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scoundrels-in-love · 4 years

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If I go (if you ask me to), I'm goin' crazy (Let my darlin' take me there)

On the cusp between spring and summer, Jaime and Brienne say goodbye to a house that was never home.

In Winterfell, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

Also on AO3.

There are two long knocks, a pause and two knocks again on the door.

Jaime bolts upright from where he's been lying on the lumpy mattress, the Knights of Westeros book falling to the side. (He had been flipping through it, half mindlessly, trying to not think of Tyrion as much as he tried to recall his brother's smile. It's faded, like the picture of Goldenhand the Just that peers up at him. Like the value in the Lannister name.)

There are three knocks now, a brief pause that drags out and boils down to one heartbeat all at once, and four more rapid knocks. That's when the mad scramble begins.

It shouldn't be as haphazard as it is - the little he owns (and even less he is going to take with him) is all carefully stowed away and arranged just for this, but as his knees hit the floor with an impact that sends pain through the limbs, it feels frantic.

Jaime removes the floorboard beneath the bed with too much fervor and it creaks, breaking the silence like whiny thunder and he freezes, wondering if lightning won't strike after, this time. Listens and hopes he won't hear any footsteps, fears Brienne's scream spearing through him if she's been caught.

It never comes and he pulls out the bundle wrapped in rags, peels them away to peer into the contents of the plastic bag beneath, just to double check. Spare, clean clothes to shove in his backpack, some non-perishable foods he has squirreled away from the store he works at part time. (Brienne would disapprove, if he told her. But silence let's her look away from that and also from things Jaime wishes she'd at least steal a glance at. Then he could hope.)

Finally, he dives as deep as he can beneath the bed and fishes for the tin can in the hole. Cuts his shaking hand a little on the sharp edge when he pulls plastic-wrapped money out of it, but instead of that pain, there's a sting in his heart.

To think he has to keep few paper dragons and stags like this, when Lannisters used to...

He stops midthought, reels his attention to more important things. There have been many things that had been true once. There have been even more things that he had thought to be the truth. He thinks it's what you make it, these days. And he has to make his now.

Jaime puts the rags and board back in place, stuffs everything in his bag and moves to take a step, before he backpedals toward the bed and the nightstand beside it, the one that is always leaning away, as if the state of the bed disgusts it and it is any less dingy itself.

He picks up the book (also stolen, from the local library, but no one has even noticed it missing, he's sure) and forces it in the backpack that now won't zip up and hesitates, again. There is a matchbox in the back of the bottom drawer and Jaime knows it'll fizzle in the back of his mind if he leaves it. And it will smolder in his bag if he takes it.

He does it anyway, squishes it in one of the side pockets so it won't get ash and remnants of the photograph all over his stuff, just in case. His twin - them - have left enough marks on him as it is. (And he never did, for her.)

Just a year ago, he would've climbed out through the window, but now there is only searing pain in his right hand that cannot hold his weight and the inevitable loud crash in that direction, so Jaime takes the long road, through the corridor and down the stairs where every floorboard creaks, even when he steps close to the wall where they are less worn, for so many foster kids have used the exact same trick for years now.

But Roose Bolton has not been home for two days, and his wretched son seems to be gone as well. Jaime tries not to think of what Ramsay might be up to or what the Brave lot might attempt to out-trump him in cruelty. He isn't afraid, because he knows the slick warmth of wretched blood already and even the hand they tried to take from him is still strong enough to protect himself or Brienne, but he fears a delay might unravel their plans. (The look she gave him when he asked her to go ahead if he doesn't come to the oak within forty minutes of the signal had branded itself on his heart. Hers, hers not to abandon.)

In the end, he exits the house unnoticed. Still, the tension leaves sharper indents in his shoulders than the straps of his backpack as Jaime slips into the garden that has not known maintenance other than some furious and undiscriminate weeding of anything that grows as punishment for the foster kids.

He sees her peer around the oak tree and suddenly, there's no weight to him at all as he runs toward Brienne and then they are sinking to the ground, half to hide behind the bushes and half in relief that vibrates sharply around the edges. (It's just one step, one step that feels like a mile and hums of all the miles taken before it.)

Brienne's face is lit with bright determination, but even it casts shadows and he almosts asks, but later, later. Instead, he nods to her unspoken question and stands up.

There is just one good bye to say.

Jaime looks at the evenstar carved into the bark and smiles. This house doesn't get to keep anything more of them, only an indent left by hope they made themselves and then made real. His hand had hurt for days afterward, but each line had been a mark of his angry determination, a reminder that they can want more than they've picked up from carelessly thrown, often rotten scraps.

He had tried to add a lion instead of hearts or their initials next to it, but it had been far too complex and so Jaime had scratched the attempt out, furiously. (He tries not to look at it and think how symbolic it really is. Fails.)

Jaime places his palm over the star, asks for guidance one last time, though he's lucky enough to take his guiding star out of here and follow it into the unknown. (Fear of the unknown has nothing on walking the same patterns within your cage until your feet bleed, until the bone scrapes the dirt.)

Brienne's hand comes cover his own, large and warm, and callused, and he has never felt more grounded than in this moment. He tries to memorize this feeling as he meets her eyes, sees it reflected in the blue that has become the criteria to match up all other shades to in the last year.

And then they're off, weaving their way through the edge of the garden and onto the dirt road leading away. He doesn't look back. Everything he wants is walking right next to him, or ahead of her.

---

As they travel toward Winterfell, the cusp between spring and summer trickles through their fingers, leaving hot days and balmy afternoons in its wake.

It's not easy, getting by with less money than all the suspicious stares they earn along the way, though they become less frequent once the school year is over.

He half expects Brienne to eventually explain why that evening, why then and not a month later when high school diplomas, as unalike in their grades as the two of them are, would've been crumpled up at bottoms of their bags. But she never does. After all, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

In unspoken agreement, they don't call Catelyn Stark the first week or the next, or any afterward. As if having the Starks coming to pick them up from anywhere else than their front door could make them change their minds.

He had thought it to be anger, red hot and tight around his ribcage, when she had told him Catelyn had recognized her as Selwyn's daughter and offered to help. That she had thanked and accepted the number, without jumping on the chance immediately. For coming back to this house for more than her bag.

And it had been that, in a way. Anger and desperation, and ache. To know she is safe and happy, even if on the other side of the country. Especially then, maybe. Because it had scared him, the campfires growing wild on the barren, littered beach inside of him, though even distraught, the oceans of her eyes could put them out.

It was that night that he had realized. Love meant the difference between anger contained and welts on someone's skin. And he had never been loved.

There is more to discover about love, still, and he has done almost every day since then. But never more than on this trip.

Some days, they both go more hungry than full. (He gives up on convincing her to take his share after the third time, but offers nonetheless.) Some nights, he whistles her lullaby under the open sky and curls up next to her, unable to steal minutes dipped in this peaceful warmth away from himself with sleep.

And yet, Brienne is often bright with cautious happiness these days and sometimes, it blows to this pure joy that he would never grow tired of watching, even if it would render him blind like the sun.

He does almost sneak away to call the number he has memorized as well as she has, in Moat Caitlin, ready to preserve that light even if it means their parting will be colored red with her angry blush. They're hungry and tired, and no one seems to want to give them a chance to haul some boxes around for a few stags. Their post-graduation adventure story isn't holding up much anymore, just like his shoes.

(He craves a smoke more than he’s craved it since the first month of quitting, but one implied promise broken is bad enough, so he grits his teeth and bears it.)

But when he enters a small family shop, in hopes to borrow a telephone, a different opportunity presents itself in the shape of Pia. His shaggy appearance doesn't deter her from flirting repeatedly, not even when Brienne follows him in and freezes in the doorway before approaching, and in half an hour, they've got an invite to stay for a while at her place, while her parents are visiting her grandmother.

The implication where he's sleeping are quite clear and he hopes his smile doesn't look as acidic as it burns across his lips. There are worse ways his body has been used in the name of love.

And yet, he cannot look at Brienne through the nice (he thinks, he can hardly taste it) dinner, there is sluggishness in him that spreads breath by breath.

Afterward, the hot water of shower feels too much, too much (like it had been over a year ago, when he had been just out of hospital and almost drowning in the bathtub before Brienne hauled him into her arms and back into life) and when doors of Pia's bedroom close behind him, he is numb and logy like his limbs aren't entirely his own. There may be a smile on his lips, Cersei liked when he smiled through everything she gave him, even when there was blood on his teeth.

She gives him one look and frowns. "No, Jaime, no. This... isn't whatever you think it is. I just thought we could have a bit of fun." Pia pushes him out of the room and into the living room, before hurrying off to bring him a blanket and an extra pillow and he just lets it happen, no witty quip in reach where he's hiding away.

"Does she even know?" Pia asks, lingering in the doorway after she's turned out the lights, and his silence in the darkness is an answer. "Well, she should."

"It's better if she doesn't, she won't get as hurt," He won't be as hurt if he doesn't know. The yes or the no and the very sweet, crushing uncertainty in between, or the softness of her lips and the glimpse of the ocean's taste in the sweatdrops on her neck.

"I doubt it protected her tonight," she says before walking upstairs and Jaime stays, sitting in the middle of the couch, buried neck deep in a blanket cozier than any he has known in years. That's where Brienne finds him the next morning.

"Jaime," she calls him as she kneels in front of him and he guesses, by her drawn expression and hand on his shoulder, not for the first time and he tries pull up a smile from the well reserved just for her, but the bucket falls off the hook, and he cannot do anything but lean forward and rest forehead against her shoulder.

"What happened, Jaime? Are you hurt? Did Pia..." she trails off, but he's already shaking his head. "No, nothing happened," he croaks and it grates on his tongue like the lie it is. But there's nothing that he can define or explain. Yet, she understands somehow and takes him to the kitchen, makes sure he drinks the tea and eats the food that he cannot remember later. And then she brings him to her bed and he thinks it to be so warm from her, though it must've been an hour since she got up, and that's where the rest of the day melts away.

When he wakes the next morning, he is crowded in the wall. She's facing him, her hand holding his in the small space between their bodies on the pillow. Jaime lays there watching her and the sun rises in him as it does beyond the windowpane.

He doesn't think he will ever be completely free of the void placed in him, emptiness that Cersei nurtured for it was endless space that sung in echo of all her desires, but in this moment, he knows he wants to build a fence around it, plant trees and little flowers that look brighter for the darkness that lays beyond them.

And that desire, he thinks, is the start to something that may shrink the void some day.

Maybe then, he can tell Brienne that she threw a falling star in the dark and when it wasn't extinguished, he realized there was an edge to it. Maybe then, he can build a home for her laughter, instead of fearing it'll finally break through the sky and escape him. Maybe then...

A million wishes hum softly when Brienne blinks sleepily at him, smiles faintly. He shifts his hand, to free hers, but her fingers tighten just so and he gives up immediately. (It's not like how he used to know it; she doesn't demand him to and the surrender is only for his own indulgence.)

