Aye,” He said finally, kissing your lips. “You’re mine.”

“And you’re mine.”

“And I’m yours. Til the end of my days and all that shit.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, kissing him as fiercely as you could. You didn’t care that someone could easily turn the corner and find you in a very compromising position with the king’s bodyguard.

“I need you,” You whispered, your teeth raking his ear lobe. He groaned his hands sliding further up your legs to grab your ass.

“Here?”

“Here.”

His hand slid in between your legs, feeling the pooling wetness there. “You’re fucking dripping, milady,” He said, smugness edging his tone. He liked that he had that effect on you.

“Sandor,” You begged, hitting his shoulder with your fist lightly. “We don’t-,” He cut you off, slipping two large fingers until you and making you gasp. He watched your face, a smirk playing at his lips as he rubbed you from the inside out. You bit your lip to keep from crying out when his thumb found your clit. He kissed you roughly, rubbing faster and faster until you moaned into his mouth as you came.

He wasted no time in undoing his pants, just enough to shove his hard cock into you full hilt. You couldn’t help the near scream you let out as he filled you, your nails grabbing at his chainmail armor. He clapped his hand over your mouth as he thrust into you.

“Keep quiet,” He warned with a grunt. The brick scraped at the skin on your back that your gown didn’t cover but even that felt good. You liked that you would be able to feel him even later.

His fingers felt like fire across your thighs as he gripped you tightly, his thrusts becoming wilder as he got closer. You wished that you could have your wedding night with him, in a large bed where you could curl into him afterwards, but this sloppy and quick encounter would be enough. For now.

He moved to hold you with both hands, kissing you hard. “Fuck, you feel so good,” He grunted.

“Finish inside me,” You said, making him groan. You were trying to remember every inch of him, from the way he stretched you to the way his beard scraped at your face. “I want to feel it, Sandor.”

You felt a shudder run through him as he released into you, holding you tight to make sure you didn’t fall to the ground. He rested his head in the crook of your neck for a brief moment.

He finally set you back down on your feet, letting your gown fall back into place. You could feel the stickiness creep down your thighs and it almost made you want to go again, but you knew you didn’t have time.

The Hound bent to kiss you again, his hand cupping your face. He knew what would happen later that night and he didn’t want to think of it. He wanted to just keep thinking of how good you felt around him, saying his name in that breathy moan of yours.

“Lady Clegane,” You heard from the main corridor. You gave the Hound’s hand a gentle squeeze as you saw the look on his face. You were a Clegane now, taken under the family’s cloak. It just stung more than he ever thought it could.

You walked out, the Hound shortly behind you, finding Podrick looking around the corridor. He gave the Hound a frightened look before looking back at you. “Sorry, milady, Lord Tyrion asked me to find you.”

“Yes, of course, thank you,” You said. With another side eyed glance at the Hound, Podrick turned back and left for the dining hall.

You felt the Hound’s rough hand on your shoulder, fixing the back of your gown that had gotten mussed during your encounter. You looked back at him, offering him a gentle smile, but he avoided your eyes.

“Better get back, Lady Clegane.”

He couldn’t stay away from you. He tried. Gods know he tried. He hated thinking about you sharing his brother’s bed, knowing exactly what Gregor would do to you. What was worse was knowing he couldn’t do anything about it. It wasn’t until nearly a fortnight after the wedding that he finally swallowed his pride and sought you out, going to the chambers you now shared with the Mountain when he knew that the Mountain would be off somewhere, killing someone in the name of the Lannisters.

You had been so happy to see the Hound that you nearly forgot how miserable you had been since your wedding. You didn’t even speak, you just pounced on him. The arrangement wasn’t ideal, but at least you got the Hound, even if it was just stolen moments that you could sneak away. Sometimes you even got lucky, when Gregor had to go off on a task set forth by King Joffrey, you were able to spend the night with the Hound, wrapped in his arms, in his bed, sleepy and sated after he had fucked you until you screamed his name, forgetting that he wasn’t the Clegane you had married. Your husband had his whores, you had his brother.

“If we left right now,” You had said, on one of these nights, the Hound’s hand tracing circles on your back lazily as you laid your head on his broad, hairy chest. “We could make it at least to Stokeworth before anyone even realized we were gone.”

“Is that what you want?” The Hound asked, his eyes already closed. He always fell asleep almost immediately after he finished.

The question had thrown you. Of course it was what you wanted. You had fantasized about it every moment since you took your vows. Except it would come at a price. Yes, here, you had to be married to that awful beast of a man, but you if you ran away, you would never see your family again. Even if your sister was standoffish and her first born a spoiled shit, you still loved your brothers, and your niece and nephew. You hated to think what would happen to sweet Mrycella and Tommen if left alone here. They were good children, you didn’t want to see them grow into the same sort as their elder brother. Not to mention, you would spend the rest of your lives with a bounty on your head, living in fear of being caught.

“I want to be on top this time,” You had said instead, rolling over onto the Hound.

“Again?” He had chuckled under you, squeezing your hips. He had grunted when you slid his quickly hardening cock back into you. It was a good enough distraction, it kept you from having to burst your bubble.

Until now.

You were good at keeping the peace. It was what your father said you were best at, in fact. But even you couldn’t calm Gregor Clegane when he was in a rage. Over something stupid, as well. A lost bet. The Maester said you were lucky he hadn’t broken any bones when he had flung you across the room. Just bruised and a bit bloody, but after you were bandaged up, you were free to go back to your chambers. You were safe, as well, as Gregor had been called away by the King, yet again, sent to Harrenhal. But it wasn’t it the bruises or wounds or even your husband that weighed on you. It was the news that the Maester had for you.

You walked in the exact opposite direction of your chambers, towards the Red Keep where you knew the Hound would be standing guard outside the King’s door. Normally, you were much more discreet, never daring to visit him when you knew your nephew could see, but you needed to see him and it needed to be now.

You turned the corner, feeling the weight on your chest lightening just slightly when you saw him. He had heard you coming, his hand on his sword just in case you had been a threat, but when he saw it was you, his hand dropped. When he saw the bandages, he stepped away from his post.

“What in the hells happened?” He asked, his hand on your cheek. You placed your hand over his, looking up at him. You didn’t even need to answer for his jaw to tense. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking-,”

“Sandor,” You said softly. “We need to leave, tonight.”

The Hound stared at you, studying your face to try to tell if you were serious. “You want to leave?”

“We need to leave,” You corrected. You kept your voice low, pulling him away from the door. “Gregor won’t be back for a few days, if we leave right when your watch ends-,”

“What happened?” The Hound asked.

You took a deep breath. You still hadn’t quite processed what the Maester had told you just moments before, it didn’t feel real. But you needed to say it and say it now, otherwise he would overhear when the Maester no doubt told Cersei and you couldn’t think of a worse way for him to find out. “I’m pregnant,” You said, your hands placed on your still flat stomach. You don’t think you had ever seen such genuine fear on his face. “Sandor?” You asked.

“And you don’t know if…,” He trailed off. You didn’t need to hear the rest of his question to know what it was. It had been your first thought as well.

“There’s no way to know, not for sure,” You said. “But if you come with me, if you leave with me tonight, it doesn’t matter, not to me. You’re mine, remember? And I’m yours. I love you, with my whole heart I do, but I need to leave tonight. I’ll go with or without you, but please, don’t make me go without you.” You could feel yourself rambling, the tears starting to fall down your cheeks. He stared at you, dumbfounded. You showed him countless times how much you cared for him, but this was the first time he heard it, heard those words, I love you. You wondered if he had ever heard those words before in his life.

“I’ll leave with you,” He said finally. You pulled him down, kissing his lips with as much force as you could. He lifted you off your feet, holding you close. “You’re mine, it’s mine.”

You stretched your arms high above you, feeling your sore back crack. The morning sun beamed in from the small window of the cottage. You laughed slightly as you looked at the empty side of the bed next to you. You struggled to your feet, wrapping your dressing gown around yourself. You knew exactly where to find the Hound.

You could already hear the swing of the hammer before you walked outside. It was such a common sound now a days, it hadn’t even woken you.

“Sandor,” You said with a laugh. “It was fine yesterday. It was fine the day before. And the day before that. If you keep fucking with it, it’ll just be a pile of kindling by the time the baby gets here.”

The Hound didn’t even look up from the excellently built crib as he kneeled in front of it, examining it for imperfections that weren’t there but he was convinced he could find. “What do you know about crib building?”

“What do you?”

“Exactly,” He grumbled.

You walked over to him and patted his head as he stared at the crib. He sighed, plopping down onto the grass in front of it. You lowered yourself into his lap, with some difficulty. He placed his hand on your large stomach absently as he looked at his creation. Any time you were near him, it was like his hand was drawn to the child inside of you. He even slept with his arm tightly around you.

“What if it breaks when she’s in there?” He asked.

“It’s not going to break,” You said. “And I still think he’s a boy.”

“And you’re wrong.”

“I’m the one carrying the damned thing,” You laughed.

“So? Doesn’t mean shit,” He said.

“You just don’t like my name.”

“James is a cunt name, no, I don’t like it,” The Hound said. “I’ve killed men named James, I’m not naming my son James.”

“So you decided that means we’re having a daughter then?”

“No, I think we’re having a daughter because we’re having a fucking daughter,” The Hound said. He finally looked away from the crib, looking back at you, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he saw you smiling at him. “Hope to whatever stupid God is listening she gets your looks, though.”

#the hound x reader #the hound #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane x you #sandor clegane #sandor clegane fanfiction #sandor clegane smut #got #got smut #got fanfiction #got reader insert #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #fanfic #smut #the hound smut #the hound x you

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bytemycupcakes · 5 years

Text

Breakup

A couple bits of Mavrik dealing with his and Charlie’s breakup, leading to some subtle fatherly (and Lucifer maybe?) bonding.

Words: 1574

(Thanks again to@/voneldrich for letting me use their name for the Von Eldrich father! Saved me so much pain TTvTT)

Mavrik takes a bit longer getting home than he usually does. It’s no surprise for him of course- He doesn’t want to see anyone. He can’t believe what he just did. How could he ever- He was raised better. He’s supposed to be better than that. That- Those things he did… That’s Helsa’s thing, she’s the one who attacks anyone and everyone. Not him. He thought so anyway, maybe things are changing, what’s next? Helsa sharing her feelings?

He’s barely holding back his tears, and can barely see through the ones managing to escape. He can feel blood leaking across his knuckles- Did he really punch those kids that hard? He’s not sure, he barely remembers it depite it happening just an hour ago.

Mavrik stumbles up the stairs and fumbles with opening the front door. As the door opens he’s met with his father- Right, he and Lucifer had a meeting tonight. Mavrik stares like a deer in headlights as Styx looks him over. Of course it’s pretty hard to miss how terrible Mavrik looks right now, so his father asks the dreaded question, “Mavrik- Son are you alright..?”

Mavrik tries to hold himself together, he’s almost an adult, he shouldn’t be breaking down at the slightest bit of concern. But god damn he just lost the source of his happiness- He sniffles and weakly shakes his head as he plants himself against his father’s shoulder, letting the tears finally fall. Styx sighs and quietly puts his arms around Mavrik, “It’s alright… Come- let’s sit down-”

Styx leads Mavrik to the couch and they sit. He wants to ask Mavrik why he’s so upset, but ultimately decides to wait until Mavrik calms down. They sit in silence for a bit, when he seems to remember something- He pulls out his phone and dials. Mavrik can hear the phone ring, so he tries to quiet himself.

