#he covets freedom yes but he desires his OWN freedom he wants his OWN desires fulfilled above all else | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonflower91 · 2 years

Note

I know you’ve answered a similar question on if Saerah would intentionally rile Aemond up by flirting with other guys in front of her, but seriously, I love the idea of her openly being playful, little smirk and all, just to get a reaction from him.

I don’t know if you do requests at the moment, but I’d love a one-shot of a young lord or knight who’s recently arrived in the capital, so isn’t aware of Princess Saerah being off limits and he begins being openly flirtatious with her and she goes with it to amuse herself and just for Aemond to end up scaring the hell out of him later on with a Tywin style deathstare.

I know I’ve also answered it before, and I’m gonna kinda contradict myself, but Saerah is a little shit and I can definitely see her flirting just to be a brat and watch her oh-so serious and controlled Aemond squirm. especially in a world where there is no war or conflict and they can afford to be silly and dumb.

And yes! I’ll write this out for sure!

A/N: This takes place in an alternate timeline where Saerah kept her mouth shut during her time on Driftmark about Rhaenyra's sons and therefore was not sent away.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was splendid. The walls adorned with banners from House Targaryen and House Hightower, the torches and candles suspended from above, lighting the dim hall so that the guests of the King and Queen might dance and laugh and eat and drink long into the night.

It was the harvest feast, and with the birth of the newest of Rhaenyra’s gaggle of children, the king thought it the perfect time to host an elaborate feast. No matter that the woman who they toasted was still on that damp rock, Dragonstone.

Just as well. Saerah could not stomach the thought of those plain faced, dark haired bastards in the Red Keep, nor their trueborn cousins, Baela and Rhaena. Not after what they'd done to Aemond.

She would have her home melted down than to have to suffer those self important cunts.

Saerah had chosen a lilac gown for the evening, a compliment to her eyes while her sweet Aemond had forsaken his black garb in favor of a dark green. He was so handsome, and Saerah wished she could see how his sapphire would gleam in the light, and wondered if it would flash at her from across the room so she could always know Aemond was there.

The king had begun talking again of betrothing her, her mother said. When Alicent had mentioned it the other morning as they broke their fast together, Saerah had huffed in annoyance. She felt almost cornered being confronted with such news, insulted even.

When they were small, she had heard rumors (mostly from passing serving girls gossiping, or from a nursemaid who was pondering the notion more than anything), that the king was considering betrothing her to Aemond, her twin brother. She had been very young, then, and the news had passed by her with all the dull acceptance of a child being told that the sky was blue.

It was not news to her that she'd spend her life next to Aemond, not to her four year old mind.

There had never been a word contrary, not even when it was announced that Aegon would wed Helaena.

But afterwords, before her eldest brother had even sobered up from the wedding feast, a name reached her ears, attached closely to her own.

Lord Viktor Tyrell.

"A fine match indeed, my queen." the king had rasped within the Small Council chambers once it was suggested. The House of the Dragon was already bound together by Helaena and Aegon. It only made sense to utilize their other children's marriage prospects and strengthen their family if they were bound by oath to other houses.

House Tyrell was rich, their harvests had fed thousands in King's Landing. Their daughter would be Lady of the Reach, a title many maidens coveted, but few ever earned.

Saerah wanted none of it.

Ladies seemed to be divided on their desires, she’d noticed. Some wanted the freedoms of a man while others longed for status and love and a quiet life.

Saerah longed only for the freedom to marry Aemond. Glory, power, children could all come next.

“I won’t have him.” She had declared once her mother came to her with an official proposal. Lord Tyrell had not yet declared his intentions, but the Crown would have to be blind not to see the offer creep ever closer. Others began their decent as well—Lannister, Tully and Stark—but the Tyrell’s were the first to make contact.

“Saerah…” her father grumbled. “It is a good match. A smart one.”

“It is one I don’t. Want.” She replied. "If you force me, I shall scream my protest all through the Keep. I'm sure Aemond will run the man through if I ask him to."

Viserys had left it at that, resolute that his youngest daughter was in the midst of the streak of rebellion his eldest daughter had. Her fires would dampen soon enough and she would marry and be content as Rhaenyra.

While the king was blind to the true nature of all his children, the entirety of the keep was not. None could mistake the way Aemond watched his sister for brotherly protectiveness. The way Saerah drifted to his side during feasts and tournaments and Court. The guards breathed not a word of how often Aemond went to his twin’s chambers long after the torches were guttered.