"Looks like sleep did you some good," she says softly and brushes a few curls away from his face and he has to swallow thickly, not from desire for anything more, but the way the warmth and tenderness of her brings a flood of tears pressing against the dams he's determined to uphold.

"Oh Jaime," she murmurs and scoots closer and there are no more dams, just the ocean of her eyes that blur and overflow, in him and through him.

He buries his face in her neck, shakes apart until he's coughing and heaving and is only held together by her arms wrapped around him. Grieves all that could've been, all that has been broken, all that he will never touch with untainted hands, worships regret and guilt and then casts them out.

In their place, he anchors the weight of her hands on his back, the tickle of her hair against his forehead, the soft tremble of her inhale when he pulls back, breathing still uneven.

There's a tear streak on her cheek that he reaches to wipe away, because of course, she's hurting too and he-- But no, he cannot, will not take a new guilt on immediately. (He does, anyway.)

Brienne releases him then, gets up and brings some paper towels from the bathroom for him, because they're saving the tissues in their bags, and he blows his nose again and again. The silence between them should be uncomfortable, somehow, but instead of being embarrassed, he just feels dull and tired, but better for it.

"Fuck, my head hurts," he finally says.

"I'll bring some painkillers and water," she says, already halfway to the doorway and part of Jaime wants her to stay, wants to sink in sleep with her hand in his again, but instead he goes to the bathroom to wash his face.

"What are you going to do?" he asks the reflection that is familiar and unknown all at once, fingers tight around the sink. "What are you going to do?"

And finds the answer.

They leave Moat Caitlin almost a week later, truly rested and with almost-honestly earned food and necessities in their bags, thankful enough to actually plan to keep the promise to let Pia know how everything pans out in Winterfell when they get there. He knows Brienne will want to repay the money Pia has invested in them, if nothing else. Before they depart, their kind host tucks another "tell her" behind his ear, "because otherwise it's really not fair to the rest of us".

This, he cannot promise still, so he only smiles.

When they reach White Harbor, there is a stone in Jaime's chest, all the more heavy and jagged for the knowledge he will try to toss it out soon. He finds them a cheap trashcan of a motel and leaves Brienne to settle in, moves through the streets like the hounded, as if hesitating could mean he never goes through with it, or he just can't wait to get it done. (It's somewhere in the middle)

He stops only on a bridge over White Knife river, the nearest that he could find. The matchbox trembles briefly in his hand, like a flame about to be blown out, but then he presses close to the railing, and the quiver is gone.

Jaime opens it and dumps the content into the river below. He knows that the frail ash will probably never even reach water, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's given them burial in the water and the wind. That maybe with time the photograph in his mind will fade, too. That maybe he'll stop asking if it is his fault there's not a shadow of those two smiling children left.

He stays on the bridge for a while longer, thinking about their childhood (because he still can't think of that part of life in singular), about her smile and Tyrion's laughter, about games - the ones that didn't hurt anyone. The good things you're supposed to speak of at funerals. There hadn't been much good said at Tywin's, but he's seen the proper sort on TV.

When the sun sets and he comes back to the hotel, Brienne greets him almost wary, looking him over as if looking for injury. "Are you okay?" she asks, offering him a sandwich as Jaime plops down on the bed next to her. (They'll be sharing again and he doesn't mind in the slightest. Brienne had not complained either, not that she was one to do so.)

"Yeah, I am," he tells her, honestly, and realizes that there had been no splash when that stone had fallen into the river along with the ash, but it's gone nonetheless. There is empty space now, saved for a smile, and he does so, luring one from Brienne in response.

(When they're falling asleep, he presses the kiss to her forehead that has been aching on his lips.)

---

Winterfell is not as cold and miserable in late summer as he imagined, but it's no dream destination. Still, Jaime tells himself he's glad he won't have to make a home here, because even colorful ads don't bring much life to Wintertown. (What kind of name is that, even?)

It's not a lie that holds up when they're standing in front of a phone booth. They stare at the chipping paint on the door like it holds all answers to questions they don't even know, before Brienne turns to look at him, grabs his hand and pulls him inside.

The booth would barely hold her and the backpack, but with him, quite literally folded into it as well, it becomes absolutely cramped. Still, she finds a way to grab his hand somehow, after she's paid the fee.

"Hello Mrs. Stark? This is Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth. Last year, you extended an offer - I was wondering if it was still open?" She listens and it's her grip that betrays her emotions, not her steady voice. They had discussed what to say, beforehand, but it had not been revibrating around them in a tiny phone booth then, so real and with the possibility to change their lives.

She looks at him, eyes wide and stormy and nods to not keep him in suspense, before continuing: "Thank you, Mrs. Stark. I am currently on the corner between Builderstreet and Ravenroad in Wintertown. And I have brought a friend with me. This is non-negotiable, though I understand if it changes your mind."

Brienne squeezes his hand, jaw set in challenge that rings clear in her voice and he is felled by it, frozen though he should grab the receiver and shout "no, no, I don't matter, forget about me, just please take her in". But he wouldn't even be able to locate it, he can only see her face and think that it almost glows somehow. He is no match for her in this moment, no one is.

"We will stay there, yes. Thank you again." And just like that, the time resumes, but he is still swept up in the river of her determination, not its flow.

"Breathe, Jaime," she tells him, smiling so brightly that he is suckerpunched by the reality of the sun's gravity and the almost tangible heat of her power, and he thaws, inhales deeply and shakily.

It would be so easy to tangle himself further into her and press a kiss to her mouth, a thank you and worship in one, to brand his lips with hers just so he could always remember I was hers, briefly, brilliantly. Here, in this space still bobbing along independent of everything beyond it.

And it would be the most unfair thing of all. To ask even more of her, to hurt her if Stark kindness runs thin when they learn just who is her companion, to give her only something so brief and not him whole as she deserves. (But will there ever be more of him?)

So, he pulls them back into the sunlight.

They are holding hands still as they wait for the Starks, strings of tension humming the same tune in both of them, but there is fierceness in Brienne's smile. It runs hot enough to light a kindling in him, not the destructive sort he's grown accustomed to, but a more dangerous one. Because like this, she looks like a knight that will champion for him, no matter the odds. And win.

He still wants to kiss her, like a favor given and taken before the battle, and the way she's looking at him right now, defiance melting into reassurance and warmth, something sparkling he can't define within, when their eyes meet, he can almost believe she wouldn't mind. But there is a world between not minding and melting into his touch like it's home. And no time to find out.

So he presses kiss to her forehead instead, breathes her in and swears it's not the last time, knows more than ever he can't let her go, and then they are ready to face the future.

Together.

#Braime #Jaime x Brienne #Braime ff #got #my fic #rainy writes stuff #smoking mentions

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with SANTINO GALLO, who is TWENTY-SEVEN years old. He is often called SEBASTIAN by the MONTAGUES and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

TW: murder, death & grieving

One moment his parents were there and the next, they disappeared — as INTANGIBLE as the ghosts that he had conjured up in their absence. It was as quick and as bright as a shooting star, the one moment where his family was truly together. One would think that waking up the next morning would dash any prospect of waking up with hope for the new day – for one Gallo it did, and for the other the mere thought was impossible. Santino held onto the belief that they must have known that their children were SURVIVORS, that they would come out unscathed from the trials that was bound to fall upon two orphaned twins. No matter the misfortune that befell them, Santino still held onto hope until it almost burned him with his desperation. His hope began to sour, but still, he clung to it with FEROCITY as the lessons Verona’s streets taught him were much more unforgiving than any damage neglectful parenting could have wrought. Ever the good brother, he hid the truth from Valentina for as long as he could, kept her in the dark as to the lengths that he would go to protect her as well as himself. In his eyes, Valentina afforded the world no mercy and so he wished to have mercy upon it for both their sakes; a fool’s gambit if ever there was one.

To show KINDNESS to a man condemned is to condemn yourself in the fair city of Verona. Santino, ever the tender soul, simply wanted to offer the man shelter and reassurance — unsuspecting of the fact that the man had just narrowly escaped the wrath of the Montagues. How was he supposed to know that the man had been skimming off of the Montague’s profits and pocketing a couple of grams too? However, when administering justice, the Montague gang does not take into account innocent bystanders, because in their eyes, there is no such thing as innocent. Valentina had entered into the room just as Santino had made his peace with God while a gun was cocked to his temple, the side of his face covered in the blood of the man who he had been stupid enough to take mercy upon while the body lay prostrate at his feet. It was her clever thinking that saved them both, and when he emerged hours later, both were in the employment of the Montagues, with Santino’s SOUL thrown into the bargain. They did not care whether or not he belonged, for his sister did, a bright and shining jewel they wanted to keep for themselves, and they could not have her without her twin.

The violence changed him; how could it not? To have the blood of others cover his hands often sent him into throes of despair and yet time after time he made peace with it — because he had to. For his sake. For his sister’s sake. He made it into a MANTRA that he hoped would sustain him, and he locked that ruined part away from her as best he could, for it was neither her fault nor her cross to bear. Yet she, too, locked things away, and before he knew it they were more distant than they ever had been. She, with all her secrets, and he, with all his half-hidden misery. The day he got the call from Roman Montague that something was happening in the Cathedral, he searched for her, called her a dozen times before deciding he had to leave without her, try to offset the wrath the Montagues would have at her lack of response. He could not have known the HORROR that awaited him, for none of them could, in the end. When her body was unveiled, when her blood pooled beneath her feet, that was when the world and life itself shattered one last time.

His memories after that moment are FRAGMENTED. Somehow, they kept him from moving toward her, from helping, and instead Santino was forced to watch as everyone else stood by as well. As one by one, the Capulets proved their loyalty by dipping their hands into Valentina’s blood. He noted each of their faces and forced himself not to forget, and then, as the last of her life left her body, he was at last allowed to hold her. To watch as the vibrancy that had held him together leaked from her face, as her eyes went glassy and dull. He held her for hours after, until they had to pull her from his arms by force, until he was SCREAMING, clawing, biting at anyone who tried to pry her away. His life still feels fragmented, somehow, like everything hinged on that exact moment. He was not supposed to outlive Valentina. It was he who always walked around half-dead, and she who had always been filled with light and laughter, even in her darkness. Now he wonders at the world as it keeps spinning, at the Montagues as they pick up their pieces and move on, at the city who damned her as surely as his own actions had. Who will suffer for his RETRIBUTION? The list is long, with himself at the very top, and the few who are free of his blame would do well to stay out of his way.

VALENTINA GALLO: Twin sister. It had been the two of them against the word for as long as he can remember — and his memory is long and often drifting. Think of anything that needs two parts to work, that cannot function when absent something vital: that is the analogy for him and Valentina. She burned so brightly against his shadow, and now the warmth has gone, the light fading, turning his eyes blind and his hands freezing. The loss of her hollows him out, a shell of a man with nothing to show for it. They have not merely killed Valentina Gallo. They’ve killed Santino in the process. His horror and rage at what has been done is matched only by the anger he feels toward her, for never telling him the truth about who she was, for lying until the day she died to keep a secret he never would’ve told anyone. Was it to protect him? Or was it merely to show off? He can never ask, and she can never answer, but he can find out who assigned her to do it. Whoever gave the order is as guilty as she, and when he finds them, he doesn’t know if he’ll kill them or collapse at their feet and beg them to end him the same way.