“Ah- I was just about to call you-” Lucifer’s voice sounds through the phone speaker.

“Yes hello Lucifer- I… Think we may need to cancel our plans… Mavrik’s um-” Styx looks down at Mavrik, patting his head.

“Yyeeeesss… Charlotte’s quite-” Theres a loud crash through the speaker, “Angry… We’ll need to reschedule…”

“Indeed…” He hums and hangs up, setting the phone down.

“I-I’m sorry-” Mavrik mumbles between his sobs.

“I take it you and Charlotte must’ve broken up today..?”

Mavrik nods. His father tightens his hold on him, “Those can be tough, but you’ll be alright… In time.”

Mavrik shrugs like he doesn’t believe him, “I-” He sniffles, “I don’t think so, dad-” He wipes his tears the best he can, “I… It’s all my fault- Im so- stupid-”

Styx frowns, “Oh come now, Mavrik- Don’t talk about yourself like that… Your first relationship going sour is a common occurance, no need to beat yourself up about it.”

“But I-!” Mavrik cuts himself off- He doesn’t want to say it outloud, then it’ll be real- He huffs and gets up, “I’m- I’m gonna call it an early night… Thanks for- All of that, dad-”

He smiles, “You know I’ll always be here for you, Mavrik. Sleep well, son”

–

Mavrik is laying in bed, he doubts he got any sleep- He isn’t sure when he last slept honestly… Even though he hasn’t left his room in a week or so. Every time he tries he remembers what happened- He swears he can still… Feel her in his hand- Picture how angry she was with him- Why won’t the images leave his head? Why can’t he just forget it! Wouldn’t he be better off that way?

He pulls his pillow closer to his chest and huffs when he hears footsteps outside of his room. Mavrik isn’t really sure what time it is- But he’s sure that nobody should actually be home.

The footsteps stop, and there’s a small sigh, “How’s he doing?” Oh- It’s Lucifer.

“Better I’d assume… He stopped crying at least- He should still be sleeping if you’d like to check on him.” And his father- Mavrik wonders why they’re here- Rather than the Mange’s home where they usually work.

Mavrik quietly huffs, turning his head to the door in case Lucifer decides to come in.

“No, no.. I’ll let the boy be…”

The footsteps begin again, heading toward his father’s office. The voices pregressively get quieter.

“Hows Charlotte been?”

“Finally stopped tearing up her room-” Lucifer sighs, “Still no idea on what happened?”

“No- He won’t tell us… Just says it’s his fault-”

“Charlotte won’t say anything about it either- Did we mess up somewhere, Styx? To make them not trust us with this…?”

Their voices are to faded for Mavrik to hear his father’s responce- But he’ll conceide… Lucifer’s question makes him feel bad. Why hasn’t he told his parent’s what he did? They’re his parents- They’ll help him through this, wouldn’t they? But there’s another question on Mavrik’s mind, “… W̨̨͘͢͏h̵̛͘̕y͢ ̡d͏oes Lucifer even care how I’m doing…?”

His face scrunches up at how pathetic he sounds. He’s almost forgotten that he hasn’t talked in a few days. He hums into his pillow, he should probably get up- Doesn’t need his legs to atrophy… He will later.

–

A few hours pass- Long enough that Mavrik hopes he’s finally the only one home. He rolls off his bed- Litterally, he rolls off the mattress and thuds against the floor, “O͘w̶̨҉”

He clears his throat then groans as he forces himself to sit up. He stares at the floor for a bit, “C’mon Mav- You can get up, damnit. Can’t stay in here forever.” He slaps a hand on his bed, managing to push himself to his feet, “Life goes on… You gotta go with it-”

Mavrik has decided he’s going to fake it ‘til he makes it, so he does his best to push down his bad feelings and get dressed. He isn’t going anywhere, but looking like a presentable person usually helps one get out of depressive funks. He runs his hands through his- honestly disgusting- hair to attempt to tame it and glances at the sunlight peeking through his curtains, “I haven’t been outside in awhile, huh?” He squints at his now greasy feeling hands for a moment then back to the curtain, “It looks nice out- A walk out back wouldn’t kill me.”

The day is indeed nice, Mavrik strolls through the family garden with a subtle smile. He used to do this quite often when he was younger, he doesn’t remember why he ever stopped. The garden’s always been a nice quiet place to just think, and that’s exactly what Mavrik needs to do. He stops by one of the flowering bushes and cups one of the flowers. A petal has clearly been eaten a bit, but the flower appears to be fine, just a small scar in it’s life, it can move on and keep living.

Some tears start to bead up when Mavrik hears some distant speaking- Damn, He isn’t the only one home apparently. He figures he should show- whoever it is- that he’s finally “functioning” again, so he goes toward the voices source. He’ll admit, he isn’t too surprised when it turns out to be his father and Lucifer, though he thought they would’ve gone back to work by now.

“I just can’t figure out why Charlotte won’t be honest with me- She know’s I want to help- To see her happy-”

Mavrik grumbles to himself as he hears Lucifer- Of course they’re talking about Charlie, he and her have been the talk of their families since they broke up. He walks up beside the two parents, oh great he’s doing it, “I… May have an idea-” Mavrik leans forward as he pokes into their conversation.

They both look to him, surprised for a moment then they both smile.

“Mavrik my boy! It’s lovely to see you!” Lucifer sounds far to happy for Mavrik to really believe him.

Though he bows slightly anyway- it’s only polite, “Likewise, sir- I apologise that you must see me like this-” Sure he’s dressed, but he still looks awful.

Styx chuckles, waving a hand, “Nonsense, Mavrik. Lucifer’s seen you in diapers, seeing you distraught is no different.”

“… I suppose-” Mavrik shrugs, his father is right, sure, though he still doesn’t feel like he looks presentable.

Styx stands and goes to Mavrik, placing a hand on his shoulder, “It’s nice to finally see you out of bed, son… I’ve been getting worried”

“I’ll- Be fine, dad…” Mavrik shrugs once again, “Promise-” He tries to ignore how much that feels like a lie, he’s worried his family enough.

Lucifer gets up aswell, “Well- You’re not the only one struggling here, Charlotte’s taking it hard aswell. Though it isnt-” Lucifer cuts himself off for a moment, “Er- As… Physically obvious as your struggles-”

Styx rolls his eyes and sighs while pushing Lucifer away, “He’s- right but- Ignore him, Mavrik, you know Lucifer has no filter.”

“Yeah I’m startin’ to think you don’t either, dad-” Mavrik laughs slightly, “I’m- Gonna go take a shower- Before I start looking like one of those… Gaming losers- Who don’t know what deodorant is-” He awkwardly finger-guns at Styx and Lucifer as he backs away.

As Mavrik heads back to the house, the sound of Styx slapping Lucifer on the back of the head echoes through the garden- Mavrik snorts, but tries to hold in his laughter, pretending he couldn’t hear it.

#Hazbin hotel #Hazbin Lucifer #Hazbin Von Eldrich #MavAu #Baizli's writings! :0)

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phthalology · 6 years

Text

Destiny 2: when the cold day comes

Jenev Furnon has both hands on that thorny gun, eyespots sprouting green from its tangles, when she decides whether or not to shoot the Drifter. Will the way this started make any difference to the way it ends? Guardian/Drifter, 3k, rated T

Jenev Furnon has both hands on that thorny gun, eyespots sprouting green from its tangles, when she decides whether or not to shoot the Drifter.

She focuses on the reticule on his chest instead of the black-clad people approaching through the trees. Leaves swirl around her and fall to the spongey ground, the first warning bells of autumn coming to the emerald coast. The trap has snapped shut. The gambit, the opening play in a quiet war, has given way to Shadows at the edge of her vision. Guardians startled mid-match have already been transmatted out, leaving her and these black-cloaked, masked cultists, and the Drifter himself.

(Her Drifter?)

Jenev is a Hunter, so her questions all imply action.

1. Which one should she aim at first?

2. Are the Shadows of Yor coming to help or hurt her? After all, she holds Malfeasance. She clawed toward that old title—but was it for the same reason?—it was for a different cause—

3. Is she as complicit as they are?

4. Will the way this started make any difference to the way it ends?

Weeks earlier.

It starts on a hot, humid night in the Tower, wind blowing like a murderer’s breath. Someone else’s fireteam is going after Cayde’s killers, insists a nervous beat in the back of Jenev’s head. She taps her fingers against her knife, blue-silver Awoken hands against blue-silver metal. The Fallen from the prison and that rogue prince killed him, people say. Out there in the Reef, rocks spin in long, crazy orbits and Tower law is a rumor and a suggestion. The Tower there is as optional as gravity. That’s Jenev’s world (not Reefborn but Reef-tugged, Hunter-born, fond of wild space and the unknown) and she can’t go there now. With other Guardians on the trail, she thinks as her stomach curdles, she would just get in the way.

Another new horizon has opened up in her world. Visions of jade coins won’t leave her: that carefully edged stone, the luck of the draw, the Drifter’s dragging shuffle. She has been throwing herself into Gambit, win or loss, seeing motes in her sleep and wondering whether the rumors of Shadows were true. So she goes to him, ducks under the grated door (half-closed like he doesn’t want visitors, like he’s hiding something), and they talk about coin tricks.

Half the time he looks away, even turns half-around like he doesn’t know she’s there. But he keeps talking, and eventually they’re both leaning against the glowing machine near his workbench, so that when he turns it’s toward her. Fluorescent light casts neon glow, turns shadows into pitch. She toys with her braids, digging blue fingers into black strands. And his scarred face is very close, and his hands are very quick, and she wonders what horrors she can manage to forget on a night so hot the air seems hateful.

They talk about sleight of hand and the weather and the frustrations of being a Hunter grieving for her Vanguard, and then when he balances a jade coin across his knuckles she snatches it from him and takes his hand. Meets his eyes while she turns his hand over, places the coin in his palm and strips the padded gauntlet off, folding the coin inside clammy cloth. His hand is scarred too, ugly bar-punch ripples of tissue across his knuckles. For someone with a Ghost, marks mean vanity. Jenev’s stomach aches.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Who do you want me to be, ma’am?”

Coy. Fool. Perfect. She’s happy to mix the interrogation with the purr in his voice, so before she speaks again she pins his hand to the curve of her hip. The glove crumples onto the floor. “It’s no secret you work with dark things. How do I know I can trust you?”

“Work with ‘em? I bind ‘em. Doesn’t matter what you work with if you’ve got a knife to it’s soft parts.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.” She draws her own blade. The blue-etched sheen glints in his eyes as she presses the flat to his cheek, against the three too-clean scars. “Let’s say I’m not a Guardian tonight. If I’m just a Light thing, looking to bind you…?”

She shifts the knife to his lips. He grins, wicked, then licks the flat of the blade.

It’s easy to sheath the knife while he moves back against the neon, drawing her against him with his bare hand. On the plaza, a heavy rain begins. No one will see us, Jenev thinks. No one will turn that corner, duck under that door. When she kisses him he tastes sour, his beard scratching against her cheeks. Her world becomes heat, static, warm rain on her face. And then she remembers who he is, who she is, the suspicion with which she flavored her attraction. Maybe it should have been more than suspicion.

She pulls back, slams her hands onto the machine to either side of his head with breaking force. They’re both breathing loud, winded as the invader after the fourth kill. The Drifter licks his lips and hums, ambitious and satisfied all at once.

She stays close enough to feel his lips against hers as she speaks. “Let’s get you in that arena. See how you are against the Taken.”