Had they been lower in station, they'd have been pariahs, the gossip floating through the air with ease and delight as a thousand eyes watched eagerly for their ruin.

But none would dare invoke the one eyed princes' wrath. And to insult his lady would bring the mad ferocity of a dragon down upon them.

When it came to the princess, Aemond's thirst for retribution knew no bounds, and shortly after their four and tenth name day, every man in the Keep knew that Saerah was so far beyond their reach, that to attempt it was madness. Some young knight from the Crownlands had pleaded for the girl to grant him her favor during their name day tourney.

Saerah had graciously given it and wished the lad good fortune, her brother's eye keenly watching the man below, fingers gripping the arm of his seat until the wood began to creak. Aemond hated tourneys and would not lower himself to be made a spectacle for the enjoyment of fools, and so he waited until the feast later that night to strike.

The knight had walked with a limp the next morning, but none noticed, too distracted by the mess of his face, and the three fingers missing from his sword hand. He never named who had done it, but they all knew, even without seeing the state of Prince Aemond's knuckles.

\ \

Aemond had gone to speak with Aegon at the royal family's table at the base of the Iron Throne, while Saerah mingled with some of the ladies of the Court.

Unknown to her, was that she was being watched. Ser Wendyll Rosby was a second born son, but the one thing he could proudly claim was the skill he possessed with a sword, and the charm that ladies said dripped from his tongue like the sweetest of wines.

His brown eyes were drawn to the princess, a vision in her lilac gown, her hair falling in silver waves from the braids woven behind her head. She was as beautiful as they said, her smile lighting up her face, her laugh rivaling the music sweeping warmly through the hall.

She must have a hundred suitors vying for the chance to claim her hand, he thought, watching as she gestured as she spoke, the ladies around her listening attentively as their princess regaled them. So infatuated, he did not even find it passing strange that the princess remained unmarried, when so many ladies her age were wedded, bedded and swollen with child.

But as Ser Wendyll watched the princess, a soft smile pulling his lips, Prince Aemond watched him, his keen eye darting between his twin and the man admiring her, rage bubbling in his gut. He did not recognize the brown haired, brown eyed man who gaped at his sister like a simpleton. He was a stranger, and obviously did not know that Saerah was his.

For men, marriage was not a deterrent for them. Many men gawked at married ladies and some even took them to bed. But not for Saerah. Weather or not Saerah was his wife, no other man would dare disrespect her by watching after her with lustful intent.

"Ser Criston beat a man to death during our sister's wedding feast." Aegon recalled, a slight slur to his words as a grin pulled at his lips. Aemond's gaze flickered back to his elder brother, before settling on the fool gawking at his twin. "You ought to outdo her. I suggest a good gutting would eclipse Rhaenyra's wedding day spectacle. Just don't get anything on Saerah's gown. She'd hate that, and then she'll complain to Helaena, and then it will eventually pass to me."

"Shut up, Aegon." Aemond murmured, fingers tapping against the table, his fist clenching when he saw the fool gather up his courage and approach Saerah.

\ \

"Princess." a soft voice came from behind her, a male voice she did not recognize. Turning her head to see who had spoken, Saerah's voice left her. He was very handsome--tall, dark haired, dark eyed, a beard coming in on his cheeks and jaw. She did not recognize his face. She would've remembered a face so fine. "Might I say you look beautiful this evening?"

Saerah giggled. "You may say it as often as you like, ser..."

"Wendyll, princess. Wendyll Rosby."

"Ser Wendyll Rosby. I have not met you before."

"I have lived my life away from Court, princess. As a boy, I was fostered in Nightsong, in the stormlands. I loved it there, so I simply did not leave."

"Why come back now?"

"I came in search of a wife." He replied, his soft brown eyes watching her with such a tenderness that she wanted to squirm, the implication much too apparent to ignore entirely. Unthinking, her eyes flashed to where her brothers sat at the table, a flare of delight surging within her to see Aemond watching them, his hand clenched tightly on the table.

"I see." she hummed, a little grin pulling at her lips. "Are there no suitable ladies in Nightsong?"

"None I would like to call my own." He smiled. "Might I be so bold as to ask the princess for a dance?"

"Your boldness had rewarded you this night, ser. I shall happily dance with you."

\ \

"It is a shame father keeps her unmarried." Aegon mused as he and Aemond watched as the unfamiliar man led their Saerah out to dance. "I imagine this one is the first of many." a smirk played on his lips, hidden by his wine cup. "Bet that bothers you, brother."