MARCELO ROSSO & BRIELLE KING: Antagonist & Safe Haven. Heaven and hell on his shoulders, in the same office as him, breathing the same air. Marcelo was close with Valentina, and it’s given them a weird sense of cease-fire, but he knows it won’t last. It’s only a matter of time before he misses some imaginary goal post, before he gives Marcelo an excuse to turn on him, teeth sinking right back into the scars they’ve already left. It’s only Brielle that keeps them from snarling at each other now, Brielle who comes every day to see if he’s eating, who stands in front of Santino and begs for more time, he’s still healing. He can’t hide behind her forever, but it feels nice to try, and so far, Marcelo has allowed it. Their tentative silence is precarious, and one thing could send it over the edge somehow, but for now, they remain... stable. That’s the best that anyone can hope for. Still, it’s not hard to look at them and be reminded of what he should be. To think that perhaps if he were as violent, if he embraced his darkness as they do, then he would not have lost so heavily. Yet Santino also looks at Brielle, with her grace and her softness, and wonders if it’s those things that make her able to bear such unending tragedy. Who is he following, really? Who holds his leash? For he can feel the collar ‘round his neck as a brand, and it is beginning to suffocate him.

MAEVE PETRE: Traitor. There were so many times when he thought Maeve was the exception to the rule. The person who could shrug off what Verona had become and make something better from it, for she had reached across the Adige so many times, had she not? Yet doubt curdled in him from the moment he could think again, after Valentina’s death — from the moment he could wonder who started the Capulets watching her. Who, after all, was a Capulet welcome in his home? Who did he talk of his sister to (never by name, always by sorella, but it wouldn’t be hard to see her picture on the mantle, would it?) with such love and affection? And who, in the end, could have been the one to turn that around and use it against him? He has no proof, of course, not even a whisper of it, but if Valentina was an obvious spy than Maeve, to him, is an obvious traitor, too. Not to her people, but to him, to the fragile peace they passed back and forth between them. He doesn’t need proof, not with his hands shaking and rage climbing through his veins. No, if he finds Maeve, he will hurt her anyway, just because she can, and tell her that she’s made him this way. That those people she loves, her beloved Papa and whoever else, have curdled anything bright and hopeful in his chest. He will crush her if he can, and he will no longer regret it.

TOMAS SABELLO: Disappointment. He doesn’t know how this came to be, these clandestine meetings at the Castelvecchio bridge – his companion’s features soft and free beneath the stars, free of their usual facade that he seems to always wear. It happened one drunken night where stranger talked to stranger and the sun rose, but their hands didn’t part. He remembers that feeling, the way he could look at Tomas and see a thousand things under the surface of him, but now, having watched him turn away from Valentina and toward Celeste when his soul was begging for someone to help, he can’t quite get that image out of his mind. He is still that something dark that Santino wished to sink into, still that something light that was once so beloved, but he smells like smoke and tastes like poison, too. Sometimes your relationship to others is defined by what they did when you needed them, and when he needed Tomas, he chose someone else. Whether that was the right choice doesn’t really matter. They are both monsters now, both sullied by this and a thousand other things, and when Tomas finds his eyes in a crowd, Santino is the one who turns away.

Santino is portrayed by STEPHEN JAMES and was written by ROSEY & ROGUE. He is currently TAKEN by ALYX.

#lsrp #lsrpg #bio rp #literate rp #crime rp #m #mont #santino gallo #t #tm

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thedistantstorm · 6 years

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Slow-Dancing

Steelponcho (Zavala x Hawthorne) / Romantic, Pre-Relationship Fluff-fest / Gratuitous Dancing / Post-Red War Gala / Mild People Watching

Continues loosely from this ask from @acexfdiamxnds which you can find here.

“Alright?” Zavala asks, concerned.

“Yeah.” Suraya tilts her head to look over his shoulder. “There’s just a lot of people staring at us.”

He spins her with a gentle, too-slow twirl, and when he pulls her back in, whispers in her ear. “They’re staring at you because you look positively radiant, Hawthorne. You continue to prove them wrong.”

And he believes it to be true. He knew she would do what had to be done to appear presentable at the City’s first post-war gala, but she is an absolute vision in cream and gold. The dress hugs curves that are usually hidden, tasteful in the front with a dramatically low back. The trim of gold along the hem of her skirt added just the slightest statement of elegance.

Her blush is a bit more apparent in the bright spotlights spinning over the ballroom floor. She deflects, saying, “See, I thought it was because of you in this uniform.” The hand perched on his bicep slides across an expanse of navy twill and reverently thumbs at the stripes across his chest. He looks down at it, and then up at her eyes. She’s focused on them, like she’s forcing herself to commit them to memory.

“I can assure you, the uniform may be enticing to some,” He murmurs down to the crown of her head, “But most do not care for battle or the intricacies of the political state beyond pushing their own agenda.”

“Is that why you’re dancing with me?” She leans her head back, hand staying in place as brown eyes with the barest spark of mirth nearly twinkle back at him. “Maybe I’m just trying to push my agenda with the Clans. Get the sway of the Consensus and all that.”

“You’re dancing with me because I am a far safer choice than Arach Jalal. I saw him making eyes at you and decided to intervene in your best interest.” He straightens, and they turn around in a series of easy steps. She only looks down once to make sure she’s following his lead. “You’ve already won me over on the idea of Clans. What agenda would you have?”

“Fine, fine. I’ve already swindled you. I’m just keeping on your good side for the sake of any further favors. You’ve caught me.”

“I still asked you to dance,” He reminds her.

“Yeah, yeah.” It's as close as she'll get to telling him he's right. “Lucky for you I said yes. There’s a lady in an absolutely horrible dress - it looks like a mustard stain with fringe -” The little hiss of air leaving his lips is indicative of him laughing, but he gives no other indication. “She’s been staring at you since you brought me out here. I made eye contact during the last song and she glared at me. Want me to bow out and give her a turn?”

“Please do not. I do not wish to discuss faction affairs tonight.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s not talk affairs. But I should know who these people are, right? Mustard Stain is FWC, obviously.” He hums an affirmation into her ear when the music crescendos a bit too loud for her to hear his response.” Makes sense, kind of. The one next to her, in the pink is some booster for New Monarchy?”

Zavala chuckles, a low rumble that bubbles up from his chest. He turns her with a firm hand on her waist. “No. That one.” They sway to the music, their joined hands pointing toward a couple at a different table. “In the blue. Next to the man with the strange hat.”

“By strange you mean ugly, right? The one that has more feathers on his head than Louis has on his entire body?” She leans in close to him to muffle the little puffs of laughter. She’s trying to be ladylike, but it’s not easy when she’s used to being unbridled.

His lips quirk upward. “The very same.” She looks up at him with that sly little smirk that tells him without words she knows he’s laughing inside at the ridiculous style choices of their peers. Not that either of them actually know anything about fashion themselves - practicality was their fashion, but some things just transcend taste by being so unanimously tacky. The song changes, and he relaxes his grasp on her waist. Her fingers twitch in his grip, a little flutter. He moves to release her hand, but she clamps down on his gently enough.

“We can keep going… if you want.” Her voice is tentative. They’ve stopped swaying to the beat.

He blinks, a bit surprised. The hand around her waist has dropped back to his side. “You are sure?”

“Will it save us from having to schmooze? I’m not very good at schmoozing and already did a lot of it. I also wore flat shoes. Just in case. And also because I don't know how to walk in heels.” Her smile is gentle. “Besides. You’re not the worst partner I’ve ever had.”

He pulls her back in then, with a hand on her upper back.

“Do you dance often, Hawthorne?”

“Oh, all the time. I also sing to wild animals I encounter.”

He grumbles, “I never should have lent you that book of old fairy tales.”

“Even if it was to read to sick children at the Farm?” He sighs, defeated, and she laughs - a bell-like sound. He commits the sound to memory. “Anyway-”

Zavala, interrupting her, pulls her close. “Hideo just spilled something on himself. It looks like it’s going to stain.” Suraya turns to look, eyes lighting up in sadistic glee, and he moves a hand up to the back of her head. “Don’t turn around and look, you’ll make it obvious.”

“Okay… but you can’t tell me he just did that and- ooh whoa-”

He spins her out with a quick snap of his hands. Luckily enough she gets the idea and moves in the direction he’s pushing her, feet catching up gracefully enough. When she twirls back in, she’s glaring at him, and her hand digs into the meat of his bicep, hard.

“Not okay. Give me some warning the next time you do that.”

“You did fine. Spin again,” Suraya complies begrudgingly, and he slows her, releasing their joined hands as she completes a spin that keeps her close to him. “Good. Let go.” A pause. “Once more. Just like that.” A hand slides across her front. “I’ve got you. Follow my lead.” And then, “Well done.”

She flushes and he keeps her back to his chest. Takes his other hand delicately. Even though she knows it’s to allow her to see the drunken mess that is the Executor of New Monarchy require three people to attend to his wine spill and subsequent meltdown, but she can’t help but feel hyper aware of his breath on her neck and the hand splayed across her abdomen to hold her close to him.

This time, when she feels the slight tug on her arm that indicates he’s going to spin her back, she ends up chest to chest with him, his warm hand grazing delicate skin at the small of her back just above the dip of the low back of her dress. His finger notches in the dip of a small scar, and she feels his hand shift so that he can thumb at it gently.

“Where did you get this?” He asks, as they continue their routine a bit closer together. It’s easier for her to focus when he’s talking to her, rather than when they’re just looking into each other’s eyes or those of others who stand judging from the sidelines. His voice is a low rumble she feels more than hears now, and the heat of his hand is strange and exciting against her back.

“Long before the war. Stupid accident. I fell down a ravine or something. Forgot it was there, honestly. Can I retcon and say I got it fighting a wolf? That sounds way cooler.”

“Unnecessary. You need not worry about being 'cool' with me,” Zavala replies. He continues to rub his thumb against the different textures of the skin of her back in a gentle caress. “I’m going to dip you now,” He tells her a moment later, followed by, “Relax into my grip. I won’t drop you.”

“Oh..kay.”

The palm on the small of her back slides up into something firmer, and she realizes that he’s truly suspending her up with one hand; Any weight on her legs has been given away. He looks down at her, eyes startlingly gentle. He bends her back upright gently, and her feet reclaim the rest of her body-weight, slight, but a vast difference from a moment before.

Her cheek finds purchase against soft navy twill and her hand snakes up to his shoulder blade. “Too much?” He asks her, surprised at the close proximity, but not unwelcoming of it.

“Not at all,” Suraya whispers into his ear, angling her chin up slightly. “You’re really good at this.”

He hums, unused to the praise, and she relaxes against him. It feels nice. Comfortable in a way that has him completely on edge. It's anticipation, he realizes. He isn't sure for what - or maybe he has some idea, but now isn't the time to think on it. This has become a moment he wishes to savor.