The Drifter smiles, slow. “How many times have I seen you die? It ain’t pretty for anybody, but what are bodies for Guardians? Ghost’ll raise you right up.” His gaze sharpens. “But you.... There’s even grace when you fall. When you become little bitty embers, I just wanna scoop ‘em right up.”

The Drifter’s problem, Jenev thinks, is that he talks too much. But there is such promise in his words. She speaks of a thinly-held belief to get her bearings. “You’re a fool if you think primevals will prepare us for that prince.”

He interrupts her. “You want training, go talk to Shaxx. That ain’t my job, sister. You want blood … I think I do my part all right.”

She talks over him right back. “I said, let’s see you in embers for once.”

She kisses him again, feels the jolt as the back of his head hits the plastic. Jenev raises a hand to his throat, sharpened silver nails like knives. They both like to fight, so she gives him just the suggestion of blades against paper-thin skin, and then puts her other arm around his shoulders and sighs against his neck because it wasn’t all fight. He supports her while she clings. The grief for Cayde has retreated, or devolved into a smaller creature.

“That’s enough of an answer for me,” she says.

“All right.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but meets her eyes with a concerned softness.

“Hunters make bets.” She moves backward, hand still outstretched. “Ten wins, and we can try this again. See if you can kiss better with practice.”

“Your wins?” He looks at her calmly and stretches his arms above him, showing off. “What exactly is the losing part of this bet, darlin’?”

“Doesn’t seem to be one, honey.”

“’Til next time.”

The grief has faded. She slips the coin she stole from him out of her pocket, and makes sure he can see it between her fingers before she turns the corner.

After the ten wins, he calls her.

“I’m opening up a new Gambit arena in that Dreaming City. Want to scope it out? I’ll give you a behind the scenes look.” His drawl turns slavering, sometimes.

She says yes.

Her Ghost, Iris, asks questions all the way to the Dreaming City. She’s practical and warlike, and both she and Jenev are comforted by one another’s speech even if they often tune it out. Iris memorized the major armories’ catalogues. Her Ghost is a Warlock, Jenev jokes sometimes.

And then the Drifter ushers her through a silver door into the Cathedral of Scars. The beauty of the crystals and plants makes her want to touch every surface, see it all from every angle.

“How did they let you into this place?” she asks.

“What, because I’m not Awoken?”

“No. Because you’re …” You. Even as an Awoken, she doesn’t feel a connection to this impossible place. Nevertheless, its majesty replaces more personal worship easily. How was it preserved for so long? What invisible cosmic dust is coating all of those jeweled pathways, all of those geodes glistening with water? Her distant cousins keep secrets. And here’s the Drifter, exhaling greed, owning a patch of the place. She resists gesturing at him, especially because she would be too tempted to touch him if she tried. “Not exactly the Vanguard’s favorite.”

“I know the Ascendant Plane, sister. This world touches it like clothes on skin. Doesn’t matter what the Vanguard thinks if they don’t know. Me and Petra worked some things out.”

They walk toward the sunlight, across shining floors.

He thinks himself so separate from the Tower, Jenev considers, but Ikora surely knows more about him than she lets on. After all, she controls the Hidden, the long arms of the Tower. Eris Morn, one of the Hidden now, had even been in a place not so different from the Drifter’s situation years ago. People hadn’t trusted Eris either, but through secrets and service she had become a part of the Tower. If Jenev asked what the Drifter thought he was getting away with unbeknownst to the trio, she wouldn’t get a true answer.

Duo.

The correction thunders through her.

The Drifter gestures her forward. Before they walk into the courtyard (beautiful, fragile) she gets his attention, back of her fist to his shoulder like a fireteam friend. He pushes her back, flat of his palm, and laughs. It’s the thrill of a new place, a strange place. The steps far ahead of them, beyond the plaza that will be the backfield float impossibly out beyond a foggy cliffside. Hunter wanderlust and the memory of kisses in the Tower drives her forward. She wants to talk to the Drifter forever and she wants to make him wait before she speaks.

“Lots of ways to mess a place like this up,” she says. Explosions in the crystals. Gilding ripped off the walls. Gold melted in sun-fire. Guardians were going to chew throughthis place. Good. She thrills to know she’ll see it. Let the Reefborn know they aren’t untouchable.

On the edge of a cliff stands a blue-purple platform, like a sequoia trunk sliced low and transformed into crystal. The surface is smooth but not slippery. The Drifter lays out a picnic: spring rolls and bread thick with grains, one cup and a bottle of a blue-black drink she doesn’t recognize, busy with bubbles.

“Soon they’ll be killing on every inch of this place,” he says.

The wind blows gentle, spiked with the acid scent of the endless drop. Trees wave, sending leaves spilling down. “Good. Get them ready for the ugly stuff.”

“There’s beauty in that too, sister. Death always brings out the vitality of things.”

Speaking of that. “Let’s talk about my ten wins, if you so much want death.” Pride bubbles in her chest, along with impatience. “I challenged you too.”

In answer he shifts closer to her, one leg stretched beside hers on the violet stone and one arm propped up on his other knee. His fingers brush her thigh so lightly she can barely feel them, just a prelude. The kiss isn’t sour, isn’t clean or furious as their first had been: it’s messy and whole-hearted and tastes like mint and ozone. She sits up against him, pressing her fingers deep into his hair and under the bandana where it scrunches against the back of his neck. He’s sweat-salty and lost, and when the kiss ends he pulls away from her bright-eyed and with a laugh that heaves up from him like a drumbeat.

When the Shadows do come, the wind is high and loud. Jenev stands in the emerald coast, listening to it roar grim and impersonally hateful as apocalypse. The Shadows of Yor are a hooting band like she imagines Prince Uldren’s Fallen allies to be, but the shapes under dark cloak are all Guardians. They attack mid-match, as the Drifter planned they would. She was in Gambit herself, which of course was also part of the plan, since she has the gun.

Figures flicker between the trees.

The Drifter himself marches across the grass, without a war helmet, pistol in hand. “Let’s go, sister. If we take ‘em out, we end this!”

In surprise and fear, she points Malfeasance at him.It startles him, an honest expression she isn’t used to seeing.

Light, she wants to help him. She wants to fight by his side, to wear his mark, to leave her marks on him. But what if her first instincts were right, the ones that said she couldn’t trust him? What if he’s smarter than he appears to be, and can hurt the Vanguard? If she took him out for just a moment, stopped the game with the very gun she earned from her devotion to it, she would be changing the tide of the Shadows on a whim. What power! But it would be a whim, chaos sewn. She’s used to acting on impulse.

She looks back and forth between the Drifter and the people lining up, careful as a high noon standoff, at the tree line.

She knows the Vanguard wouldn’t want her consorting with shadows, but Cayde was always irreverent and the other two are shattered with grief. Loyalty to the Tower has always come second for Jenev: second to her instincts, second to her wants. She knows now that she can please both sides: the Vanguard of the Light will want the Shadows of Yor dead, and the Drifter will want to draw attention to his game. After Cayde died, the whole world feels more gray.

Neither the Vanguard nor Cayde nor the Drifter nor Jenev herself would benefit from her staying her hand against Dredgen Yor’s followers. She has no love for the Shadows. She teeters on the edge of a cliff, and there’s no harm for a Guardian for following that impulse to jump.

She carefully takes one hand off Malfeasance to flash the jade coin at him, the one she stole. Please understand this message. I’m gambling right now. I’m performing sleight of hand. The Shadows are frozen in confusion. She sees him take his first breath since she raised the gun.

Then she steps onto the backfield and fights. The Shadows swarm, person-shapes becoming monstrous. Malfeasance screams in her hands. Maybe the gun is the only part of her that feels for the Shadows. Hive magic! It exalts. Twins-in-Darkness! She rejects whatever grief she imagines for it.

She sees almost immediately how the Drifter plans to shake the Shadows. He has unleashed some of the Darkness he keeps, trapping the Shadows in a zone where their Ghosts struggle to raise them. She feels it too, but she isn’t the one trying to gain ground. Interesting to have the upper hand, to be the one creating the mess instead of cleaning it up. Especially if the Shadows never reveal their leader. To them, it’s an exploratory cut. To the Drifter, it’s a slaughter.

She pumps the trigger. A Shadow drops, his chest a broken blur. Others rush forward, and she takes the opportunity to burn up and throw knives into three of them before they can recover. She sidesteps and returns fire. They’re good, but she has Malfeasance, and the Shadows can’t break into the space between her and the Drifter’s backs.

She sees him spin his pistol like a trick shooter behind the nearest Shadow. Crack of a shot, loud and almost echoing, and that one goes down.

Then it’s over, almost too easily. This wasn’t the real thing, she thinks immediately. They were testing us, too. Two remaining Shadows fade into the forest.

She holsters her gun, hardly seeing the landscape in front of her any more. Will the Shadows come back? What did they learn?

The Drifter moves closer to her, looks down at her with absent calm.

“They’ll be back with more,” she says.

“What did you think would happen, sister? We took down what, ten of ‘em? That’ll give the old man a message. They’re recruiting fast these days.”

Malfeasanse seethes at her back. Am I a recruit? “This gun brought them out already. And they didn’t wait around to hand me pamphlets. Guess I don’t fit their criteria even if I do have it. Which means we can bait more.”

“Game’s gonna accelerate now,” he says.

“Come here,” Jenev says.

He’s looking into the middle distance, back toward where the Shadows arrived. She grabs his arm, pulls hard enough that he stumbles.

“I’ve earned this,” she says, and kisses him on the mouth. She can feel his sly smile, can see it as clearly as if she was beside them instead, watching human-pink lips on Awoken-silver. There’s a smile, too, in the way he holds her around her shoulders. She curls her hands into fists at the small of his back, tenses for a moment before she gives in to herself and presses further against him.

“There’s still one more step,” he says against her cheek.

“The man with the Golden Gun.” She pulls far enough away that she can look into his eyes. Immediately they grab for new holds on one another, her hands on his jacket, his at her waist. “I don’t know what’s going to come of that. I’ve heard how you growl. Keep secrets if you want; I’ll watch my own back.”

Some of his talks with other Guardians in the Tower brought out a defensive anger in him. It’ll shake the walls if the time is ever right.

He laughs. “We sure understand each other. Together until it ain’t convenient any more, right, lady?”

“Until the Ascendant Plane collapses or one of us gets distracted.” A pirate’s life ...

So what, if someone else avenged Cayde? The sidelines are where Jenev lives, and she’s good at it.

“Glad to have you along,” says the Drifter. “Until the next cold day comes.”

The freedom of a dark forest, an unspoken promise to crash like a wave over her grief. She would not need him when her wandering was over, she thinks. She would not need him forever. Neither of them wants him to become an addiction, and so, Jenev, also, would comfortably drift.

#Destiny #writings #The Drifter #Drifter/OC #Jenev Furnon #with thanks to exordiumnoctis

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years

Text

130lb of Ukrainian Courage (pt 15)

Ian is holding Yevgeny’s hand as they walk down the road, half thinking about the steaks in his carrier bag ready for the cook-out and half listening to Yev prattle on about dinosaurs and which lizard is most like a dinosaur.

“Woah! Dad!”

Yev yanks suddenly on Ian’s sleeve and points down the road at their house. There is a huge, blacked out van parked wonkily in front of the house and a rusty motorbike dumped on the sidewalk beside it.

“Who’s is that?”

“I think maybe your uncles have arrived”

Ian’s pulse quickens and he grips Yev’s hand a bit tighter. Mickey had warned him that the Milkovich’s were likely to descend on mass, and that he had called the meeting so they were probably going to be pissed but Ian had kind of hoped it would just be Mandy and Iggy that actually arrived.

