vastderp replied to your photo:i am just going to blow tonight off and draw fancy…i want your template. for reasons entirely unrelated to sabotage or hilarity.
Have a free Sollux paperdoll, everyone.
ta-daaaah! the lolita look.
the little black dress: classic, simple, sensual.
just wanted to do the glowy thing. and also keep him naked. ;D
i call this one “the headcanon.”
You get an eyeful of bare torso, pectoral region and grub-nubs all blue-blushing and twisted around helplessly in the air, and you try not to think about why your gaze went there so fast, of all places. You had thought you couldn’t be more upset, but then he starts talking and it occurs to you that this cerulean motherfucker’s making fun of you.
The only reason he’s still in one piece is that you’re not sure where to fucking start.
Behind you, there is a loud bang.
You take one look at Galley with his Bad News Headsparks going on and Bel all dangling upside-down and you don’t think, you just act: you drag in a deep breath and bellow at the top of your lungs:
“STEP THE FUCK DOWN, HELMSMAN.”
For a split second after your commanding officer drops you a direct order, you’re too stunned to comply. The only noise on deck is the creak of the hatch swinging shut again behind LL, and all at once when you remember where you are, what you are and what you were about to do to the blueblood you came here to rescue.
You are very dismayed.
You right the blueblood before you set him down as gently as you can. He looks very bewildered.
“PLEASE ACCEPT MY APOLOGY,” you tell him. “X BEHAVED RASHLY AND ABOVE MY STATXON.”
You’ve only been awake for half an hour and you’re already wondering if this night will ever end.
You are using a voice that you’ve picked up from mostly from military movies and audiobooks. It’s not one you use often. Ever since that time you jokingly barked “FRONT AND CENTER” at Galley and he did exactly what you said while staring at you like you were gonna rip out his spine and use it as a fuckin backscratcher, you save it mostly for situations like this one.
You look Bel up and down. He looks okay. Baffled as fuck, a bit scuffed on one horn, but okay.
You turn and curl your lip at your moirail as if he were three sweeps old.
“STAND AT ATTENTION MOTHERFUCKER.” You scream, even though Galley’s spine is already ramrod straight. You sweep an arm out and gesture incredulously at Bel, as if he were a very prim, expensive vase Galley almost knocked over. “WHAT WERE YOU EVEN DOING DANGLING HIS TIGHT BLUEBLOOD ASS LIKE YOU WERE ALL TO BE BASHING HIS MOTHERFUCKING BRAINS OUT EVERYWHERE??”
You bare your teeth at him as take a few deep breaths. When you speak again you are a little hoarse, but you sound closer to normal—there is nothing about your voice or posture that automatically inspires kneejerk, unquestioning compliance.
“I think you better say goodnight to your boyfriend and haul your ass to your room.”
It’s starting to make sense now. You’ve seen this before in the Reenactment Society; lowbloods who couldn’t pal around even when you weren’t in character. You remember the way they got tense and irritable when you tried, and the way they relaxed when you started giving orders.
If that’s what Galley needs, then that’s what you’ll give him. Even if you would rather have talked troll to troll.
You lift your chin, straighten your besmirched shirt, and let your shoulders settle. You’re not Bel Kadros, hopelessly besotted wannabe-matesprit. You’re Tribunus Gorecrow, the Janißary, famous tactician and spotless officer. Just for now, just until you can handle it on your own.
“Apology accepted,” you say in the voice you imagine your Ancestor must’ve used. Calm, authoritative, untouchable. “I’m not part of your crew and my presence is disruptive. From now on, however, if you have a problem with something I’m doing, tell me.” You take one smooth step out of his way, hands clasped behind your back — this time, not nervously, but with dignity.
You can sulk about this later. Right now he obviously needs a bit of hierarchy.
You hate orders. You hate the way you’re programmed to follow them. You hate that LL knows how you push your buttons and how you can’t stop yourself falling back into command mode. You hate LL. You hate this Belatu for looking at you like that, like he feels sorry for you. How would he know? Fuck them all. You’re not a machine.
You really like orders. You like the way you can just relax and follow them. You like that LL is willing to stop you doing crazy shit, since sometimes you can’t. You like LL. She’s the captain. You like this Belatu because he understands the chain of command. That’s good. Crews with poor command structures are impossible to helm because of the conflicting orders, since you can’t just refuse to follow one. Discretion is a privilege afforded to trolls, and you are not a troll.
This all boils down to a huge relief (disappointment) as you are released (exiled) back to the only place where you really feel safe (imprisoned). You bow to the Captain and to the visiting blueblood, salute, and return to the helmsblock. If you’re careful and a little bit creative, you can get hooked into your station again without anyone’s help. That’s good. You don’t really want to see anybody right now. You’d feel too lonely.
In which these people are amazing and make me cry yet again. ;_;