The song changes again, and this one is a bit faster. He puts a little distance between them, feels the thunder of his heartbeat slow just a touch without her head against him. “Feel free to let me know if it’s too much.”

A nod greets him, along with twin dark eyes. She looks less intimidated and more playful. It’s a welcome change from the tense posture and anxious gaze she’d had at the beginning of the night, when he'd nimbly stepped between her and the Dead Orbit leader. “Alright,” She agrees.

It takes her a second to get the steps right, her eyes dropping down to watch his boots and get an idea for how they're supposed to step. When she lifts her eyes back up, she sees the smile in his eyes. Zavala has clearly been watching her watch his feet.

“What?” Hawthorne looks a little agitated at being found out. She's already way out of her element as it is, and this is exceedingly embarrassing.

“You don't need to see my steps,” He tells her. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

Suraya rolls her eyes but does as instructed. “Hope your Ghost won't mind mending your toes then, when I step on them.”

“You won't.”

“Suuuuure.”

“This song has the same tempo most of the way through. You have the steps for the first part. They're the most difficult.” It's a lie, but she's all mind over matter and he knows it. The hand on her hip that grazes the bare skin of her back tightens ever so slightly and makes her straighten. “Feel my hand?” She nods. “I'll guide you with it. Half of dancing is trusting your partner.” His eyes almost arc lightning when he looks at her, they're so vivid. “Do you trust me, Suraya?”

“Yes.”

There is no hesitation, no split-second delay or snarky comment to belittle her decision, make it less serious. Her eyes are warm on his, her lips just slightly upturned in a smile.

“Are you that surprised?” She asks him, eyes never straying from his own. It takes a second for him to realize he hasn't actually responded, or maybe even breathed since she answered him. He recovers as she says, “You know, I wouldn't have agreed to stay here or -” He spins her, “Any of this if it weren't for you... trusting me first.”

“I - it's nice to hear,” He admits. “You aren't exactly forthcoming.”

She frowns. “I'm more forthcoming with you than with anyone else.” Her cheeks burn, but she does not take it back even if she looks away.

The song begins to transition, and he drops his palm from her back. “Let's go get a drink, shall we?” She bites her lip, and he feels a sinking feeling in his gut that’s startling. Softer, he says, “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She nods, still looking a bit conflicted, but for a different reason. Surprising herself, she finds that she might not mind if they would kept dancing, despite the more serious turn of conversation. She actually enjoyed it. But, a break would probably be for the best. “Lead the way.”

He does, but not in the way she expects. His hand slides down her back and guides her as if they’re still dancing. It makes her feel warm and tingly. It feels romantic.

Does he know it’s romantic? Does he mean it like that? She wonders, but knows she will absolutely never ask and hope for some better context clues.

By the time they reach the bar, he motions for her to take a seat on the lone unoccupied stool. His hand stays the course, even when he uses the other to flag down a smartly dressed bartender to provide them with whiskey, and he angles himself so he’s mostly behind her, but able to see the side of her face.

“So,” She says, once she’s had a solid swallow of amber liquid - expensive amber liquid, she reminds herself. She needs to be careful about how much of this she drinks. It is far more refined than anything she’s had in a long time. Alcohol doesn’t exactly allow for precise shooting or high response time, so she normally avoids it. “Wow. I’ll have to readjust to his stuff.”

He places his glass next to hers on the bar. “Strong?”

“Not really. Just nicer than what I’m used to. We didn’t exactly have a distillery at the Farm, and I’m not exactly a lush. I’ll need to pace myself if I’m going to live through a couple more fingers of this stuff.”

His fingers twitch on her back when he laughs. “Fair play. Feel free to get whatever you’d prefer next time the bartender comes around.”

“This is fine,” She raises the glass to him, the curve of her hand around it as she bends her wrist back to present the unoccupied side to him. “Cheers,” She calls.

Their glasses clink quietly amongst the din of the quartet playing, people talking, and all the carrying on of the room. He leans in, lips just above the exposed shell of her ear and rumbles low. “Cheers, Suraya.”

She smiles at him, sweet and true, tipping her head back to take another pull from the glass - far smaller than the first. People around them, noticing the Commander, begin to push in. He feels the moment when her spine stiffens, ramrod straight and slides his hand up the length of her vertebrae and back down. He puts his back to hers, shielding her from the majority of it.

Someone from New Monarchy has approached with their entourage in tow cooing their congratulations for the Vanguard’s victory over the Cabal. Zavala immediately deflects, explaining how their victory was a group effort, and that it would have been unattainable without the help of some very capable civilians. There’s some polite laughing and shrugging off of his point, and then more of the trademark flattery that makes her want to gag.

She will never fit in with these people. Hers are the kind on the streets, scrambling to put together work, meals, and a home for their family. Those are the ones who stood beside the Vanguard at the City gates while New Monarchy hid out in their bunker and waited out the storm.

She must have sighed hard enough that he felt it - obviously he’s able to feel the movement of her back against his without the metal plating of his armor - because a moment later, he leans forward and puts the hand not cradling what’s left of his drink behind his back, against her skin. It’s a bit weird of an arrangement, his thumb smoothing over the notch of a vertebrae, but it’s soothing enough that she relaxes her spine again.

He manages to get them to pause long enough to turn back around and place his empty glass on the bar. She nudges her refill his way - she needed one if she was going to listen to this horrendous political appeal - but he refuses. “It’s more of a reprieve if I wait for a drink,” He whispers in her ear.

Her smirk is like fire. “It would be more of a reprieve if you danced with me again,” She says, pushing away her glass. She twists and puts a hand on his chest, over his heart. “Unless you’d rather listen to your subjects some more.”

If she notices his sharp inhale at her bolder than usual touch, she certainly does not say anything, instead slipping off of the stool with a shuffle of taffeta and a glitter of gold. Her eyes stay on his, but her hand drops down one muscular arm and hooks the pads of wide, calloused fingers with her own equally as calloused but slender ones.

“Please excuse us,” Suraya says, strangely demurely when she enters the circle of New Monarchy boosters. She schools her features into something strangely reminiscent of his own polite disapproval as she steps just slightly in front of their entwined fingers and squeezes them softly. “The Commander promised me another dance before the night ends,” She says softly. “And I love this song.”

Their disdain is almost palpable, but well controlled because of the presence of so many others around them. One, a woman pipes up. “Do you even know what song this is?”

The burning retort is on her lips, but she reigns herself in. “It’s called ‘Hikari,’” Suraya shoots back, somehow without a shred of malice. “The original arrangement was made for an orchestra, and before that, I believe it was a piece for an old game, before the collapse. I personally prefer the string arrangement, but that’s just me.” When there’s no retort because she sounds ritzy enough, she continues. “Anyway, I’d really like to dance to this song, so…” She tugs on his hand and he moves with her without any resistance.

Once they’re beyond the reach of the naysayers of the faction, Zavala rearranges his grasp on her fingers, so they’re interlocked. “You know this piece?” He doesn’t, but it’s slow enough to get by.

She’s bashful and ducks her head. “I like old music.”

Zavala’s nod goes unnoticed, and he steps around her to bring her onto the floor. They fall back into step easily enough. A moment later, he says, “Perhaps I would take you to see the symphony, if you would be amenable?”

As soon as the words leave his lips, he dips her without any prior indication. She doesn’t flinch this time, and allows herself to bend back lower than before. When she comes back up and he swirls her around in in several steps that move them counterclockwise, she puts a hand on the back of his neck, index finger grazing the smooth skin at the base of his crown while her thumb swipes over the slightest peek of tattoo above his high collar.

His eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments, and she knows for fact that everything she was wondering about his actions being potentially romantic is confirmed. Amanda is never going to let her live this down, but she can’t help but to smile and step in closer to him. “The symphony, huh?” She cocks her head when his eyes open. “I think I could be persuaded.”

The smile she receives could honestly blind someone, she thinks. His eyes are so bright and enchanting, it’s criminal. “Fantastic,” He breathes into her ear, following up with a gentle kiss to her cheek that leaves her breathless. There’s absolutely no way to hide the flush of her cheeks now.

A few songs later, the tempo picks up into something waltzy, less soft and slow. She picks her head up from where it’s drifted to his shoulder. “Zavala?”

His eyes are half-closed. Only a peek of arc-blue irises are visible, focused on her face. Whatever’s come over them, it does not pay any mind to the change in tone as they sway together. “Hmm?”

“It might take a while for the City to rebuild enough to have a place for a symphony. Maybe we could do something else before then?”

“Are you impatient, Suraya? I am not going anywhere.”

The fingers on the back of his dress blues tighten. “I know. But I like this. And the idea of maybe doing something with you that isn’t this but that I don’t have to wait months for.” The words kind of fall out in a tumble, but she knows if she doesn’t force them out however they’ll come, she might not have the nerve.

He pulls back, noting the change in tempo. “Are you asking me on a date?” His blue eyes are wide and surprise is obvious in his face.

“You did it first!” She chides loudly, turning redder than before as he repositions them to follow along with the rest of the dancers in the waltz. No one is looking at them, thankfully. She lowers the volume. “But, for the record, yes. I am.”

There’s a pause as he instructs her how to spin and which palm to put against his as they do so. “Dinner, then? Sometime this week, perhaps?”

She smiles. “I’d like that.”

“I would, too.”

They dance on.

#steelponcho #destiny fanfiction #commander zavala #suraya hawthorne #my writing #fluff #this is my ship... there are many like it but this one is mine

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caliboyjaeffrey · 7 years

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I’ll Save the Prince (Prince!Ten x Reader)

Rating: PG-ish?

(A/N) How goes it? Are all of you deceased from NCT’s comeback??? I know I sure as hell am!! Before I delve into all the smutty requests coming up, I thought I’d rewind for a moment and give you all some fluffy Ten, which a lovely anon requested! This is a Prince AU, with a HUGE twist. I got really involved with the story RIP

The sun was blazing, far too bright for its own good, as it shone down brilliantly on the capital city. The market place was crowded with people on the lookout for deals, trying to make their meager amounts of money last. You felt the familiar weight of coins press against your thigh in your apron pocket, your hand cupping the cool metal protectively as you squeezed between stalls. In your family, money had recently become sparse, so every coin was precious and worth thousands more than it truly was. You had to be smart and calculate the best possible deals, using your sharp mind to its full potential. Market day had been your responsibility since your mother had passed away, your father following her fate not even a few hours later, unable to live a day without his beloved wife. That had been years ago though, and you were stronger know, had a stronger mind, and a tongue that would make a knight quiver in his armor. You were not one to be messed with.