He considers taking Yev back to Svetlana’s but Yev is already tugging forward excitedly and Ian remembers how much calmer the house had been when Yevgeny was present as a baby.

“Hey listen, we’re gonna go in and say hi, but if Papa needs to get down to business, we’ll get Mama to come collect you, Okay?”

“Okay.”

Yev nods happily but Ian narrows his eyes at his son, he knows that sort of ready agreement is usually surface deep. Just like Mickey, once he needs to, Yevgeny can dig his heels in and kick up a stink with the best of them.

“I mean it, bud. If I say we have to go …”

“Got it!”

Yev is close enough now that he can hear the heavy metal music blaring out of the house. Papa is having a party and he isn’t there! This is something Yev decides to fix immediately and he let’s go of Ian’s hand and takes off at a run.

“COOL!”

Yev stands over the sweet smelling glass bowl that is releasing awesome peels of smoke

“Is that a cauldron?”

He looks up at the huge man sprawled on the sofa, who is looking back at him with a sleepy grin on his face

“A fuckin’ what? It’s a fishbowl … you know? A bong.”

“Oh.”

Yev bounces on his toes a couple of times to the rhythm of heavy slamming guitar and waves a hand through the smoke

“You supposed to be in here or are you robbin’ the homos?”

“This is my house.”

Yev wrinkles his nose and quirks his lip irritably in a way that anyone who has spent more than five minutes with his father would be entirely familiar with and the big man lets out a surprised laugh.

“Oh shit! You’re the Russian’s kid, ain’t ya?”

“I’m Yevgeny Milkovich – are you one of my uncles?”

“I might be your fuckin’ Dad. Man, that was a wild fuckin’ party...”

The man laughs again, louder this time. Yev scowls at him and is about to respond when a large arm wraps around his waist and boosts him up.

“Hey Joey, I see you met your nephew.”

Ian smiles in what he hopes is a friendly manner but doesn’t wait for the oldest Milkovich to respond before bearing Yev away.

“He said …”

“I heard. Ignore him. And if you see something smoking, don’t go near it.”

Ian deposits Yev on the stairs and pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mickey and Jamie are locked in an arm-wrestle, both of them in cut-off black t-shirts, holding beers in their free hands. Iggy is sat on the counter with another fishbowl in his lap and he gives Ian a wave when he notices him.

“Hey Ian.”

“Hey Ig, how you doing?”

“Fuckin’ starvin’, man. Mickey says you got steaks.”

Iggy grins at him and Ian can’t help grinning back. Iggy is less gruff about it than his older brother’s but he has that uncanny Milkovich way of letting you know exactly what he wants without using a whole bunch of words.

“Yeah I’ll get started on that in a bit. Uh … Mick?”

“What?”

Mickey’s brow is creased in concentration and his lips are pressed tight, Jamie is sweating heavily and his forearm is starting to tremble. Mickey is focussed and going in for the kill, forcing his wrist to bear down infinitesimally more, his knuckles stark white. Ian is almost distracted by the swell of his boyfriends biceps flexing and the determined look in his eyes, but he forces himself back to the issue at hand.

“Yev’s here so ... uh … maybe the bongs could …”

“Ig, put the fuckin’ bowl away.”

Mickey grunts

“Joey has one too.”

“Tell … Joey … to … FUCK YEAH!”

Mickey leaps up, slapping the table triumphantly as Jamie gives in and swears furiously, grabbing his arm and flexing his fingers.

“All that cock pumping got you strong as shit!”

“Yeah? I bet you pump your dick more than I pum…”

“Mick! Yev’s here.”

Ian snaps and Mickey grins guiltily, letting the last of his rebuttal trail off and punching Jamie affectionately on the arm.

“Hey, you wanna meet your nephew?”

“Sure, why not.”

Jamie lights a cigarette but there is a look on his face of quiet unease and as Ian ushers Yev in, his finds himself fighting the urge to keep a protective hand on his shoulder. It is a side-effect of the last couple of weeks that he hadn’t really expected, he almost can’t stand to let either Yev or Mickey be touched by anyone else, especially Yev.

But Mickey is beckoning his son forward and like a magnet, Yev is drawn toward him.

“Jamie, this is Yevgeny.”

The pride in Mickey’s voice is so obvious that Ian lets go of his misgivings and folds his arms, watching his boys happily as Mickey drapes an arm around Yev’s shoulders and Yev leans his head shyly into Mickey’s waist.

“Well shit. He looks just like you.”

Jamie leans forward on eye level with Yevgeny, peering at him closely and Yev, a Milkovich to the core, straightens and holds his uncles gaze as boldly as he can, though he keeps one arm around his father’s leg.

“You got your Grandma’s eyes kid, like your Pop.”

Jamie’s eyes flick up to Mickey and he nods.

“Guess he is yours.”

Yev frowns

“Who elses would I be?”

“Well exactly! Quit saying dumb shit, asshole!”

Mickey scoffs at his brother, there is no real heat to his words but the look in his eye is one that makes Jamie shrug and sniff apologetically and the matter is quickly dropped.

“Mandy here yet?”

Iggy asks, bored of watching the play power between his brothers when it is obvious to everyone that Mickey has already won.

“Nah, haven’t heard from her.”

“Me and Joey can stay a day but after that we got shit to do. You wanna wait for Mandy for the meeting?”

Jamie isn’t sucking up to Mickey but it’s as close as any Milkovich is likely to get to it and Mickey favours him with a small smile

“We’ll wait til tonight. You dickhead’s are all high as fuck right now anyway.”

“Hungry too.”

Iggy grunts and Mickey rolls his eyes at his brother

“This ain’t a fuckin’ resort, man. If you’re hungry go to the fuckin’ fridge and make yourself a God damn sandwich.”

“Bite me, asshole!”

“Fuckin’ bite you? I’ll kick your ass!”

A fight ensues that is mostly for show but there are a couple of blows that make Ian wince and he snatches Yev back out of the way, wrapping his arms around him. Iggy’s lip splits in one corner spilling blood down his chin and Mickey grunts loudly as an elbow catches his chest, but they break away laughing and Mickey ruffles Iggy’s hair affectionately as Iggy claps him on the shoulder.

“That’s what you fuckin’ get!”

Yev’s eyes are like saucers watching his Papa. He is so absorbed he barely notices his Dad let go of his shoulders and turn to speak to a lady with long dark hair who has just come in.

Swearing is not uncommon at all and even Yev is allowed to drop a few cuss words here and there but it’s like Papa is trying to get in the world record book in the school library, like the man with all the pegs on his body. His Dad has stepped out into the hall and so Yev takes it upon himself to draw it to Papa’s attention.

“Papa? … Papa? … PAPA!”

Yev raises his voice and gives a sharp tug on Mickey’s shirt as he passes by to grab another beer.

“What?”

Mickey grins down at his son and then arches one questioning eyebrow at the tiny, judgemental scowl

“You’re swearing a LOT.”

“Too much, huh?”

Mickey asks, squatting down and tapping his beer bottle against the snub of Yev’s nose.

“I dunno but it’s a lot.”

Yev raises his own eyebrows in a fairly decent imitation of the warning look Papa gives him when he’s going too far and skating on the edge of trouble.

“We bitched at your grandpa like that, he’d fuckin’ whoop us. You want your daddy to whoop you?”

Jamie grins at Yev as if he’s said something particularly funny and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

“Papa doesn’t whoop me.”

Yev smiles kindly, as if explaining something obvious to a slightly slow person and then turns his attention back to Mickey, missing the look that his uncles exchange at that admission.

“Can I play Xbox until lunch?”

“Sure, man. Love you.”

Mickey murmurs the last words low enough that only Yev can hear them and kisses his forehead very briefly

“Oh, hey, if your uncle Joey hogs the remote, come get me. He’s shit at video games but takes, like, fifty turns.”

“Okay.”

“and where’s your Dad gone?”

“Chatting to a lady.”

Yev calls over his shoulder and Mickey jerks as if slapped. Mandy!

“Hey, here, chips, dips, go nuts.”

He opens a cupboard and gestures vaguely to it before closing his brother’s into the kitchen and going in search of his sister.

Mandy and Ian are on the porch, smoking. Watching them, Mickey is transported back to when they were kids and he grins to himself remembering the joint relief and absolute jealousy he’d felt when Ian had pretended to be Mandy’s boyfriend.

“Hey!”

Mandy spots him coming and cocks her head to the side. They’ve never been great at gauging each others reactions and Mickey finds himself moving toward her with a weird, gangly armed stance, half open to hug, half not.

“You look stupidly fuckin’ good.”

Mandy laughs, shaking her head. The tone is set and Mickey opens his arms properly, enfolding her in a tight embrace, cupping the back of her head in one hand.

“I didn’t fuckin’ know you were comin’.”

“Neither did I.”

Mandy admits and accepts the fierce kiss her brother plants on her forehead, scrunching her nose in an amused grimace

“You high?”

“A little drunk,”

Mickey admits, letting go of her and stepping back

“It’s good to see you, Mandy. I … well … yeah, fuck it, I missed you.”

Mandy turns to Ian, mock surprised

“Shit! You almost got my brother fully domesticated, talking about his feelings … what did you do?”

“Magic dick.”

Ian quips, fending off the playful gut punch that comment earns him.

“Asshole.”

Mickey mumbles but his attention is firmly with Mandy

“How you doin’?”

Mandy twists her hands into the pockets of the tight denim skirt she is wearing and bobs her head.

“I’m good, a little freaked out by this summons though.”

“Wasn’t a summons!”

Mickey frowns defensively as Mandy rolls her eyes at him.

“Course it was! You’re like Michael Corleone and where ever the fuck Terry is, right now he might as well be the old don in his orange garden.”

“What the fuck are you ...”

“It’s the Godfather, idiot! Anyway my point is you run the family when Terry’s away.”

“No I don’t.”

Mickey is clearly uncomfortable with this but Mandy isn’t backing down from it and simply shrugs.

“Kinda do. We haven’t all got together for years ...”

Both siblings fall silent, trying to think of the last time they were all together. It’s been so long neither of them can actually remember and the chances are it wouldn’t be a happy memory anyway.

“Yev’s here.”

Mickey offers finally and Mandy smiles a little sadly

“Yevgeny? Really?”

“Yeah, we have him almost every weekend officially but he swings by whenever really. Got his own room … y’know.”

Mickey fidgets a little awkwardly and Ian instinctively hands him what is left of his cigarette, which Mickey takes with a grateful smile.

“That’s nice Mick.”

“He’s got Mom’s eyes.”

Mickey tries to make it sound casual, well aware that this has become some sort of code for claiming Yevgeny as his own amongst his family and he’s eager to get that cloaked conversation out of the way as quickly as possible.

“I remember.”

Mandy rubs his arm reassuringly and Mickey wonders what her hesitation or surprise is about the kid if not the question of his paternity.

“I must owe him a fuck ton of birthday and christmas presents.”

Mandy jokes, lighting another cigarette and Ian and Mickey exchange a quick look of exact understanding.

“Don’t be silly! We spoil him rotten as it is!”

Ian wraps and arm around her shoulder and gives her a gentle squeeze. He still thinks of Mandy as being of a height with him and the frailty of her bones beneath the check-shirt surprises him anew but he doesn’t let it show.

“Yeah, besides, I ain’t slavin’ away cookin’ eggs for you all tomorrow, fuck that! We’ll go to McDonalds and you can get him a hashbrown. Kid’s like a damn dog when it comes to food. Feed him weird, greasy potato shit and he’ll love you forever.”