Aemond did not dignify the statement with a reply, continuing to watch the two as they glided around each other, his rage mounting higher. Saerah must know he was watching. She must.

"Seven hells, why don't you just pay off a damned septon and wed her? Who would deny you? It isn't like any man here would look twice at her." Aegon sat straighter, a drunken surge of brotherly indignance for their sister surging within him. "Really, it's cruel more than anything. That girl's bed is cold and empty because her lover's resolve is as soft as an old man's cock. Or, mayhaps, he wants all the perks of a married man but none of the bother." he suggested, a giggle on his lips as he took another drink of wine.

That brought Aemond's attention back to Aegon, his jaw clenching tight. "You've drunk too much, Aegon. Again. Do you really think the empty words of a septon will make my match with Saerah any more true?" Aegon shrugged, that look of drunken glee still on his face. Aemond hated it and snatched the cup from his brother's hand, tossing it's red contents to the floor. Aegon gave an affronted shout, but it went on a hundred deaf ears. "She's been mine, as I have been hers since the day we were born." With that, he stood, his chair screeching.

\ \

The dance came to a graceful end, and Saerah let the young knight escort her away from the new wave of courtiers who were inspired to dance by their princess.

“I must say, my princess, your dancing skills are impeccable." Ser Wendyll complimented, their feet coming to a stop well away from the others.

"Is that why you asked me to dance, my lord?" she asked sweetly. "To assess my skills?" It felt exhilarating to flirt this way, and she could not really understand why. But she hoped Aemond saw, hoped he saw and doubled his efforts to convince their king to wed them to each other. Or, perhaps he'd be inflamed, and come to her and ravish her as he'd done when that knight had asked for her favor. They'd been younger then, and though they'd gone no farther than kissing and sleeping next to one another, the strength and fire Aemond had shown her had inflamed her like nothing else. She longed to feel it again, to experience it fully as a woman grown ought to.

Saerah's eyes flashed to Aemond's, wickedly pleased to find him gone from his seat with Aegon. He would not abandon this feast without her, and she knew somewhere in this sea of faces and fabrics, he'd find her again. Yes, let him watch and burn and strike and show them all that I will not marry anyone else.

Ser Wendyll smiled, appearing almost shy. "I asked you to dance, my princess, because you are the most beautiful women I have ever had the pleasure to gaze upon. And I would never have forgiven myself if I did not at least try to earn a dance with the fairest maiden in the Realm."

Saerah's cheeks heated. "You flatter, ser."

"I speak only the truth." Saerah regarded him, his face holding no falsehood, and another surge of excitement gripped her belly, wringing it out like a wet rag. How sweet this would be, when Aemond came and took her and solidified his claim. Their father be damned.

Taking Saerah's reserved silence for appreciation, Ser Wendyll stepped forward, close enough that Saerah could feel his body heat. "Sweet princess, I would crown you with a garland of roses at the next tourney. Oh, please, princess, say you shall accept. I shall not offer it to any other. Not even the Maiden herself can claim half the beauty. you possess." His voiced was honied, earnest and lustful and Saerah might have accepted, just to dig her teeth in a little deeper to both the fool before her and her lover. But, Aemond appeared like a specter behind her, voice soft and cold and enraged. Dangerous, a dragon ready to breathe flame.

"She doesn't care for tourneys." He murmured, walking forward from the shadows. He'd heard the entire pathetic plea. He wished he could take Saerah into his arms and take her against the nearest pillar, just to show this little pup what he may never have the pleasure of doing. Saerah made such sweet sounds in the midst of her pleasure, her body squirmed so beautifully, trying to take more and more and more. Insatiable, greedy, sweet Saerah. All his, only his. "It's farce. She thinks it s a hollow, pathetic display, lacking of any real talent."

Ser Wendyll's irritation spiked at the appearance of the one eyed prince. While the Realm named Saerah a jewel, they called the one eyed prince ruthless and cruel and calculating. Once or twice he'd heard someone wonder if he even had the normal feelings of a man.

"The princess is quite well spoken, Your Grace." Ser Wendyll bit out as kindly as he could.

"Aye, she is." Aemond murmured softly, his eye studying his twin's profile, while his hand crept from her lower back and to around her waist. Ser Wendyll watched the princess' face for indications of disgust--hoping it would be there, but Saerah only smiled and tilted her head. And when her forehead brushed the one eyed princes' neck, while his jaw rubbed along her forehead, Ser Wendyll suddenly felt every bit the fool they deemed him as.