You shopped swiftly, the sun over your head functioned as your clock, not wanting to waste a single second. You needed to get back to your brother as soon as possible, you were afraid to leave him alone for too long. On your way back home, you stopped by the apothecary, picking up the herbs used in your brother's daily tea. As you entered your house, the pathetic jingle of coins in your pocket set a lump in your throat, knowing you were running low. You wouldn't be able to afford your brother's medicine now. You had to figure out a plan fast. You called out warmly, "I'm home," slipping out of your clogs as you walked up the steep stairs of your thin house. You entered the house's only room, a big one where your whole family used to sleep and cook. Now it was just you and your twin brother, who laid in his straw bed, sweat pouring down his feverish brow. You hurried over to him, dropping the basket you'd used for the market, "Oh, no." You bit your lip and took a cloth you kept by the bed and soaked it in a bowl of water, dabbing your brother's forehead as he panted in his fever induced sleep. His eyes cracked open slightly, whimpering pathetically as he lifted a shaky hand to still yours, "It's no use, ______." Tears were welling up inside of you, but they were filled with anger; anger at yourself that you couldn't do anything to make him feel better. You swallowed them, putting on a brave face for your twin, "Hush, now. Stop being a pessimist and get some rest, I'll make your tea." Through his glazed over eyes, you saw him give you a familiar hard stare that was common when he had been well. He didn't say a word, letting you rest the cloth on his forehead and pick up your basket, watching you diligently make his bitter tasting tea. When you had finished, you brought the steaming cup over to him, blowing on the hot liquid to make it a comfortable temperature. Satisfied after you dipped you tongue into the bitter liquid with a scrunched face, you offered the cup to him, "Drink up." Your brother didn't even bother to crane his neck, simply refusing it, "What's the point _______?" He wouldn't even meet your gaze as he swallowed thickly, "At this pint I'd rather just die than drink that damned tea." You slammed the cup down onto the bedside table, fury in your eyes as you snapped, "Don't say that! Don't you dare ever say that!" Your twin smiled wryly, "It's okay, _____, you don't have to try anymore. I'll be okay." You felt something in you break as his words washed over you, your voice cracking, "I won't be okay though." You buried your head into the bed, feeling a weak hand stroke your hair as you sobbed, "I don't want to be alone." Your brother didn't say anything else, having already drifted back to his feverish dreaming, his hand sliding off head and landing softly on the bed. You sat up, furiously rubbing the tears from your eyes, realizing what you needed to do. No point in laying around crying, no one was going to save you from this. You had to save yourself. You determinedly stood up, fists clenching as you walked over to the only wardrobe in the entire house. It was a dark imposing piece of wood, inside was the key to saving your brother. You ripped open the double doors, revealing a suit of armor that glittered in the sunlight that fell across it. You were temporarily blinded, shielding your eyes from the sudden assault of light. When they adjusted you reached in and took out the helm, examining the strange piece of metal, beautiful as it was. Engraved into shining silver was the royal crest, only present on the helmets of those who served in the royal guard, protectors of the royal family. Before he had become ill, your brother's specific job was to guard the crown prince, heir to the entire kingdom, no light task for sure. You set the helmet down gently, careful to not awaken your brother, who would be furious if he knew of your plan. You grabbed what could only be your twin's most prized possession, a beautiful broad sword that had been made just for him by the royal blacksmith. You unsheathed the heavy weapon, gazing upon its cruel beauty as it seemed mocked you. You felt as though it was testing if you were actually going to go through with your plan. With a whisper, you spat a fiery challenge, "Watch me." Having decided, you walked down the stairs and out your house, hailing down a messenger with one of your prized coins. You spoke swiftly, the page not missing a beat, "Deliver this message to Sir Johnny, Captain of the Royal Guard: 'My brother is finally better and he's eager to return to the Guard. Please stop by the house to meet him tomorrow morn. _______.' Got it? Now off with you!" The page nodded as you pressed the coin into his palm, running at a break neck speed to the imposing castle. In the bright cloudless day, it was the only thing that could block out the sun, it's towers and spires stabbing into the sky proudly. You clenched your fists again, feeling ready to accept your new challenge: impersonate your brother and take his place in the Royal Guard in order to save him!