Mickey takes Ian to one side as Mandy greets her other brothers and nephew

“I’m gonna get this done now.”

“Okay,”

Ian nods, his place now is to support, he can’t get in the way of family business, no matter his place in Mickey’s life.

“What can I do?”

Mickey glances around and bites his lip, thinking.

“Get the BBQ goin’, take Yev with you and keep him outside. You hear any shit going down, call the cops and get Yev away.”

Ian takes a deep breath and holds it until the urge to protest passes, then lets out a long sigh through his nose.

“Okay.”

He says again. Mickey quirks his lip upwards and reaches up, tugging Ian lightly downward to kiss him. It is a long and steady kiss, nothing like the furtive pecks that Mickey used to give him when any of his siblings were around. It is a promise and a reassurance and Ian gives him a warm smile as they separate.

“Just be safe, okay?”

“Always, man.”

Mickey pats Ian’s butt and turns on his heel, shoulders squared and South Side swagger in full force, barking out his summons that is not a summons.

“Meeting. Now. Kitchen table.”

Mickey sits at the head of the table without thinking and then gives Mandy a withering look when she starts humming a low tune that he recognises as a theme to an old movie, probably the Godfather or whatever the Hell it was called.

“Where’s Dad?”

Joey asks as soon as he has his cigarette lit. Mickey tongues his lower lip and is about to answer when Mandy snaps her fingers assertively

“Hey! You all know the rules! Weapons on the table in family meetings.”

“Come the fuck on, Mandy.”

Jamie sighs but Mandy only glares at him and then each of the others in turn

“Rules! Centre of the table.”

She snaps and removes a slender can of mace from her bra and a small knife from the edge of her boot. Joey complies next. The rule was made after Terry slashed his shoulder open with a flick-knife in a fit of temper over a confessed loss of some merchandise. Iggy and Jamie follow, adding brass knuckles, a dirty butterfly knife and two vicious looking curved blades to the pile. Mickey hesitates and then pulls the ruger out of the back of his pants, opens the chamber and empties the bullets into his hand before chucking it on top.

“A fucking gun? Shit! What the fuck have you done?”

Iggy laughs but the atmosphere is starting to bristle with the threat of violence. Mickey licks his lips and sets his hands flat on the table, braced palm down. If he waits any longer he’s going to lose his nerve. He cricks his neck left, then right and says

“Dad’s dead. I killed him.”

There is a moment of silence and then Jamie puffs his cheeks out and exhales a rush of air noisily.

“Damn Mickey.”

“This something to do with Ian’s face?”

Iggy motions to his own eye, it is the only bruising that is still really bad, the eyeball itself still a little bloodshot and although the swelling has gone down, it still doesn’t open fully.

“Yeah, he was supposed to meet Yevgeny but he came here instead when I was out. Fucked Ian up, badly. I came back … we fought. I killed him.”

Mickey’s gaze is flicking between each of his siblings. Mandy has her eyes fixed on the table top but beneath the table her booted foot nudges against his in silent support.

Iggy isn’t smiling any more but he is nodding in grudging understanding and that is something.

Jamie looks pretty non-plussed and Mickey knows he is waiting for Joey’s reaction. Everyone is waiting for Joey’s reaction. It’s why Mickey unloaded the damn gun before surrendering it.

Joey has always been the most like Terry: looks, temperament, ideals. He was also the one Terry gave the hardest time to, the most beatings, the most vicious insults and the only kid that Terry ever gave up willingly during a bust. It had been pretty much game over to Joey anyway when the cops came in but still, it had been heartbreaking for him to hear his father casually admit that he had been with him when they did the heist.

He looks at his youngest brother now and rubs his bottom lip, considering.

“You do it in cold blood?”

“No, we were fighting, I pistol whipped him and thought he’d go down but he … he fuckin’ grabbed it and we were both trying to get control … he got shot.”

Mickey is trying to keep as close to the truth as possible because lying to Joey has always been damn near impossible. His hands are starting to tremble but he manages to hold them steady under the cool, dark gaze.

“And it was definitely you? Not your … boyfriend?”

The word drips with distaste and it gives Mickey the last surge of indignation he needs to get through.

“You fuckin’ deaf? I said it was me.”

Joey grunts and then shrugs

“Fine. Old man should have known better than to come after your family. Fag or not.”

Jamie nods at this and turns to Mickey

“Yeah man. He should have fuckin’ left it alone. Fag or not.”

“He’s actually dead. I always figured he’d die in jail.”

Mandy murmurs quietly and Iggy snorts, smiling despite himself

“Yeah, or if it was gonna be one of us, I always thought it’d be you.”

Mandy’s head jerks up and she gives her brother a ‘what the fuck’ look which makes Iggy actually laugh, though he quickly raises an apologetic hand to Joey

“Why the fuck would it be me?”

Mandy demands and as she speaks memory rushes around them all in a vicious, vice like grip, the barbs of knowledge long repressed sinking in deep and they all fall silent, though Mickey’s boot presses firmly against Mandy’s and holds there.

After a minute he breaks the silence and looks directly at Joey

“So what do we do? I killed our dad.”

Joey drums his fingers on the table thoughtfully. They could be discussing who’s turn it is to go collect a pizza or which team might when the season this year. Death is a natural part of life for all people but for the Milkovich’s of South Side, it is so much a part of life that even when it is one of there own, the feeling tends to be a sort of muted awareness at best and none of them are damp eyed at the loss of their father.

“We could take you outside and fuck you up a bit but … ah … fuck it. I’m on parole, man. Looks like you got a broken nose, mostly healed... Ig?”

Before Mickey can move, Iggy’s fist connects with his face and his vision explodes in a star-burst of pain.

“FUCK! Jesus fucking Christ!”

Mickey rocks back in his chair, nearly toppling it over. Blood pumps out of both nostrils and splashes onto the palms of his hands as they instinctively cup beneath his face. It was a damn good punch, hard enough to create a lot of drama but not hard enough to actually break the cartilage afresh. Iggy was always a fuckin’ savant when it came to his fists and Mickey is grateful.

Mandy hands him a bandanna from her shirt pocket and the atmosphere softens noticeably

“Did he get a decent burial? Whole?”

Jamie asks quietly and Mickey nods, dabbing lightly at his nostrils

“Yeah. With the silver chain from Mom. I left it on him.”

“Good.”

Jamie nods and Joey smiles slightly

“What do you wanna do about territory?”

Mickey shakes his head lightly and stands up.

“You guys split it - four ways, if Mandy wants in. I don’t want any of it and don’t deserve the inheritance anyway.”

This is clearly the right answer because Joey retrieves his weapons and pockets them. The family meeting is over.

Iggy, clearly not giving a shit about territory grabs another beer and nods to Mandy

“Hey, you meet your nephew yet?”

“Yeah, he’s cute.”

“Mickey don’t whoop him though.”

Jamie offers, clearly expecting some level of horror from Mandy on Mickey’s blatant lack of parenting skills.

“You don’t?”

Mandy’s smile is bright and hopeful

“Yeah .. no, I mean, I guess I’d swat him if he was being an asshole but what the fuck does a grown-ass man want with beating on a little kid?”

Mickey shakes his head and Mandy sighs happily

“You’re doing so good, Mick.”

“Pop beat us and we turned out fine.”

Jamie mumbles and Mickey raises a sardonic eyebrow at his brother but Iggy retorts first

“Yeah and one of his kids fuckin’ shot him. Times change man.”

Jamie ponders this for a minute and then huffs out a startled breath

“Shit! I hadn’t thought of that. I’m not gonna lay a hand on my kids if I have any. Or my wife either, just in fuckin’ case! Times change!”

It is the most eloquent he has been all day and he looks rather pleased with himself until Joey shoves him and says

“You’ll have to find a bitch desperate enough to marry you first.”

“Fuck you!”

The ensuing scuffle breaks one of Ian’s kitchen chairs and smashes the fruit bowl but it is good natured and clears the last of the tension.

Business completed, retribution delivered and the subject of territory to be settled later, Joey and Jamie eat, fill their pockets with booze and leave. They don’t hug Mickey or Iggy but they hug Mandy in a sort of awkward way, unused to contact with a woman that they aren’t trying to bed.

Mandy settles into the sofa with Ian, catching up on everything, trusting him to tell Mickey the things she cannot tell him herself. She falls asleep against Ian’s chest, secure and utterly safe in her brother’s home.

Iggy sticks around, plays video games with Yevgeny and tries to teach him how to make a butterfly blade dance between his fingers until Mickey swoops in and forbids it, giving Yev a spoon to practice with instead.

“But can’t I ...”

“No.”

“But Papa …”

Fine, black eyebrows raise and a pair of stern, blue eyes widen and the whining ceases immediately.

Iggy goes into the bathroom and does another fishbowl and when he comes back into the living room, he looks around and gives a little amused giggle.

It is a Milkovich household in which a child is safe, loved and cared for.

A father doesn’t hit his kid.

An alpha male is gay.

Family is welcome and no weapons are needed.

Women are safe inside the four walls and each person has enough food without having to ask. He is on his fourth sandwich and no one has yelled at him.

Times fuckin’ change indeed!

#shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #shameless imagine #mickey milkovich #yevgeny milkovich #ian x mickey #Milkovich #ian gallagher #Ian loves Mickey #130lb of ukrainian courage

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caladblog · 7 years

Text

this whole life’s a hallucination

Captain Isabel Lovelace has a chat with the dead, shortly after she's left that land for the third time.

Plus, Aperture Futuristics, everyone murdering everyone else, magical girl transformation sequences on LSD, communal blood, and the embarrassing thing that happened at your junior prom.

[Big-ass spoilers for basically everything through Episode 46: Boléro. I fudged the end of the episode a little because you're not my real dad.

This fic is brought to you by Variations on a Theme, my personal philosophy on identity/reality, and me being super gay. Please consider supporting these sponsors on Patreon

Only two months til it gets jossed! *pops champagne*]

The thing in the body bag writhes.

No.

Lovelace, in the body bag, writhes.

This is the tableau for a solid thirty seconds, set in the U.S.S. Hephaestus's picturesque cargo bay: A captain who was shot in the head roughly ten hours ago seizes and coughs, wrestling motion and consciousness from the early stages of rigor mortis. Nearest to her, drifting closer, a communications officer stares blankly. Opposite side, drifting further away, a man who makes things that break other things also stares blankly. Perpendicular to them and several feet away, a recently-usurped colonel presents his handcuffed wrists with a pleasant smile that never reaches his eyes, watching, sharklike, the final person present in this scene. Nearest to the door, a sometimes-lieutenant sometimes-commander looks back at him, clutching her handgun like it's the only thing in the universe that still makes sense (which it very well could be).

Compulsory musical accompaniment: Boléro weaving in and out with static as an autopilot/mother program struggles for control of the station. This might be easier if she knew the specifics of what she was struggling against, but, then again, maybe not.

In media res. Diabolus ex machina. Ready to begin?

(Your answer to that question is irrelevant.)

Hera silences the overture with a synthetic gasp and several things snap at once.