"I hate tourneys." the princess confirmed softly, her lilac eyes (eyes he had thought so soft and gentle), piercing him like a needle.

Ser Wendyll's brown eyes flickered back to Aemond's hand, which slowly crept over the expanse of the princess' midsection. Had Prince Aemond been a common man, he'd have challenged him to a duel--not even for the damned woman who pit them against each other, but for the sheer insult he'd been dealt by the two lovers before him. In fact, it would have been the sweetest justice to watch the princess weep over her brother and lover, dead and brutalized beneath his hands and sword.

It was the gods' ultimate injustice that Aemond was a prince.

"And I hate these feasts." Wendyll murmured hatefully, throat bobbing as he pinned the princess with his dark stare. "I hate farces as well, princess. In fact, the last I was caught in a farce, nothing could stop me from retaliating."

"Oh." Saerah hummed, her eyes widening in a mocking sort of surprise. "Well I your wounded pride came back stronger than before, if such a slight wounded you so."

"What else do you hate, boy?" Aemond asked lowly, his lilac narrowing, a taunting smirk playing on his lips. Wendyll knew the prince would have no greater joy than having an excuse to spill his guts onto the floor.

"Undue quarrels." Wendyll replied evenly. Hmm, Aemond thought, not a very clever one. "Quarrel has no space in the life I intend to build, nor the tourneys I want to compete in." His brown eyes flashed back to Saerah, and although there was no rageful challenge there, she knew the knight before her would not forget the slight before him.

"Neither does ours. We intend to have a peaceful life." Saerah smiled cuttingly, her hands coming to rest over her twins' at her waist.

"Very good." The knight bit out, eyes shifting between the two, rage mounting. "May you both have lasting marriages. Excuse me, princess." he seethed, brushing past them.

A beat passed, Saerah's mouth spreading into a wide smile as Aemond's arm curled around her middle to pull her close to his side, her breasts tight against his side. It was as clear a display of ownership as any.

"At least you didn't cut off any fingers this time." Saerah smiled up at her twin, breath catching as he gripped the ends of her hair to yank her head back.

"My darling." Aemond murmured, his hands coming to cradle her face, tilting her head up so she could meet his eye with her own. "The night has only just started."

(How Saerah's night definately ended off)

#I’m on the way dear!#lol #game of thrones #asoiaf #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x oc!sister #saerah targaryen #aemond targayten x reader #fanfiction #jealousy

51 notes · View notes

mctherdearest · 2 years

Text

@mctherdearest sent: “At some point you make a choice about who you are and what you want.” (for orion if possible!)

"a choice! ha!" he doesn't mean to sound rude or mocking, but orion knows better than to believe that a choice is available to him, and the concept in itself has become rather droll. the smile that curved his lips is without humor. he thinks his only options truly were to fulfill the role he's been built up to play, or turn his back on his family, and those aren't very good options to choose from. want has become such a foreign word. does orion black want? does he desire? yes, yes of course, but he has held back from everything he covets with an alien ferocity. he's balled his hands into fists until his nails cut into the skin of his palms.

"i know who i am, walburga," he tells her, head inclined. "-- just as you know who you are, i presume." the heir of house black. the scion of their family. orion has been told what's expected of him from the moment he's old enough to understand anything, and he's strived for the ideals he's been fed on a silver spoon since. it used to be easy. simple as breathing, as existing. but then tom riddle came along everything changed. "i want what's good for this family, same as you. you need not worry." he smiles like it's supposed to be reassuring, but his words sound brittle, even to his own ears. orion knows a marriage with walburga is necessary, but the tug in his chest is coming from somewhere else, and of late, it's become impossible to ignore.

it's the last thing he wants her to be aware of. "what brought this sentiment on, if i may ask?" an arched brow, an air of nonchalance ( he's good at pretense, usually, but this attempt is wobbly. ) "do i come across as someone undecided? are you having doubts about me?"

sometimes she thinks she must be the only one in her family — the only one trying to escape, somehow. not really escape, no ; perhaps just trying to breathe a little easier. seeking things she has thought would be forbidden to her : a sense of freedom, to do the things she really wanted to do, and not only the things her parents wanted her to, her family wanted her to — like marrying her cousin, the brother of her best friend, who must be standing in a corner somewhere, observing.