You woke even before the stars had been chased away by the sun, creeping around your house to ready yourself for your first day as a member of the Royal Guard. You splashed your face with cool water in the washroom, debating whether it would be worth it to cut your hair or not. Regardless of the situation, you were still just a girl who could hardly stand the thought of cutting off her tresses. You decided just to tie it up, your brother's hair had grown quite long anyway and he hadn't been seen by his guard friends for about a month. Although you were twins, your height differed slightly and your face was rounder and more feminine, a rosy glow that couldn't be hidden. As you stared back at your face in the small mirror, you thought it would be best to avoid showing your face at all times, glad that you had the helmet to shield yourself. You quickly dressed into your brother's clothes, taking a moment to tuck the covers of your twin's blanket up to his chin, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Johnny couldn't see him, or else your plan would be foiled. So your story was to pretend that you yourself had fallen ill and were extremely contagious, that would keep him away. You finished getting ready, clumsily donning the armor by memory as you tried to remember how your brother did it. You had some difficulty with the chest plate, the size a bit too big for your smaller frame, but you had to make it work somehow. After minutes of struggling and worrying you would hear a knock on the door at any moment, you finished, placing the claustrophobic helmet on your head, but keeping the visor open to breath. Only your eyes could be seen poking through, your long lashes the only indicator of your true identity. Only a complete fool could tell the difference by accident. It was at that exact moment you heard the excited knocking on your heavy wooden door, your heart beat picking up as you trudged down the stairs. Your hand shook as you grasped the handle and pulled, revealing the handsome face and lovely long hair of the Royal Guard's Captain, and your brother's best friend, Johnny. "Oh, man! It's been too long!," he laughed, embracing you warmly as he clapped your shoulder. "It's amazing you're finally back on your feet, and so quickly. And here I thought I would never see you again, yeah?" You gulped, this was your first test, lips already quivering as you replied with a poor imitation of your brother's voice, "Well, all thanks goes to my sister...pal?" You wanted to slap yourself, ready to have your helmet ripped off and your true identity to be revealed by Johnny. What kind of punishment would you receive? Impersonating someone was a crime, right? Right?! Johnny didn't even bat a lash, before he grinned and joked, "Is that right? ______ always would have made a better soldier than you, ya know!" He peered over your significantly shorter head into your house, "Where's she at anyway? Always a treat to be greeted by a beautiful girl on the way to work, am I right?" Your jaw dropped, unable to believe that Johnny was this much of a dunce. You recovered from your monetary loss of sanity and pretended to be your typical overprotective older brother, "Hey now, Johnny. Just because we're friends doesn't mean you get first dibs or something..." Your brother's friend burst into a fit of laughter, hand coming to rest lazily on the hilt of his sword, "I know, I know. I was only teasing you. I know how protective you are of her, only the best for ______. That's what you always say, remember?" You felt warmth spread through your chest, a fondness for your sick brother that made your heart ache, "Y-yeah, that's right. Well," you made your way to close the door behind you, stepping out on the street, "Ready to go?" "Sure am!," the tall soldier exclaimed, clapping you on the shoulder once more before leading the way to what you could only assume was the castle. Your nervousness was beginning to disappear, replaced instead with a newfound confidence as you strolled through the streets. Before, people wouldn't even spare you a glance, the occasional catcall was all you received. Now people would tip their caps to you, give nods of recognition, bow in respect as you walked by them. It was a strange feeling to be in your brother's shoes, knowing you would never be treated this way without this suit of armor. Already living in close proximity to the center of the capital where the castle laid, you only followed Johnny for a few short minutes before you stood before the large iron gates. Johnny shouted up to some garrison soldiers, who shouted back before cranking open the gates. Your eyes widened at the majesty before you, the impressive architecture and just sheer grandness of the whole castle. You'd never been inside the gates, that privilege only being reserved for merchants, the court, those of social standing, and soldiers. Johnny glanced over at you with an eye smile, "We should go greet Ten, right? He and the others really missed you." Johnny stopped suddenly, looking over at you with eyes full of sadness, "Actually, most of us thought we wouldn't see you ever again..." Your lips parted at his confession, mind wandering to your brother, still laying sick in his bed unbeknownst to them. You felt guilty, knowing they were happy to see the wrong person. Johnny perked up again, knocking his fist against your helmet affectionately, "But you're here now! Come on, let's not keep everyone waiting." You followed Johnny through twisting corridors, up grand staircases, and hallways filled with paintings probably worth more than your life. You finally arrived at a beautiful gold enamel door, the knobs a shining brass that made a clinking side as Johnny opened the door with his gauntlet-clad hand. Not even a second passed before you were completely swamped, swept into hugs and smacked on the shoulder so many times you were sure you'd find a bruise there later. Johnny shooed them away, protecting your shaking form as he laughed, "Alright, alright. Let's let His Highness have a chance to see his favorite soldier." An amused voice retorted, "Is that jealousy in your voice Johnny? Or am I imagining things again? Step aside and let me get a good look at him." Your gasped from within your helmet, the sound echoing loudly throughout the room. Only a few people gave you looks, but they looked more amused than anything. Before you stood likely the most handsome boy you had ever laid eyes upon. A gorgeous smile played on his perfectly soft looking lips, deep brown eyes twinkling happily. Gentle waves of black hair spilled over his forehead, his hand coming up to push it away from his eyes as he laughed, "What's this? You look like you've seen a ghost!" Your eyes were impossibly wide, completely forgetting all words as he leaned in and embraced you warmly, his mouth close to your ear, "It's been too long, brother. You've been missed." Your heart stopped, feeling his breath fan across your lips as he spoke. You could barely find it in yourself to reply, "I-I'm glad to be back, Your Majesty." He pulled away, looking at you quizzically, "'Your Majesty'? You haven't called me that since you first joined as a soldier. It's just Ten, remember? No need for formalities." You were taken aback, "Yes, sir! I-I mean...Ten." You let the one syllable name spring off your tongue, the sound of it leaving your lips satisfying. "That's better. Now," he winced gingerly, "Please forgive me for this next bit. They really wanted to, and I couldn't say no..." You furrowed your brow, confused, "What do you-" SPLASH!!! You squealed rather girlishly by accident, the stinking scent of what could only be ale poured all down your body as they roared in laughter. Your nose crinkled, hair already beginning to smell as the stickiness washed down your body, "Come on, really?" They were giggling like village girls and bar maids, even Ten couldn't contain his amusement as he covered his nose with a handkerchief. He offered the little piece of silk to you, biting his lip as he stifled his laughter, "Here, maybe this will help." You rolled your eyes at him sarcastically, but blushed, taking the small square of fabric and dabbed at your eyes, "Gee, thanks, Your Majesty." He smiled, but behind his smile, you saw some type of confusion. For a moment you were worried he was beginning to catch on, you needed to act more like your brother. You coughed loudly, "Hm! So, which of you shitheads should I beat up first?" That seems to shut them up, their eyes wide in shock for a moment before they burst into another fit of giggles. Ten sensed your discomfort, the ale beginning to dry and make your skin itch, "Here, I'll have someone draw you a bath." You felt panic rise in your throat, "O-oh! No, I'm fine! Promise!" You were in dangerous territory and your cover could be blown. "No, you're not," Ten lifted a perfect brow, already sending an attendant to prepare your bath. "Let me take care of you for once, okay?" You couldn't argue with royalty, your shoulders sagging in defeat as you nodded silently. As you waited to be whisked away by servants, you watched the other boys interact, smiling to yourself as you watched them act so childishly. You thought how happy your brother had been only a month ago, amidst all his comrades and friends. Your eyes lingered on Ten, who seemed to be doing the same thing as you, watching from afar with a smile playing on his lips. Sensing your gaze he looked over at you, his face suddenly changing again into one of confusion and scrutiny, as if he were looking into a pool of water. You looked away with a blush on your cheeks, hidden behind your helmet as a servant informed Ten that your bath was ready. You were led down a hall decorated with ancient suits of armor to a large bathroom, probably the most luxurious looking room you've ever been in. You gaped at how ornate the bathtub was, steam curling from the surface of the water that was sprinkled with flower petals. You were left alone as the servant backed out, realizing your identity was still hidden as long as you were careful. With a relieved sigh, you went to unbuckle your armor, resting the lightweight metal on the tiled bathroom floor gently so as to make no noise. You didn't want any unexpected guests, for sure. You stripped quickly, glad to be able to see the womanly shape of your body in an exquisite full length mirror on the wall as you stepped into the steaming bath. You let out a small moan of appreciation, sinking deep into the bath and letting the water swallow you whole. You scrubbed the sickly sweet smell of ale from your skin, still unable to understand why men did these sort of things. There was a sudden knock on the door, Johnny's voice coming in muffled through the door, "You good in there? Need any help?" You sat up suddenly, smacking your head hard back against the tub, "Ow, shit! Y-yes, I'm fine!" You clapped a hand over your mouth, forgetting to make your voice deeper. You looked over at the door handle and realized that it wasn't locked. "What was that?," Johnny questioned, turning the handle at the same time. "I'm coming in." "No!," you cried out, still disoriented from smacking your head. "Don't-" "Oh, hey! There you are," Johnny smiled, pretending to shield his eyes. "Didn't know you were still in there. Your hair's gotten so much longer! One month can really change a person, I was wondering why you were so short looking." If you weren't afraid of your cover being blown, you would have smacked him in the face. Your hands were too busy discreetly cupping your breasts as you tried to remain calm, "Y-yeah. I'm really out of shape, it's kind of embarrassing actually..." You were trying to imply that you didn't want to be seen naked, but it went through one ear and out the other. Johnny pouted, "Hey don't say that. You had the best abs out of the entire Guard and I bet they're still there, let's see..." "WAIT! NO!," you shrieked girlishly as Johnny lifted you from under the armpits and out of the tub with ease, letting you dangle midair in his grasp. To your surprise he remained rather composed, even when you were before him in all your naked glory, Johnny still managed to be calm, "Well then. You surely aren't a man." Your eyes widened as he placed you down gently, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around you to give you some semblance of modesty. He gulped, scratching the back of his head, "Hey there, ______." "Hey...," you said, still scared to breathe as you tripped over your words, "I-I can explain-" He didn't seem to be listening as he passed a hand over his face and groaned, "Your brother is going to kill me." You grew agitated, snapping your fingers to get his attention, "Nevermind about that, Johnny," you took a deep breath. "You absolutely can't tell anyone that it's me." "Why not?," he whispered, flopping his hands dramatically, "You know this is probably some sort of crime? Like a felony? Like the ones that get you thrown in jail?" "I'm not stupid," you pouted, tightening the towel around you. "This is the only way I can save my brother, Johnny." "What? Is he not better?," he furrowed his brow. You nodded, clenching your fists, "That's why I have to do this. We don't have any money left, and he'll die if I don't get him some real help." Johnny grasped your shoulders, bending down to your level, "_______, why didn't you say anything sooner?! I'm sure the Prince would have helped him long ago. Hell, even I would have!" "Then help me right now, Johnny," you whispered, "This is something I can't do myself." The tall soldier's lips parted in surprise, but he nodded in understanding, "Okay." A sudden loud bang was heard, seeming to come from the room where you'd been. Johnny's hand reached for the hilt of his sword, shock and confusion written on his face. His entire demeanor changed as he reached for the door, voice low, "Get dressed, soldier, and meet up with me. Looks like I'll have one more person besides the prince to protect." With that he rushed out the door, heading towards where shouting could be heard in the distance. You dressed quickly, once again struggling to put your armor on correctly, hands shaking as you thought back to Johnny's words. I don't need to be protected, you thought with a frown. I can protect myself and I can protect the prince. Watch me. Strapping on your sword, you traced Johnny's footsteps, realizing that it was much quieter now, causing uneasiness to settle in your stomach. You reached the room that you had initially been in, only to find it in shambles, the entire side wall had been completely wiped out. You gasped, pressing a hand to your mouth as you saw the bodies sprawled around in the rubble. You felt like you were going to vomit, tears pricking at the back of your eyes as you stumbled back a few steps. Ten was nowhere in sight, the Crown Prince was gone. You wandered over to a few of the bodies, gulping as you checked to see if any of them were still alive. You had no such luck, turning to search for Johnny when he realized with relief that he was not among the fallen. A hand grabbed your ankle, a scream released from your throat as you stumbled back in shock. One of the soldiers you had thought dead was clinging on to your leg for dear life, but he didn't look like a soldier you had seen in the room earlier. His voice was raspy, raw in his throat as he gurgled, "We have him already, you fool. You're too late!" He cackled, dragging himself up your leg as you began to scream in terror, not sure what to do in that moment. Suddenly, you were embraced from behind, a strong arm brought a stained broadsword down on your assailant. You screamed in terror, feeling the man's life blood splatter down your armor, the hand on your leg twitching and going limp. You couldn't help the tears that spilled down your cheeks as you turned to find the familiar face of Johnny, not a single trace of mercy on his features. "Shh, it's alright, ______," Johnny murmured, sheathing his sword and taking your head in his two hands so you had to look at him. "Listen to me," he shook you lightly, "______, listen to me. If you want to help your brother, you're going to have to help me." "I need you to help me save the prince." You hiccupped once more, lip trembling as you met his gaze, "Why me? I could hardly handle a half dead man attacking me! You think I could fight," you gestured to the gaping hole where the wall used to be, "whatever did this?!" Johnny gave you a hard, serious look, uncharacteristic for the usually cheery boy, "Absolutely." He scoffed, looking you up and down, "I mean, who is brave, or down right crazy, enough to steal their twin's armor, impersonate him, sneak into the castle, and even trick the Crown Prince?" You looked up at him, realizing that a trained soldier, renowned for his battle prowess, was praising you. He believed in you. Why shouldn't you believe in yourself? You knew in this moment your brother would haven't hesitated, agreeing to rescue the prince without a seconds hesitation. You thought of Ten's beautiful smile, the way his voice had been so close to your ear...you had to save him too. You blushed, knowing that it was more than duty driving your actions. You didn't want to admit it to yourself, but when your eyes met Ten's, something deep inside of you awoke. Something you didn't realize you had within yourself. No one fell in love in a matter of an hour though...right? You set your teeth, determination in your heart, "Okay, I'll do it. But Johnny," you murmured, "What did this?" You looked out of the hole again, seeing the vast kingdom spread before you. "Dragon," he replied, eyes hard as he followed your gaze. "And not just any old dragon, no...this was the same dragon that killed Ten's grandfather, the old king." Your eyes widened, "How do we know Ten is still alive then?!" Panic and fear coursed through your veins as images of Ten's body mirrored those in the room. "We don't," Johnny stated, already beckoning you to follow after him. "But we can only hope that the dragon is a greedy beast. If he's smart, he won't kill the prince right away, instead hopefully he'll use him as a hostage to get what he really desires: gold and jewels." Your mind went back to all the bedtime stories of greedy gold-obsessed dragons your mother had told you and your brother, and the brave knights who saved princesses captured by them. If you hadn't been so worried, you would have laughed at the turn of events. Here comes a female wannabe knight to save her prince. Johnny and you arrived at the stables, taking two horses that were already saddled and ready to ride. He turned towards you, "Have you ever rode a horse before?" You shook your head, eyeing the large animal nervously. The tall knight came over and guided you into the saddle, "Well now's your time to learn. Just do what I do, you'll be fine." You nodded, watching as he swung his leg over the black stallion with ease, "Let's go. Hyah!" He snapped the reigns, the horse snapping to attention and bolting out of the stable and into the castle courtyard. You panicked, hands shaking as you mirrored Johnny's actions, "Hyah? Ah!" Your grey mare was a feisty girl, kicking off at a break neck pace and catching up with Johnny's horse in a matter of seconds. The long haired boy, glanced over at you in approval, a type of brotherly look you hadn't seen since your twin had fallen ill. "The dragon lives in a deserted town not too far ahead, a short ride. When we get there, I need you to follow my every command. Do you understand?" You nodded, focusing on the task at hand and urging your horse on as the two of you raced towards the prince.

You arrived at the abandoned village, a desolate place that smelled of burning wood and fire, no surprise there. Johnny cautioned you with a hand as you followed him from the spot where you had hidden your horses. "We have to be extremely quiet, dragon's have senses far superior to ours. He'll know we're coming if we're not careful."

