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leave me bleeding (it was years ago) by sunlitlemonade for @ashrayus
He was not in his Red Hood get-up and the boyish face, rigid and despondent, was unfamiliar. But his eyes glistened blue and curls framed his jaw softly.
Something instinctual decreed that this was Jason.
A 27 year old Dick Grayson encounters 17 year old Lost Days Era Jason.
Okay but the small rituals that carry through on habit between Mollymauk and Caleb.
The bowls of soup or plates of food placed next to Caleb as he reads in a corner of an inn or tavern. The small distractions to keep Jester out of his hair as Caleb slouches further into himself with a book, with ink and paper and new ideas growing from small embers. The way Mollymauk would quietly reposition an inkwell or pen or book that was too close to the edge of a beer-stained table or someone's cup because Caleb still had the habits from school that came with wide desks and few distractions.
Caleb sending Frumpkin to Mollymauk when the tiefling hadn't been seen for a few hours with the rest of them running errands through town. Acting as the audience for Mollymauk's wilder stories and lies-- the grand fabrications of a past that both of them knew was impossible. But Mollymauk liked the audience and Caleb liked fairytales.
The soft "you are full of shit, my friend" from Caleb during the really terrible lies.
Mollymauk's grinning response of "yeah, but you got to admit that was a fun one."
The easy exchanges of books and components Mollymauk found while on errands to restock, while Caleb finds something weird, dangerous, and ridiculous for Mollymauk. Colourful scarves, bags of something neither of them can identify but only Mollymauk will test. Bottles for books, a potion that has been slipped back and forth into their bags for a week before one of them finally needs it.
Caleb misses these rituals later, as much as he misses the soft pressure of a tail coiled around his leg under a table and the strange shift of weight in his pack when an unexpected book is slipped in. He misses the small games and long nights listening to obviously impossible stories over terrible drinks (and the occasional good one stolen from Beau). The constant noise of life and colour that was Mollymauk and now half-finished rituals as he catches sight of something unusual in a market or unknown, or there is an extra potion that he already misses slipping into the large pockets of an ostentatious coat.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hi, guys! So I said I'd be back to my blog and all... but I couldn't escape the fic craze. :3 I wrote a li'l sequel fic to my megafic, lol. It's actually complete, but a little long as a one-shot (32k), so I've split it into 5k-ish chapters. Will post updates every three days. There are a few spoilers for the main fic, but it isn't required reading. I give brief recaps of the context.
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A short snippet about Knoxx from the "200 Players Simulate a Government in Minecraft" video by ItzzzNuke! Was introduced to it by a staff member who's also a family member and they gripped my brain. This in particular is POV Knoxx :) set during a certain scene. Anyways Tiloxx (???) was super cute during the event! So happy nothing bad happened and they adopted a dog together at the end!
His hands won’t stop trembling.
He’s always had steady hands. ‘Steady hands lead the people’ is what his father would say to him when he was small. He hasn’t been small in quite some time, and now, his hands won’t stop shaking.
Distantly, everything is distant now, he can hear the crowd's mix of jeers and confusion. He’s supposed to be dead. The people want him dead. He wants him dead.
His hands won’t stop trembling.
Slowly, always slowly, the procession inches forward towards the crowd. He can hear their words now. They’re still loud and jumbled, but he can hear them.
“It’s the traitor Knox!” One calls out in disbelief. He can’t help but feel some disbelief himself, the words send his already unsteady feet tripping. A strong hand wraps around his arm before he can truly fall.
His hands won’t stop trembling.
He had almost forgotten his own name. He tries to feel it out in his mouth, to make his tongue curl around the consonants. All that trembles out is the same litany that’s reverberating in his skull, echoing back and forth.
“Freedom is a lie, law is the truth, freedom is a-”
The hand around his arm tightens and jerks him slightly. He doesn’t think they truly heard the mumbles, but they know when his mouth moves only one thing comes out.
His mouth snaps shut. The hold doesn’t loosen. The procession hasn’t stopped. The jeers haven’t stopped.
His hands won’t stop trembling.
He tries to take a moment, to steady them or steady his walking or steady anything. But then he blinks and he’s already on stage, the moment has already slipped his grasp.