Jacobi scrambles backward as effectively as he can with his hands and feet chained together, mumbling a crescendo of "what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck Colonel what the fuck--"

Kepler ignores him in favor of jangling the handcuffs and saying sweetly, "Limited time offer, Commander. It's in everyone's best interests if you take it. Just think: all the answers you've wanted, all the answers you've killed for--"

Minkowski clicks the safety off and takes aim at his center mass, nerves drawn taut as a bowstring, shouting, "For once in your miserable life, shut your god damned mouth--"

All of this leaves Eiffel the only one left watching the-- Lovelace. Her movements are less epileptic now, more... deliberate, waves of tension rolling down her body as muscles contract and relax in rhythm. Her breathing is still too deep, too harsh, but even that's starting to smooth out. He's close enough to see her pulse through the thin skin of her throat, rapid but steady, and as everyone else yells in the background she begins to settle. Not limp, but at ease. Not dead, but unconscious. And then her head turns a little and she frowns and mutters something inaudible, incoherent, almost like she's... having a bad dream.

"I think she's waking up," he says haltingly, freezing Jacobi and Minkowski in place.

"It, Officer Eiffel," Kepler corrects without looking, calm as ever.

Minkowski lunges forward and jams her gun against his mouth and snarls, "I told you to shut up. Do it before I make you."

Kepler holds up his hands in surrender. "But of course, sir. Working with zero information is a... unique command choice, but if sir has made a decision, I can but follow sir's wisdom."

She swallows and her gun falters for a moment, but her eyes never leave Kepler's face. "Eiffel, what's-- what's going on?"

"How in the three hundred and fifty-nine circles of hell am I supposed to know?!" he all but shrieks.

"You're not-- You don't--" Hera says, barely intelligible through the glitches and echoes. "You don't come back! You don't do that! You don't--"

"Hera!" Minkowski snaps. "Focus on keeping us in orbit. We'll-- We'll figure this out and keep you updated. Eiffel!" He startles and glances up at her, sees the way she's desperately trying to hold herself together. Her voice sinks into familiar biting sarcasm. "You could start by observing and then communicating your observations, unless it's too much to ask for you to carry out your basic job description--"

"She's--" He has to clear his throat. God, his hands are shaking so bad. "Like she's asleep, but... restless? Moving around a bit. Breathing normally. I think she--" and then his voice cuts off in a yelp as Lovelace's eyes fly open and she jerks upright, struggling out of the body bag.

Utter silence. She swivels around, taking in the cargo bay, glazing right over their faces without actually seeing a single one, and the brief flashes of her expression are just-- confused, pained, frantic, afraid, and all Eiffel can think of is the way she looked at him, chained in the armory of the Urania at his side with Kepler's gun pressed to her forehead. Wide eyes, but calm. Settled. The look of someone who's finally stopped running. She never got her revenge but she got her peace and now she doesn't even have that.

"Captain Lovelace...?" he whispers.

She jolts, meets his gaze for the briefest second, then turns away from him sharply and zeroes in on the gun in Minkowski's hands. "What in the..." Her voice is shaky, rough, but distinctly hers. "Fourier, what are you-- Why aren't you working on the-- Where is the-- Where am I? What just..."

"Lovelace!" Minkowski barks, clearly terrified, falling back on protocol as she always does when she doesn't know what else to do. "Get your head together!"

"Oh, now that's just insensitive," Kepler murmurs, and Minkowski actually pistol-whips him, the sharp crack of metal against jawbone doing nothing to fracture his obnoxiously congenial attitude.

"We need your help, Lovelace, wake up, we need you with us--"

"Where else am I going to be? Don't you take that tone with me, Fourier, I am still your commanding officer despite--" Lovelace cuts herself off, scanning the room rapidly once more, and the naked fear in her eyes tells Eiffel that she isn't... she isn't entirely here. "The hostages. Who...? Why are you, but I'm not-- I'll be right back."

And with that she's through the hatch, off like a shot. Minkowski jerks her head in the same direction. "Go after her! I've got these two."

He nods once and shoves himself through the hatch and calls, "Captain! Captain, wait!"

She doesn't, but the words freeze her for a split second, and that's all he needs to nearly catch up.

"You're not Sam," Lovelace says under her breath, brusque, tense, moving at a rapid clip down the hallway to the armory. "I don't have time for you. Fourier and Selberg are working triple overtime to finish the shuttle and you're not going to make me curl up in my bunk and cry like a little girl. If you were really Sam you wouldn't be trying this, you wouldn't be trying to weaken me like this. There's shit to get done, Sam. You can haunt me when we're all back on Earth so until then you stay out of my way and you stay out of my head." Her voice cracks under the strain. "If you were really Sam you'd be proud of the way I'm handling this. Staying focused, staying in control. Not checking out like I did when Fisher..."

A deep, ragged breath instead of an end to the sentence. The armory's hatch doesn't budge under her hands and she frowns at it. "Rhea, what kind of game are you playing? Open the door."

"I can't let you do that, Dave," he says, and it's really, really not funny. "Hera, lock down the armory. As securely as possible."

"Already done, Officer Eiffel." Subdued. Businesslike. She's... well, processing, for lack of a less punny word. No fight-or-flight to drown out her ability to productively think about what the hell just happened, no adrenaline making things messy. Eiffel can taste it, coppery on his tongue, his heart trying to pound its way out of his ribcage.

"Rhea, what is this? Rhea!" Lovelace hauls back and punches the armory as hard as possible, a deep, resounding clang that makes him jump, and then once more with a faint sickening crunch underneath, and there's blood on her knuckles, and she turns around and leans against the door with her eyes closed and an almost beatific look on her face.

"Oh. That's right," she says serenely. "Command took you too. Not in cruelty, not in wrath/The Reaper came that day. You liked Longfellow. I just liked Portal. Remember when I called you a companion cube and then the hot water just coincidentally crapped out every time I tried to shower for a week? I meant it as a compliment, Rhea! Mostly. A devil visited this gray path/And took the cube away and they took everyone else too and now I can't even get a door to work."

Eiffel moves close, afraid to actually touch her and take her by surprise. Unarmed, injured, recently dead, and he still has no doubts about who would come out on top in a fight. This... this weirdly candid way she's speaking, this otherworldly calm, though, is scarier than anything she's ever done. "Captain Lovelace...?"

"You're not Sam," Lovelace laughs, almost a sob. "Sam died too quickly to leave a trace. It came on in the middle of the night, and by the time Rhea got us awake you were twitching in a pool of your own--" She sobs, almost a choke. "Selberg tried his best, but when you've lost that much blood there's no bouncing back. All he could do in the end was try to make you comfortable." She chokes, almost a laugh. "Isn't that what we always tell people? We made him comfortable. It was quick. There was no pain, no fear. But I know that no matter what, there is always time for pain and fear. You know that too, now, don't you? I swore to myself after Fisher died that none of you would ever know that, and now all of you do."

Eiffel leans against the opposite wall and says, very quietly, "That's a promise that nobody can keep, Captain."

"You're not Sam," Lovelace whispers, eyes still shut, "but it's good to see you anyway, Sam. Can I talk to you for just a minute, Sam? I know you're not here, I know you'd disapprove if you were, but I promise I'll go back to my post in a minute, I will, Sam, I'm just so tired." She huffs out a weak attempt at a laugh. "Do you remember that one time Fisher and Fourier and I actually managed to con you into playing strip poker with us? See, most guys I would accuse of losing on purpose, but I think you are actually just that bad at cards. Two rounds, was it? three? before your scrawny ass was chewing us all out about codes of conduct this and dangerously unprofessional attitudes that and not an approved team-building exercise whatever, in nothing but regulation underwear and a single sock. I'll never forget the color you turned when I laid down my hand and told you to finish the job. You ran away, Sam, probably the first time in your life you'd ever defied a direct order. It was fucking hilarious. Didn't even take your clothes, just left them in the cargo bay. I don't think I've laughed that hard since."

They breathe in silence for a very long moment.

Lovelace opens her eyes, slowly, like it takes every ounce of energy she possesses, and she focuses on his face. Actually seeing him, not just looking through him. "Officer Eiffel," she says, calm and formal and resigned. "So you've come to haunt me, too? I'm afraid you'll have to get in line."

"I'm not--" He frowns. "Captain, I'm here."

"The shuttle exploded, Eiffel. Even if Minkowski and Hera weren't lying about radio contact with you after the bomb went off, it still pushed you out into deep space." Another weak laugh. "I pushed you out into deep space. It's been... months? A year? If I didn't kill you, I let you die, and that's even worse."

"You didn't, though. I survived the explosion. I survived what came after it, too." Her expression crumples, and Eiffel continues quickly, "I mean, I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, I christened it the good ship Horrible Unending Nightmare for a reason, and like... the nightmares haven't ended but the Nightmare did, y'know? It's over. A tiny speck of radioactive space junk, floating in the void. I have fingernails again, and my hair grew back, and sometimes I can wake up in the morning without tasting cryo in the back of my throat! And all of that's because I'm alive." He takes a deep breath. "And I'm alive, in part, because of you."

"What?" So small and strangled it's barely a word.

"Jesus, Captain, what do you think kept me going all those whatever-hundred days?" A bit of a humorless laugh. "Something goes horribly wrong and it's Minkowski reciting Pryce & goddamn Carter in my head. I'm staring down the barrel of one hundred days of food and six thousand years of distance and you're there telling me to quit whining and survive already. Every time I wanted to give up, and it was, it was, it was a lot of times, I'd think of you and Minkowski and Hera holding things together with sheer stubbornness, and I'd think of the person you guys deserve to have out here with you, and I'd try to get within a light year of being that person. And it worked. I'm not dead."

He stretches a hand across the corridor, and she stares at it for a long second, and she reaches out cautious and trembling, and she gives a tiny sob and seizes it tight when their skin makes contact.

"You're not dead," Lovelace chokes out, gripping his hand even tighter, and wow okay semi-heroic speeches aside he hasn't magically stopped being a wimp and this is really starting to hurt. "Oh, God, that's right, you're not dead. We thought you were for months and there was no contact from Command and then you stepped out of the Douchebag Express looking like a fucking skeleton but you weren't and there's-- there's SI-5 and secrecy again and paranoia again and planning again and something went wrong, it went really wrong, Kepler was going to shoot you, Kepler-- he-- I--"

"I would love to fill you in on the details, Captain," Eiffel says with only the slightest manliest hint of strain, "the very second you stop grinding my bones to make your bread."

She laughs at that, nearly manic, and lets go of him to fold her arms over her chest. He rubs his palms together, casually stretching the one she crushed.

"Okay. Um. I'm not really sure how to say this, so, kind of stalling to be honest. Hera, can we get a quick status update?"

"Turbulence appears to have settled down for now," she says, sounding a bit more like herself. "Nothing else is really... happening? Commander Minkowski's still got a gun on Kepler and Kepler's still got his stupid smile and Jacobi kind of... looks like he's about to throw up, maybe. I'm pretty sure that's the face he's making? He's really hard to read."

Lovelace's expression snaps into focus. "Wait, where's Maxwell? She's the most dangerous--"

"Yyyeah." Eiffel hunches his shoulders. "Not... not anymore."

"Oh." She closes her eyes briefly. "I know you didn't want anyone to die, but--"

"It's--" a heavy swallow-- "fine, Captain."

She gives him a look, but lets the subject drop. "Anyone else?"

"Hilbert."

Lovelace blinks. "That man's a cockroach. Are you sure he's dead?"

"Well, Jacobi got to him with explosives and kept the comms open, so, yeah, we're pretty goddamn sure."

"God." She scrubs at the back of her neck. "This is... Please don't take this the wrong way, or tell anyone else, but I sort of... lose time, every now and then? But this is a lot of time. It's never been more than an hour before, I don't think, but now-- The last thing I remember is being chained up in the Urania's armory, and then I think I was in the Hephaestus cargo bay but everything's so hazy until a couple minutes ago when you were talking about the shuttle. What, um, what happened?"