"Okay," you whispered, placing a hand on the hilt of your sword to reassure yourself. Johnny noticed and nodded in appreciation, "See? You already have the instincts of a soldier." He halted you, taking you behind a brick wall that had managed to survive the town's demise. "Draw your sword. Quietly though," he winced, as you noisily pulled out the gleaming piece of metal. "I pray to every god that it won't come to it, but if you somehow have to use it, I want you to be able to defend yourself," Johnny whispered, silently drawing his own sword. "It's a broadsword, so it must be held strongly in two hands since it's a heavier weapon." You mirrored his pose, widening your stance and lifting the sword to match the height of his, "Like this?" He nodded, "Yes, good. Now," he brought the sword in a swinging arc, a devastatingly powerful move. "Try that." With conviction, you almost expertly copied his move. Johnny's eyebrows shot up, a hand pulling up his visor in surprise, "Good, ______." You smiled, proud to have shocked him, a seasoned fighter and master swordsman. He looked around, "That's all we have time for now, we need to move on. If we end up surviving this, I'd be glad to teach you more later. Maybe even your brother could, if he hasn't killed me before the dragon does." As you got closer to where a stream of smoke circled into the air, a foul sulfuric odor poured into your nostrils. You coughed and brought your visor down, seeing Johnny do the same as the smell reached his nose, "What is that?" "That, ______, is dragon," Johnny whispered, clearing his throat quietly as you crept even closer to what appeared to be the remnants of an old keep. You gazed at the crumbling stone, trying to picture what it might have looked like before the dragon had destroyed it. You and Johnny snuck over to one of the walls, peeking into a hole to get a good look at what you would be dealing with. You stifled a gasp with your hand as your gaze landed on the great scaly beast curled up on top of a heaping pile of glittering gold and jewels. Johnny hushed you, placing a hand on your back to steady you as he craned his neck in search of Ten. You did the same, finding him trapped under one the dragon's great big claws, bloodied and bruised. Your heart leaped as you pointed and whispered, "Johnny...!" "I see him. Seems like he's still alive," he replied, turning toward you. "Here's the plan. I'm going to sneak in there to see if I can just slip him out without the dragon waking up. I want you to stay here, okay? Worse comes to worse, I want you to run as fast as you can from here and hide. Do you understand? Ten and I may die, but I don't want you to be killed as well." You went to protest, but Johnny snapped back, "I can't take you away from your brother, _______. He still needs you." You shut your mouth, watching with your stomach turning in knots as Johnny took a deep breath and began to inch away. You stopped him with a whisper, "Johnny," you lifted your visor and pressed a kiss to the cheek of his helmet, "Good luck." The tall knight nodded, squeezing your shoulder one last time before he slipped into the large hall that the dragon used as his home. You silently moved around too, unable to take your eyes off of Ten who lay weakly beneath the dragon. You felt so useless just standing there, wanting more than anything to just run in after Johnny. You decided it wouldn't do no harm to follow him from afar, just in case, right? You did just that, creeping after Johnny who was already crawling on all fours up the huge mound of gold towards the prince. He was so close too, just a few arm lengths away from the dragon, who snoozed away, peacefully unaware. Your breath caught in your throat when you heard a gentle clang, watching as Johnny accidentally bumped into a gold vase. It teetered precariously, setting your teeth on edge. Johnny lifted a hand to still it, his foot slipped though, and instead of stilling the vase, he pushed it, the heavy metal tumbling loudly down the pile of treasure. It was like a chain reaction, the way things occurred. First, Johnny's hand went to his sword's hilt. Next, Ten awoke, wiggling under the weight of the dragon's claw with a gasp. Finally, one single terrible green eye cracked open and an ugly pink tongue snaked between scaly lips. "Well, well," came a deep rumbling from the back of the dragon's throat. "What have we here? A little metal man coming to save his weak and tiny prince? How absolutely touching." The dragon emphasized his words by pressing Ten down into his pile of gold, making him cry out in pain. "Stop!" Johnny shouted, standing up completely and drawing his sword. "Let him go, you ugly ass lizard!" "Oh, no, I can't do that," the dragon purred, revealing his pointed teeth in what must have been a smile. "He's too valuable and I haven't even gotten my gold yet." He stretched lazily while sitting up, tightening his grip around Ten as he seemed to inspect him, "After I've received what I want, then I'll kill him. There's too many of you humans scurrying around anyway." "For a lizard, you sure do talk a lot," Johnny retorted, but you could sense the slight waver in his voice. "If you won't give him to me, then you leave me no choice but to take him from you." "Oh my, what a feisty little metal man you are," the dragon chuckled, an ugly rumbling sound. "You know what isn't so good about that armor you wear?" Johnny furrowed his brow, "What?" "How easily it melts," the dragon laughed, sending a stream of fire directly onto Johnny, causing you to scream out in terror. You watched the dragon knock him back with his tail, the tall soldier falling limp down the mound of gold. Making any noise was a grave mistake, the dragon whipping his head toward you, "Oh dear, seems like we have another little metal man here as well. You humans are like little ants, always crawling everywhere and breeding like rabbits. Truly disgusting." Ten craned his neck to look at you, "No! Run away!" He struggled in the dragon's grip, but the beast only squeezed him tighter. "Go!" "No," you finally mustered the courage to speak. "I'm not going anywhere." You looked over at where Johnny lay, his body still and his armor blackened, tears pricking at your eyes. "I won't, not until you give the prince back or I die trying." The dragon blinked, "Suit yourself, but the second option will be your only outcome, little human." "Bring it, you damn lizard," you gritted your teeth, drawing your sword. From somewhere deep inside, you felt a strange sense of calm, call it adrenaline or you just being crazy, but the sword felt familiar in your grip. The dragon roared, releasing a stream of red hot flame at you, which you barely dodged. You rolled to your right, heading towards the tail end of the dragon, who moved clumsily as you maneuvered around him nimbly. Johnny had been too tall to dodge, but you were much smaller, littler enough to sneak in and around the dragon's legs without his claws catching you. Ten was screaming in agony, the dragon crushing him in his claws as you rushed to free him. Reaching one of the dragon's hind legs, you swung your sword wildly, remembering what Johnny had shown you earlier. The dragon bellowed in pain, but that surely wasn't enough to stop him. "_______!," you heard a voice yell, turning in relief to see Johnny hobbling up the mound of gold. "Keep going, I'll distract him!" The tall knight dragged his sword behind him, bringing it down one of the dragon's front legs. He was injured, but definitely still able to throw punches. You nodded, the sound of your panting echoing as you got the sudden maniacal idea to climb up the scaly beast. The oversized lizard wasn't going to put Ten anywhere near your reach, so you would just have to go get him yourself. You grabbed onto one of the dragon's spines, hauling yourself up onto his back as Johnny distracted him. You were light enough that the dragon barely noticed, but once you got closer he surely would. You were around his shoulders when he suddenly thrashed violently, sensing your presence, "Argh! Get off of me you disgusting little creature!" You screamed, almost falling as you managed to clutch onto a spike for dear life, the sharp spine slipping past a crack in your armor and puncturing your soft skin. You saw Ten being whipped around, his eyes darting around wildly as he struggled to not have his neck broken from whiplash. "Ten," you screamed, wincing from your wound as you used the dragon's scales to shimmy across his arm towards him. "Hold on! I'm almost there!" Johnny was doing all he could to distract the beast, which turned out to be enough as you reached the prince, "I'm here, it's okay!" You clutched onto him, realizing you didn't know how you were going to pull him from the dragon's grasp. "Johnny!," you shouted, already seeing the taller knight crawling up the beasts leg onto his back. The older boy seemed to understand, drawing his sword high above him as he reached the back to the dragon's head. The giant lizard was scrabbling with one clawed hand behind his back, trying to grab at Johnny who managed to evade his reach. You watched in amazement as Johnny stood and brought his broadsword down upon the dragon's neck, cutting deeply. The beast roared in agony, his wings flapping weakly and crumpling underneath him as he began to fall. It felt like a building was collapsing from underneath you, your hands clutching onto Ten as the dragon's grip on him loosened. The two of you free fell, landing hard on the slippery pile of gold and sliding down a ways, watching with wide eyes as the dragon collapsed beneath Johnny's sword. The older soldier didn't even spare a second glance at the fallen beast, dropping his weapon and stumbling over to where you and Ten had fallen. "Ten! ______!" "Johnny," Ten murmured, eyes still the size of dinner plates, allowing the tall knight to collapse next to the two of you, pulling you both into his broad chest. He ripped his helmet off, hair clinging to his sweaty soot covered face, "Thank god you two are okay." He squeezed you again, but you cried out softly in pain. "______? What's wrong?!" "'________'?," Ten furrowed, confusion written on his handsome features, "Who's _______...?" Unable to protest, Johnny pulled your helmet off, allowing your true face to show, hair falling down from where you tied it up as he laid you gently down. You're head felt dizzy, lifting a hand to see it covered in red as Ten looked over at you in shock. The long haired knight worked diligently to remove your armor, hand pressing onto the wound you'd received from the dragon, "Can you hear me _______?" You gasped at the sensation, seeing stars from the pain, "Y-yep! Can definitely feel that too!" Ten moved over to get a good look at your dirty face, brushing your hair away from your eyes, "Johnny...who is she? I thought this was-" "She's his twin sister," Johnny mumbled, starting to panic as he realized you were losing a lot of blood. He rushed to take off his armor, pulling his tunic over his head to press it into your wound after lifting up your overshirt. You managed to look up at Ten, a shy smile on your face, "I'm sorry we had to meet like this. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way-" Ten hushed you, lifting your head into his lap, "We'll have none of that. I'll hear about all of this," he gestured down your body, "later. For now, rest." He looked angry with you, but also confused, like he wasn't sure you were real. "Your Highness, we need to get her back to the castle as fast as possible," Johnny said, already lifting you easily into his arms. "She needs medical attention immediately." "Right," Ten gulped, seeing the way your pretty eyes glazed over. The moment he saw them unblocked by a helmet, he realized that it really had been you the whole time. He knew something had been off, but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it. Now he knew, and he still couldn't understand why. As Ten mounted his horse and watched Johnny cradle you against his chest, snapping his horse to attention, all he knew was that you were possibly the most beautiful and bravest girl he'd ever seen. Bloodied and sooty as you were, to him, you were still prettier than any of the princesses that he was forced to court.