If he’s on stage, that means he must speak, he must address the people. He lifts his lips, just as his father taught him, to something that was once maybe a smile. He doesn’t think it quite works, his lips are too chapped, his skin stretched too thin and his eyes remain flat.
It used to be a reassuring look to those under him, now those closest recoil. His hair used to be soft, now it is limp against his sweating forehead. His teeth were picture perfect, and now they were starting to yellow. His eyes were once described as charming, now they look like they belong to a dead man. In a manner of speaking he did.
His hand won’t stop trembling.
The Director of Economics stops talking, and gestures for him to come forward. And she turns to him. And just for a moment, his hands still.
She’s red, red, red, red and his vision is red. And he can see her, and she’s beautiful and happy and laughing at something he said but they’re laughing together. And just for a moment, for one single, aching moment, he’s not this trembling shell of what the good doctor left him. Knox is himself again, and Tilia is right there in front of him and close enough to touch.
And then he can see her eyes. And oh, his Tilia never looked at him like that. The director’s eyes are full of such pain and anger and hatred towards him, yet her mouth is a cocky smirk and she’s so much like his Tilia and so wrong and just for a moment longer, in the echo of his heartbeat he thinks…
She’s dead and gone and it’s all their fault.
His hands shake with the magnitude of his rage. His knuckles are still bruised and his throat is still purple and side still aches and for once it serves to focus him like an arrow.
And then his rage slips from him too, leaving only behind a desolate fear of the room and the good doctor and it’s all gone. He is left an aching weeping wound that will never heal. His Tilia is gone and it’s all his fault.
He knows now what he must do, who he must sacrifice to uphold the law. The pirates are nothing in the wake of the doctor. Are nothing in the wake of the empire.
By the time he can slip off the stage, his feet are shambling like a lamb, lungs pumping like a broken well and eyes twitching this way and that, intense light all too much after such a long time underground.
The Director gives him a look, it is somewhere between contempt and content.
who lives, who dies, who tells their story - part 1
Africa, 195–
The thing Leland Lafayette Shaw ('Lee' to his friends, 'Shaw' to his colleagues, and 'Lieutenant' to everybody else) liked about wildebeests was that he didn't have to take it personally when they tried to kill him. Not like the razorwings or the teethfaces or whatever the hell it was Billy had named his latest monster breed. Teethfaces wanted you dead in a personal and intimate way, one that was going to end up with you on their dinner plate, or them on yours.
Wildebeests, though. Wildebeests were just scared, stampeding animals, and they'd even avoid stepping on you, if they could. They only wanted to get away from whatever had set them off. They had no specific desire to see you dead.
It was cold comfort to know that when they were stampeding right over the toy overhang he, Billy, and Kei were huddled beneath, but at least it was comfort.
He had Kei under one arm, Bill under the other. Both cradled against his chest, with his own back closest to the overhang. That was the job: keep his eggheads safe. They were all so close to face-down in the dirt he wasn't sure they wouldn't suffocate in it, but at least if one of the huge antelope broke through the overhang and landed on them, it was Lee's own back that would get broken first. His body that would protect Kei and Billy from being pulped. Any brawn would do, but there was no Monarch without them.
The thundering of hooves overhead was lessening, although once the wildebeests passed there would be the issue of what had set them off. Billy would be hoping it was one of his damn Titans, but it wasn't. Not one of the really huge ones like Godzilla, anyway. The whole earth would be shaking, and they'd hear its roars from however far away it was. Maybe one of the smaller ones, a MUTO only twenty feet high or fifty long. Lee would be just as happy if it had been some idiot with a gun, hoping to shoot himself a wildebeest.
One problem at a time, though. The hoofbeats were nearly gone now, far enough behind them that Billy started to uncurl. Lee tightened his arm, holding the scientist in place while he waited. Stragglers could still be coming over the outcropping, and he'd hate to lose one of his eggheads to impatience. Finally even the dust began to settle and he relaxed, ducking his head as Billy twisted his neck to look up.
They weren't just close enough to kiss. They were positioned for it, heads angled just so. If it'd been Kei, Lee would have risked the slap, or the punch in the nose, and taken advantage of the moment. With Billy, he only froze, gazing straight into Bill's blue eyes. Funny: the way Bill drew his eyebrows down in his intense frown always made Lee think the other man had brown eyes like Keiko, but they were as light as Lee's own.
Bill wet his lips, and—