Eiffel clears his throat and looks down at the floor. "Okay. Previously on the Mutiny Fuckup Power Hour: We get taken hostage by Jacobi and brought to Kepler in the Urania's armory. Maxwell messes with Hera and forces her to tell them Minkowski and Hilbert's position, but Hera manages to warn them and they get away from Jacobi into the air vents. Guess all that plant monster hunting was good for something, eh? They split up--Minkowski goes after Maxwell in the bridge, Hilbert goes after the napalm. Minkowski takes Maxwell hostage. Hilbert is... not so successful. They... they had the room bugged, and they knew about everything, and Jacobi packed the floor full of C-4 with a remote detonator. He wants Maxwell's release in exchange for Hilbert's life. Minkowski doesn't budge. Jacobi blows up Hilbert. Minkowski shoots Maxwell. Kepler demands her surrender. Minkowski and Hera put the ship in a decaying orbit. Kepler gives up because, crazy as he is, I guess he's not suicidal. So, uh, there we are. Bad guys handcuffed in the cargo bay. Good guys won. Yippee."

"Hm." She stares off into space for a short while, then looks back at him with a small frown. "You're leaving something out. Where was I during all this? Still with you and Kepler in the Urania's armory?"

"...Yeeeeees? Yes. That is where you were."

Lovelace narrows her eyes. "Officer Eiffel you are the worst liar I have ever met and I worked with Lambert for chrissakes. Tell me the truth."

"I did!" He hunches his shoulders even further.

"Eiffel..." she says warningly. When he doesn't respond, she cocks her head to the side. "Okay, then. What was I doing? What was I saying?"

"Um, a lot of really cool and badass stuff that made Kepler cry?"

"Eiffel I swear to God I will get a real answer if I have to rip it out of you with my bare hands--"

"Nothing, okay? You were doing nothing." He buries his face in his hands. "You were doing nothing because you got shot. That's why Minkowski took the napalm route. Kepler shot you and gave her an ultimatum."

"Wait, what?" Lovelace looks down at herself. "Where? I feel fine."

"Okay, I'm gonna need you to be really calm, and openminded, because I am absolutely telling the truth this time even though it sounds completely crazy--"

"Eiffel!"

"In the head. Point blank. I was right there." He screws his eyes shut. When nothing happens, he cracks them back open to see Lovelace staring at him flatly.

"That's not possible."

"Yeah, well, you know what else isn't possible?" he says with a bitter laugh. "Sentient plants forming their own religion. A red dwarf up and turning blue. Friggin' aliens beaming out classical music whenever they're not busy copying people's voices and memories. This star does nothing but redefine 'possible'."

"No, no, you must've... seen something different. There's no way I could--" Her voice cuts off abruptly, and he has to watch the horrified realization settle over her face.

"Yep." Eiffel tips his head back against the wall. "You were dead, Captain Lovelace, for hours. I got a... body bag out of the lab, put you in it myself. That's why we were all in the cargo bay. For your funeral. And then, ten minutes ago, you started gasping for breath. Kepler knows all about it, apparently, because of course he does."

There's a hand clamped over her mouth, and she's shaking her head slowly, and her eyes are wide and terrified. "No. You're wrong. I'm-- I'm normal. I feel normal. I've been back on the Hephaestus for two years, there's no way I could be--"

He shrugs and looks away. "The Jacobi outside the craft that one time sure sounded like he felt normal."

A sharp intake of breath. "Oh, God, you're right. You're being honest, God, I'm not even real--"

"No! No, stop that, that's not the point." Eiffel's eyes flick back to her, and he almost looks angry. "We already just lost you, we're not going to lose you again."

"If what you're saying is true, you never had me in the first place!" A little hysterical laugh bubbles up. "I-- Lovelace probably did die in the star, and then the--God, this is ridiculous--the aliens spat me back out for whatever goddamn reason. You've never even met Lovelace."

"I've met you." The tension makes him jittery. Every word has the potential to blow up in his face and he's never been good at this. "No matter what the hell Kepler says, you're-- I've been thinking, well, I am thinking right now because this is all happening really fast and it's just that-- You. The person three feet away from me. I met you when you stepped off your terrible duct-tape shuttle already planning eight steps ahead of the rest of us. When you were putting a ship made of cannibalized space station and righteous fury back together and making it work. When you were telling horrible jokes, and saving my life, and saving Minkowski's life. Beating Kepler at his own game. Keeping calm through every stupid crisis that pops up on this useless tin can. Whether you were born on Earth or space-Xeroxed two years ago doesn't matter. I know you."

"Nice speech and all, but you can't just--" Lovelace makes a frustrated abortive gesture before falling back, all her fear suddenly drained into exhaustion. "You have to be wondering why I'm here. Why they'd go through all the trouble of putting me together, putting my shuttle together, pushing me back to the Hephaestus. Sticking me in your midst while they've got this, this contact event thing planned. I doubt I'm meant to be a peace offering."

"Yeah, okay, it's suspicious." He fists his hands in his hair. "Maybe you're some... alien sleeper agent, and when the contact event happens you'll go full Winter Soldier on our asses. But you know what else? Maybe Kepler and Jacobi will get free somehow, shoot us all, and book it out of here on the Urania's secret luxury escape pod. Or maybe Minkowski will finally snap and Here's Johnny her way around the station til she accidentally chops through the hull. Or maybe Maxwell left some virus buried in Hera's code that'll turn her into GLaDOS and I know there's no friggin' cake on board so don't even try that."

"We do what we must because we can," Hera chirps on cue.

It earns a shadow of a smile from Lovelace. "I've always wondered about that. Isn't GLaDOS, like," she waves a hand, "offensive to the AI community? Misrepresentation or something. All of them, SHODAN and HAL-9000 and that guy from I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream?"

"Actually," Hera says, almost prim, "I always found GLaDOS somewhat inspiring."

"That's..." Eiffel tips his head back and stares upward. "Hera, you make our oxygen. Please don't say things like that."

The shadow stretches into a tired grin. "Did you have a point to your little spiel about how everyone could murder everyone else, or are you up the stream-of-consciousness without a paddle as usual?"

He jabs a finger at her. "Excuse me, Captain, but there is always a point to my communications. Almost like I'm an officer of them, or something. Actually, I have three points. Number one: there are bigger problems right now, and we never know what's going on, and we're always flying blind, and that hasn't--" He stops abruptly and frowns. "...Well, I was about to say 'that hasn't killed us yet,' but all three of us currently present have been dead before, so, uh."

"Flawless delivery, Officer," Lovelace says dryly. "I see now why you're the communications expert for this mission. What a stellar job you're doing! I hate myself for that pun."

"No, no, hold on, I can salvage this. We're here, aren't we? More or less intact. Despite all kinds of fingers in our brains," he points at the ceiling, "and friggin' drowning in outer space, and bloodthirsty mutant viruses, and being stranded on a nonfunctional craft for a period of time that my sanity has deleted out of self-preservation," he flattens his hand on his chest, and then sweeps it toward her, "and you! I've known you for two years and I was gone for like half that time and I've still witnessed you shrug off a mountain of shrapnel to the guts and a gunshot to the face! Captain Lovelace I have personally heard your heart stop twice and it's still beating. The universe has thrown every stupid death it can cook up at us and we. are. here. So what if you're... whatever you are. The situation hasn't changed. We still have to figure out what to do about the contact event and how to get back to Earth, first of all."

She squeezes her eyes shut. "Eiffel--"

"Still got two points to get through, please save all questions for the end of the presentation. Number two: you still eat and drink and sleep and feel things like you did before you popped out of a star in a magical girl transformation sequence on LSD or whatever the hell actually happened. And Hilbert operated on you pretty extensively due to the aforementioned shrapnel-in-guts incident. Wouldn't he have noticed if you were significantly different from a human being?"

"Counterpoint: I am significantly different from a human being in that you just watched me come back from the dead."

"Counter-counterpoint! That time when you dumped like twelve gallons of your own personal blood into my veins--"

"As opposed to what, my communal blood?"

"--and yet here I float, no telepathy or lasers shooting from my eyes or anything. Which, non-sarcastically, thanks, but also, sarcastically, thanks, because despite all the horrible Decima crap I am still thirteen years old and kind of want to be an X-Man. Blood transfusion by a secret alien is a much better superhero origin story than non-consensual medical experiments."

Lovelace buries her face in her hands, inhales, holds to a count of four, exhales. "Are you done?"

"Point number three!" Eiffel says loudly. "If there is anybody on this station who does not get to be the grand arbiter of the difference between a person and a thing, it's Colonel Goddamn Kepler. You think like Captain Lovelace. You act like Captain Lovelace. You remember being Captain Lovelace down to every tiny detail of, I don't know, the embarrassing thing that happened at your junior prom or whatever. Congratulations, you get to be Captain Lovelace now. Hera would've printed out your certificate but she's kind of busy keeping us from dying all the time. If your thoughts, your actions, your memories... If that's not what makes you you, what does?"

She's quiet for a minute. "I'm not gonna lie, being Captain Lovelace kind of sucks. Can I roll a different character?"

"Yeah, the backstory's a hell of a thing. On the plus side you've got the best stats by a mile and that was before your level-up bonus was revealed."

Lovelace snorts. "God, you're an idiot. How are you... How can you possibly be this chill about everything?"

"Oh, no no no no no, I'm not at all. I'm just so freaked out that it's looped back around to composure. You can fully expect a nervous breakdown in the next two to four business days."

"Well, at least we have that to look forward to." She drops the sarcasm and just looks at him, a little lost, a little vulnerable. "I'm. You can't ignore the fact that I'm not human."

"Okay, well," he rubs at the headache behind his eyes, "maybe that's true. But, like... the only thing that's gonna change is I'm more likely to hide behind you at sudden scary noises now."

"Eiffel, for God's sake, take this seriously," she snaps. "I could kill you."

"To be fair, Original Recipe Lovelace could probably have killed me too. I'm kind of the scrawny tech loser to the badass space commando thing you have going on."

"Eiffel--"

"I mean," Hera interrupts, slow and hesitant, "I'm not a human either, but I'm still... y'know, a person. An individual. A part of the crew. I think that's what he's trying to say? Maybe one day you'll kill us all but I've almost killed you all, like, a dozen times! Not to mention the fact that you've already tried to kill us all before. We got through that. We'll get through this."

Lovelace swallows and her hand goes to the spot on her arm where the dead-man's switch used to rest, an unconscious habit she seems to have picked up while Eiffel was off gallivanting through deep space. "I... okay," she says, taking a steadying breath. "Okay," she repeats, squaring her shoulders, gathering the pieces of her psyche and slotting them back into place til she's the same unstoppable force of nature that has held her position on this station for years despite every possible kind of turbulence. "Okay. If I walk back in there with a gun, Minkowski's gotta be jumpy enough to shoot on sight, and I'd rather not... test the limits of this regeneration-whatever more than I have to, yeah? So. Game plan?"

"Um." Eiffel ticks off on his fingers. "Give you a proper burial at sea, which has been taken off the docket for obvious reasons. Extract information from Kepler, filter out the bullshit which makes up at least 75% of what he's saying at any given moment so that should take way too long. Survive the contact event, which kind of sounds like it's about to start any second now. MacGyver the Urania back into flying shape. Get back to Earth. Kick Goddard Futuristics' ass--this'll be the climax of the third act, I'm thinking lots of cutting-edge laser guns and brutal hand-to-hand combat and Hera's got a super dramatic scene where she hacker-fights the evil AI at the center of the compound, it eats up most of our CGI budget but it's so worth it--and then we all walk away in slow motion as the building explodes and some really badass music plays. Then pizza? Definitely pizza at some point."