You woke up in a cloud. Or at least, that's what it felt like to you as you were stirred awake by a gentle hand. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." Your eyes cracked open, not wanting to leave the soft warm comfort of the bed, as you looked up grumpily at Johnny. You felt clean bandages wrapped around your waist, helping your injury recover. You groaned, flopping back down as he chuckled, "Get ready. Clothes are on the chair, come to the throne room when you're ready. The prince wants to see you." You instantly perked up, which didn't go unnoticed by the tall soldier as he winked at you, "Don't keep him waiting." You blushed, waiting for him to shut the door before you bolted over to the chair. You found a simple, yet beautiful dress made from the softest material you'd ever touched. It was a gorgeous maroon, like the color of a dried rose, beautiful and whimsical. It fit like a glove, slipping over your curves like it was meant for you. You stepped into a pair of shoes that were placed beside the chair, searching for a mirror to check your appearance. Finding one, you ran your fingers through your hair, pinching your cheeks to give them a rosy flush of color. It felt strange looking at yourself without seeing a suit of armor, your bare skin unfamiliar. With that, you set off to find the throne room, winding through the hallways until you eventually were greeted by guards at a pair of large ornate double doors. They neatly pulled the heavy doors open, revealing a row of three thrones, lit by sunlight that filtered in through large windows. It was a beautiful and impressive room and you felt tiny compared to its grandeur. One of the guards announced your presence and the crowd of people who had been gathered near the thrones turned towards you. There were some smiles, some furrowed brows, and some impressed smirks, and you couldn't help but blush at the attention. In the midst of all of them stood Ten, dressed in a deep navy that complimented your maroon well, almost like they were a matching set. You turned a deeper shade of red as you approached him, curtsying clumsily as you stuttered, "Your Majesty." You hadn't saw the way Ten's eyes widened when you had walked in, a dusting of pink sprinkled across his smooth cheeks as he beheld you. A smile spread on his lips as he saw the way you bobbled when you curtsied, he wanted to have some fun with you, "______, you stole your brother's royally sanctioned armor, impersonated him, and snuck into the royal guard." You looked up at him in surprise, eyes big, forgetting that you'd committed several crimes. You looked over at Johnny, who wouldn't meet your gaze, preoccupying himself with something on the ground. "Your Highness, I can explain-" "I'm not done," Ten interjected, causing you to shut your mouth obediently. He took a step towards you, so close that you could have reached a hand out to touch him. To your surprise, he took your hand gently in his, lifting you up, "And, you helped save me from the very dragon that killed my grandfather." Your lips parted, gazing into his warm eyes as he smiled at you, perfect teeth flashing brilliantly, "Thank you, ______. You didn't have to help me, but you did anyway. You're the bravest girl this kingdom has ever seen and," he looked up at you shyly between his lashes, "Possibly the most beautiful too." Your hand shook in his, which held onto yours securely, anchoring you to the ground, "T-thank you, Your Highness-" "Ten," he smirked, seeing how nervous you were by his words. "It's just Ten, remember? Pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance properly." He stooped down, kissing the back of your hand with lips that were softer than flower petals. You gasped softly, trying to recover as you murmured, "_______. The pleasure is all mine." "Oh, I bet it is," he winked, tugging you just a little closer and refusing to let go of your hand. He turned and beckoned a certain tall knight over, "Sir Johnny. Please join us." The long haired knight smiled, coming to your other side and warmly taking your hand with a comforting squeeze. Ten looked out upon the crowd, glancing proudly at you and Johnny, "My people, behold your champions! Dragon slayers by the names _______ and Johnny." You felt a happy warm flush wash over you as Ten and Johnny lifted your arms into the air, looking out upon the crowd and landing on a pair of eyes that mirrored your own. Time stopped, the only thing moving was your feet toward those eyes. You ran into his arms, causing him to stumble back a few feet as you whispered, "You're here." "Hey there ______," the familiar timbre of your brother's voice chuckled, embracing you back as the crowd around you clapped. You let the joyful tears slip down your face, "How?" Your twin held you out at arms length, giving you a knowing look, "I think you know. Why don't you go thank him?" He nodded to somewhere behind you, following his gaze, your eyes landed on the prince. You don't know what you were thinking, but perhaps you were finally letting out all the withheld emotions you'd been feeling. When you stumbled clumsily towards Ten, you somehow ended up in his arms, cupping his face as you pressed your lips sweetly to his. You broke away after a few seconds, eyes snapping open as you realized what you had done, "O-oh, Ten, I-I..." Ten didn't even hesitate, grinning once again about how such a courageous girl could be so shy, "Why don't we try that again, hm?" The dark haired prince cupped your face this time, seeming to shield you from the world as he pressed his lips to yours passionately. As the crowd cheered once again, your bodies moved flush together, knowing that he could feel your heart beating against his chest. You let out the smallest of moans, quiet enough so that only he could hear, his hand going to your waist in approval as he pulled away and gasped for air. He didn't even take a breath, pressing kisses to your neck that tickled,'making you giggle softly, "Ten!" "Say it again," he whispered, looking up at you in wonder. "Please say my name." "Ten," you breathed against his lips, pressing one more chaste kiss there before pulling away and melting into his arms. "Thank you for saving me, ______," Ten murmured, stroking your hair. "No," you shook your head with a smile, "I think we saved each other." He laughed, grinning as Johnny and your brother came over to tug you two into a group hug. For the first time in a long while, you felt safe, secure, and more happy than you could even express with words. Johnny looked down at you, raising his eyebrow with a smirk, "So, are you still willing to become my apprentice, Lady ______?" You gaped at him, looking over at Ten who grinned, "I might have made you the first female knight on the Royal Guard." "You won't be a lady for long though," Ten continued, lacing his fingers with yours shyly. "I was thinking you could be more along the lines of my princess?" You laughed, pecking his cheek, "I'd like that very much, only if you're my prince though."

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fathersonholygore · 7 years

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Blue Velvet. 1986. Directed & Written by David Lynch. Starring Isabella Rossellini, Kyle MacLachlan, Dennis Hopper, Laura Dern, Hope Lange, Dean Stockwell, George Dickerson, Priscilla Pointer, Frances Bay, Brad Dourif, & Jack Nance. De Laurentiis Entertainment Group (DEG) Rated R. 120 minutes. Drama/Mystery/Thriller

★★★★★ David Lynch is one of my favourite filmmakers, his directing and writing equally fantastic. My dad told me about Twin Peaks when I was young (it was on TV when I was about five years old), so in my teenage years I discovered its magic. This lead to seeing Eraserhead with a few friends in a dim lit basement, which blew my mind. On and on through Lynch’s catalogue of work I went, eventually watching his early short films opening up a whole other door into his mind as an artist. Blue Velvet is a surreal film. Not as steeped in it as much as his other work, though full of surrealism nonetheless. It’s through the absurd Lynch taps into this element, alongside his modern noir-ish plot that digs deep into the underbelly of idyllic American life. What makes the movie so exciting is the dangerous story, looking at this darker side of suburbia in a small logging town, fittingly named Lumberton. Lynch has said this film inspired Twin Peaks; the way in which he blends the darkness with the absurdism is strangely compelling. There’s an explicit scene or two, depravity taking the reins in violent fashion. Mostly, Blue Velvet takes place in a space where violence is always possible, never far; its threat is debilitating to the progression of everything from innocence to love. The central character Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan) finds himself pitted against the psychotic, Freudian villain Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper), faced with either accepting his role in a hierarchy of violent men or rejecting the male violence which underpins the light and goodness of Lumberton. The now iconic opening of the film is perfect, designed like the meticulous opening sentence of a piece of great literature. Lynch starts with those typical images of American life, things he remembers from the 1950s: white picket fence, bright red firetruck with waving firemen followed by the bright red roses of a luscious garden, the beautiful houses like boxes in a row. He immediately smashes the gorgeous, American Dream-type feeling with Mr. Beaumont, Jeffrey’s father, having a stroke while watering the garden. As if innocence is starting to shatter with it, a child in a diaper wanders up while the man seizes on the lawn. The hose spurts water, and Lynch goes into a slow motion shot, the sound likewise slowed – the dog snaps at the water’s stream, his face looking vicious and snarling, his sounds become sinister. What a perfectly thematic opener. I honestly don’t know how this could’ve been improved; because it couldn’t. This first sequence is a thesis for Blue Velvet, ending in its statement where we zoom in and the camera takes us into the grass, into the dirt, right to the insects crawling in the earth. An image that sticks with us, coming up again in the end. But it effectively shows us what Lynch is doing, and plans to do throughout the plot – put a microscope over the lives of those in a quaint town. In this story, that involves a young man under threat of violence invading his life, maybe even his very soul. “It‘s a strange world, isn‘t it?” Jeffrey’s dropped into a Freudian nightmare of a world, perhaps one to which Oedipus could relate; in a symbolic sense, anyways. He is lured into the dark side of his town by a sliced off ear, yet more importantly the story begins with his father’s brutal stroke. He loses the male influence in his life, falling prey to corruption. Frank’s arrival is surreal in itself. He switches between two personas – Daddy and Baby. He treats Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini) as Mother. At the sight of her vagina, and with a gas mask dose of amyl nitrite, he goes from Daddy to Baby, then back again. Likewise, after there’s a change in Jeffrey. Without his actual father around he adopts Frank, albeit subconsciously (perfect for a Freudian analysis), as Daddy. And where his family didn’t introduce him to the darker side of Lumberton, Dorothy and Frank become his surrogate parents, leading him down the garden path to the truth; no matter how disturbing. This is quickly evident when he leaves Dorothy’s apartment following the first time we meet Frank in his erotic rage. We’re whisked directly to a dream sequence of Jeffrey remembering the events, then he wakes and there’s a strange moment where he seems relieved, touching the wall near a figure: the figure may be, to him, something else entirely but it looks like a vagina dentata sort of image. The influence of Daddy is transforming Jeffrey’s image of women into something dangerous; tying into one of the film’s themes being his journey, as a young man, trying to reject the violence of the male gender through the lens of how his surrogate Daddy treats the surrogate Mother.

Jeffrey walks to and from the hospital during the day and everything is bright, beautiful, positive. In the evening this changes, suddenly even the normal things don’t feel right. For instance, a moment many never catch when the first night scene sees Jeffrey out for a walk in his neighbourhood: a man stands in the grass as his dog on a leash stands on the sidewalk, a reverse of what you’d see like he’s being walked, you almost expect him to squat, drop a coil. One early indication of the surrealism Lynch employs. Part of the surrealism is that idea of the twisted, half-Freudian and half-Oedipal journey on which Jeffrey goes. Because not only does the story dive into the underbelly of Lumberton, the story itself dives into the subconscious mind. This is best represented in the shot from Lynch after Jeffrey’s discovery of the ear – the camera closes in, further and further, right into the ear canal; figuratively, and literally because the orifice is an ear, into the mind. So, our trusty director dips us into that subconscious, in every way. Once you begin peeling back the layers they shed like skin. The other surreal moments, the best, involve Frank most of all. First, there’s his amyl nitrite through the gas mask. On the surface that’s absurd alone, but coupled with the whole Daddy idea, you see that Jeffrey’s father has to breathe through a tube while Frank uses the surgical gas mask to inhale his drugs; a weird double image. The doubling continues, too. Frank is captivated with music, in particular the song “Blue Velvet” by Bobby Vinton and Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams” – the doubles return here, with Dorothy singing Vinton, suave Ben (Dean Stockwell) singing Orbison. And Stockwell’s little performance is so unnervingly odd. Strangely enough, the scene that weirds me out most. We see him singing, holding an electrical cord lamp lighting his face, and Frank stares at him, mouthing Orbison’s words, almost in a trance. An addition to the psychosis of Frank, suggesting something behind his fixation that we don’t need to know to find terrifying.

The violence is likely the most surreal of all: the Man in Yellow is dead on his feet, in literal fashion; Lynch shows us a close-up of Dorothy’s chipped tooth in her red lipstick-ed mouth then a little later Frank paints Jeffrey with lipstick and slaps him around, too; Frank’s crew stands by watching in complacence as he commits various unpredictable acts in a violent rage. Just as surreal as the absurdist situations in which Jeffrey finds himself throughout the film, from finding an ear in a field (the ants call to mind an image from 1929’s silent short film Un Chien Andalou) to witnessing the ritualistic sexual assault by Frank on Dorothy. One of the reasons Lynch’s film acts as an excellent piece of visual literature is how he ties off the imagery. Whereas in the first couple scenes we go into the dead ear’s canal, the camera takes us back out of the ear later, except it’s Jeffrey’s ear, alive and in the sun; a transformative journey, from darkness into the light (a visual motif we see in the use of light Lynch employs in many scenes). In addition, the rightful Mother and Daddy are restored once Frank is dead; Mr. Beaumont is recovering well, the sun is shining, the backyards of suburbia are back to their dreamy quality again. Finally, while the darkness still exists – the robins feed on the bugs, the extent of Frank’s connections and the bad people in Lumberton remain unknown – a lightness is restored. These elements help Lynch suture together his masterpiece of neo-noir surrealism. One of the greatest films made in the 20th century, a work of dangerous art. Lynch’s BLUE VELVET is Like Disturbing(ly Good) Literature Blue Velvet. 1986. Directed & Written by David Lynch. Starring Isabella Rossellini, Kyle MacLachlan, Dennis Hopper, Laura Dern, Hope Lange, Dean Stockwell, George Dickerson, Priscilla Pointer, Frances Bay, Brad Dourif, & Jack Nance.

#Absurd #Blue Velvet #David Lynch #Dennis Hopper #Isabella Rossellini #Kyle MacLachlan #Laura Dern #Male Violence #Mommy Issues #Surrealism

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