Lovelace gives him a look. "You're literally a child." He shrugs. "New game plan: don't die. It's a classic for a reason. Sound good, Hera?"

"I don't know, Captain, Eiffel's had me compiling a list of potential end credits songs for quite a while and I think I've got a pretty good set going..."

"Thank God someone's looking out for what's important," she says dryly, then heaves herself back towards the cargo bay. "Alright, kids, let's go. Time for me to meet my maker."

#wolf 359 #isabel lovelace #doug eiffel #hera AI #text posts #caladblog fics #title lifted from Ladder Song by Bright Eyes #aka Basically Lovelace's Entire Deal

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reflections-of-mobius · 9 months

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Node (and by extension, Cinn) basically don't cook from a recipe book on their own. Unless they've done the recipe several times over with a partner, they avoid it- because they fear getting it wrong.

See, they don't generally check to make sure they have the ingredients before jumping into making something? And Cinn can't teleport, so for them, it always ended in a half-made disaster they had to throw out. For Node, they just forgot they were cooking partway through and left whatever it was to burn.

This happened enough times that neither SI trusts themself to actually cook on their own. Even when they think 'I should check the ingredients before I make this' they generally forget. So...unless they're trying really hard to surprise a partner/friends, they just- have microwaveable meals.

Bless (Node-specific/Node's partner) generally checks that they have all the ingredients before starting (he's been around Node long enough to realize that he needs to check because Node basically goes 'squirrel' at the drop of a hat in the kitchen).

#it’s hard to say where all of it begins and i end | headcanons #Behind this soft exterior/Lies a warrior | Node the Fennec Fox #Hanging on the edge of tomorrow/From the works of yesterday | Sonic “Bless” the Hedgehog #I’ll keep punching ‘til my knuckles start breaking/I’ll keep going through the blood that I’m tasting | Cinn the Cheetah-Fox #don’t worry we’ll be back one day/to celebrate our glory days | queue

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reflections-of-mobius · 12 days

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@thehordemultimuse asked:

b f i q for Scarred Silk?

[Poly Fluff Alphabet. | Accepting!]

Under a cut to save thy dashes.

b = bed; what’s the sleeping situation like? are there regular sleeping arrangements - does anyone like to sleep alone?

Rust is definitely gonna try to sleep on his own, the less durable he becomes. Otherwise- I think Rust prefers to be on the outside of the trio (whether left or right, it doesn't really care). Cinn doesn't mind any position whatsoever, and if they get too hot they may just flop their body over both Shark Bite and Rust. By the way, the tug-of-war between the three is real when it comes to the blanket- until Cinn decides to buy each of them individual blankets.

When Rust starts shedding from how bad he's getting, they'll take to sleeping in their own bed. While they claim they don't care, xey honestly dislike it. Sleeping in the same bed as Shark Bite and Cinn reminds him of when he was younger, and-- it's oddly comforting.

f = fights; are arguments something that happen often? what are they over, and how are they resolved?

Rust is the most likely to argue, since Cinn wants to play peacemaker 99% of the time. He still has trouble accepting help when the trio get together, so very often it's a lot of xem going 'I'm FINE' and arguing until someone outright hits them and shows just how weak their durability has gotten. As the relationship grows, these fights will happen less and less- until they disappear entirely.

Cinn's the one most likely to fight the two about dealing with threats, since they're used to taking the brunt of attack work from their time in Apotos.

i = in sickness and in health - when someone falls ill, who’s the carer and who’s the germaphobe? is there anyone that resists being looked after?

Cinn's very much the main care-giver when anyone in the throuple is sick. Hilariously, they're also the most likely to resist any time the other two try to help them when they're ill. Even moreso than Rust. I don't think there is a genuine germaphobe of the trio? Unless there's something about Shark Bite y'ain't told me yet 👀

q = quiet; who prefers to spend their time with their partners out and about, and who likes to spend it at home?

Hilariously...of the three, I think Shark Bite would be the one most likely to want to spend time out and about. Rust can go either way (though he glares any time someone says 'awwww', even if he just kissed his partners on the cheek- f.ck off damnit), Cinn is definitely the 'hide at home' of the trio. But- if you offer bowling, or an arcade, they won't be able to resist.

#i’ve got nothing else to prove | asks #But I keep fighting/My knees will never know the ground/I want to keep your memory/Won't forget | Scarred Silk #it’s hard to say where all of it begins and i end | headcanons #Once a temple/Now a tomb/Step to me/I’ll bury you | Shadow “Rust” the Hedgehog #thehordemultimuse #Cause I love the adrenaline in my veins/I'll do whatever it takes/Cause I love how it feels when I break the chains | Shark Bite #I’ll keep punching ‘til my knuckles start breaking/I’ll keep going through the blood that I’m tasting | Cinn the Cheetah-Fox

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reflections-of-mobius · 4 months

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Anonymous asked:

😶🌄🏆 for Rust 🌇🧼🏠 for Tempest 😡 🎉💰 for Cinnamon 🌂👗 💼 for Tenebrosity

[Thematic Headcanons! | No Longer Accepting.]

Under a cut because there is-- a lot.

😶 for a headcanon about a secret they know of / keep

Rust has a few 'secrets' from Maria that she never told her father. While these aren't vital secrets, they are secrets Rust intends to keep. Even if she's dead...he views divulging these as a breaking of Maria's trust in xem.

If we aren't counting how Tempest tries to keep that she's the container for Iblis/Mephiles under wraps...then another secret she keeps would probably be that Tails has an insane desire for mints. Like...bordering on manic.

🌄 for an outdoor-themed headcanon

Initially, Rust hated the outdoors- the wild- all of it. It drove him absolutely insane. The twittering birds, the flow of water-- he wanted nothing to do with it. But...it occurred to him, as this fledgling hate was developing...

The memory of Maria, aboard the Ark...looking down upon Mobius, a world she could never touch, and longing for these sites they now had.

So Rust takes it upon himself to record everywhere he visits- little photos to hide away in a secret file in his accommodations at home base. A small way of grieving his charge that he could never save- he hopes she can see all the photos he takes. Through her eyes...it's come around to see the beauty of nature.

Despite how much Tempest is in the great outdoors, she's constantly afraid of either burning or freezing it all. Being in nature...it does calm her- it reminds her a lot of her younger days, when she was traveling with her Sonic all over Mobius to restore it from Dark Gaia's early awakening. Even if only subconsciously, she'll speed up a little while in the wild- and gain the slightest grin to her face.

This grin fades the moment she stumbles upon one of the abandoned human cities.

🏆 for a goal-themed headcanon

Aside from the major goal about hunting down the S. W. O. R. D. agent who killed Maria...he has none, save mourning Maria in his own way. To a degree, his goals have blinded xem- and xey don't know how to live life yet beyond vengeance and mourning. He doesn't have any goals after he takes revenge. He figures he doesn't need any. Xey'll figure that out, when they get there.

Tempest no longer has any major goals. She has plenty of very temporary goals, such as exploring new ruins and translating the ancient words of the past...but nothing that's meant for the long-term. Her last major goal was finding out what happened to humanity- what Mephiles did to all humans save herself and Eggman...and that was teleporting them all to another world, where time ran so much faster. By the time Tempest visited Earth, her parents had been dead for many millions of years.

-- OKAY SO I ACCIDENTALLY REALIZED I WROTE THIS ALL FOR TEMPEST AND IT WAS FOR RUST. So, I've added segments for Rust as well- annnnd enjoy the extra hcs, I guess? XD

🌇 for a headcanon about morning- or evening rituals

She always starts her day with a Monster. Always.- Alongside that, her nightly rituals are the same as anyone else's- brush her teeth and head to bed. Her mind is rather...loud when she's trying to sleep at night (note: Iblis is) so she tries to distract herself until she drifts off, if she does.

Sometimes, she'll give up on sleep entirely and just go back to her study to translate more until she becomes too exhausted to work anymore.

🧼 for a hygiene-themed headcanon

She is- or rather was- allergic to most soaps due to an unidentified chemical in the cleaning products. However, with the erasure of most of Mobius, Tempest doesn't have to worry about it anymore. She's also grown to be a bit less concerned with hygiene than most, due to her extended stays in the wild. So long as she doesn't stink, she's happy.

🏠 for a home-themed headcanon

Her home is full of things she's stolen ('recovered') from various human cities. Things she liked or wanted to look at later...she stole. Since humanity is by-and-large gone, there's no one to stop her. There's nick-nacks from every major nation, from Chun-nan to Mazuri, to the United Federation.

😡 for a headcanon about something that makes them angry

It doesn't matter if something's a joke or not, unless you're someone Cinn knows very well (or they can detect the sarcasm in your voice which is a 75% chance at success), they're gonna get pissed. They hate being accused of things- regardless of if it's done in jest or not. This completely flips with people they've known for some time (when it's a joke). They have completely cut people out of their life in the past for such a misunderstanding, though.

Disproportionate anger!

🎉 for a celebration-themed headcanon

Cinn loves setting up for a party- more than the party itself. They're known to decorate Apotos/Windmill Isle in streamers and the like a few days before any major celebrations. They'll have birthday parties and whatnot set up at least three hours before the party starts, and they'll be so damn happy--- until the party actually gets going and people arrive. XD Introvert at heart...

💰 for a money-themed

While they do work on saving it, every now and again, Cinn will splurge...they mostly try to save rings for when they really need them, but Cinn can't help it! The market pricing for Smartfood Popcorn was three rings cheaper this week, so they bought three bags! Let them and their popcorn be---

🌂 for a weather-themed headcanon

Favorite weather by far is the deepest, darkest layer of clouds that blot out the sun. Ten may be the sibling of the entity of Light and Creation, but she is, by nature, Darkness and Destruction. While it doesn't harm her, bright weather is very much a nuisance and makes her uncomfortable. How most view a rainy day is about how Ten views a bright, sunny afternoon.

👗 for a clothes-themed headcanon

Honestly, she'll wear anything given to her- but she prefers some clothes over others. Anything that has an adventurous (like- 'gonna go explore' not 'sexy') vibe, anything with star patterns... I promise I'm not trying to make her like the lizard lady from Doctor Who, but I think (when she's trying to keep hidden) she'd wear something gothic in nature- not to this level (this is more of a lounge around the temple thing) but. Dark.

💼 for a job-themed headcanon

Has no clue. Bombs every. Single. Interview. She doesn't really need a job either, due to her powers and how quickly her children can hunt down rings- but if she were to try for one...I'm half-tempted to say she'd want to be a florist. While 'demolitions expert' seems more in-line with what she does during the cycle, she'd still want to try growing and arranging flowers for others.

However, her version of a 'pretty flower' is a wilted/dead one, so..uh...that probably won't work out--

I know who you are, but seriously mate, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE ASKS HOLY SHITE-

#i’ve got nothing else to prove | asks #it’s hard to say where all of it begins and i end | headcanons #now you can only watch/as the fire burns ice cold | anon #I’ll keep punching ‘til my knuckles start breaking/I’ll keep going through the blood that I’m tasting | Cinn the Cheetah-Fox #Once a temple/Now a tomb/Step to me/I’ll bury you | Shadow “Rust” the Hedgehog #Shoot out the lights/There’s a fire in the sky/Burning it all/The black ash will fall | Tempest Lock #I wish there was another way out/For you | Dark Gaia “Tenebrosity”#long post

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