yet what she senses in his voice is something akin to her own feelings — RESIGNATION. the very clear perception of his own burden, which he carries, just like she does, with grace and decorum, and above all, pride. their name is not a common one, they both know it very well ( hammered into their skull from their very tender infancy ). “ you presume well ” she says, lighting a cigarette ( nasty habit she picked up at hogwarts, she can feel her mother’s glare from across the room ). “ i’m not worried about that ” a cloud of smoke, blown in his direction. he, too, must have had conversations with his parents, even perhaps arguments, like she had — in the end, he had to agree to a deal which had been concluded before either of them had drawn their first breath ( a first-born offering of some kind, but to what gods ? )

she looks him up and down, easily sees through his little facade — we all have one in this room orion, you’re not special, she wants to say, but keeps quiet on that thought. she draws another puff, her crimson lips pursed. “ i think we can both agree we didn’t want this ” she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. “ perhaps if we can be true to another, it might work out ” a smile, a little timid ( a little sad ). “ do you smoke ? ” she extends her golden cigarette case towards him.

cont’d for @magnefique (thanks tumblr)

#— ask for forgiveness never permission / youth.#// thank you for this !#// tumblr is being a b*thc #— if you're in love beneath the paint / orion black.

3 notes · View notes

flatfootmonster · 4 years

Text

Reflections

Neither the gentle rustle of the wind, the ease of the dark, nor the ache of exhaustion is enough to lull me to sleep. Curiosity is an itch that I’m familiar with but not growing in the shadow of ignorance in regards to someone’s emotions. How someone feels has always been inconsequential.

The half-wild creature next to me still shivers, despite the heavy robe now draped over him. But he makes no move to turn or leave, even if these are his chambers I wouldn’t put it past Na-Kyum to storm off and sleep outside. That thought pulls at a thread of amusement and I find myself grinning. He is unknowable; a fey animal dancing on the boundaries of this world and an ethereal realm.

My fingers move on their own, reaching for him and finding soft strands of hair beneath my fingertips. The enjoyment I receive from the way he feels beneath my hands and the gratification that comes when he sighs, inching across the narrow span of space left between us is an even weight. His body is curved towards me—not away. Why am I taking so much stock in irrelevant observations?

He’s just as restless. I could demand he tells me what is bothering him but that concept is foreign; I’ve never needed to know how someone feels. It’s never mattered before. Yet, as he trembles and sniffles, the same anxiety that had its grasp around my gut when he was ill plays in the same shadows my curiosity grew.

Has his spirit been broken? What exactly did his teacher say? That single memory coaxes a tide of murderous anger…

“He is a fool, you realise.” There's an edge to my voice I didn't intend, sharp enough to let blood. Certainly strong enough to make him flinch yet he stays still. Contrary creature. Withdrawing my hand, I resist the urge to pet him—not least because comforting isn't something I often feel compelled to do. Or ever for that matter. That aside, given his unpredictable nature, it's a toss up whether he’d sob or bite me.

Tilting his head up, he gazes at me wide-eyed. The innocence in his soul cannot be sullied—even by me. A long moment of consideration passes before he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” Eyes once more are cast down, and that subservience grates me—it shouldn't be there, not for In-Hun.

“It does,” my reply is as firm as the finger I place beneath his chin, tilting his face back up, eyes meeting mine again. “It may be foolish to love without a thought for yourself but the bigger fool is the one who would snub a love so pure. And not only refuse it but to shame it.” My thumb rubs gently along his chin without being told to do so. His lips slacken, the pink tip of his tongue darts out to wet them. Somehow I can feel his tension being eased. The shivering subsides.

“He said I— that I’m a p-prostitute.”

The tide of anger swells again, it's so easily provoked in this matter. The arguments that froth at the surface all relate to me. Implying that I would sleep with a prostitute, or pay for intimacy, would be a misstep that I'd answer with a blade rather than dignify with words. But I cannot give worth to another borrowing from my own standards.

The stern expression I know I've donned, that Na-Kyum now sees, sparks fear in his eyes. Yet he doesn't pull away. "And what do you think?"

The hesitation is enough to alleviate my fury. He at least has the confidence and freedom of thought to question his mentor—or past-mentor. "You keep me here to paint, the agreement was for nothing more," he comes to a premature halt, holding back the speculation I took more than I asked for. He wouldn't be wrong. "I'm not being paid for w-what we do."

A rare and discomforting pang of guilt thrums through my veins. Despite what he says, up until tonight he never had autonomy in our affairs. Choice is a difference between himself and a prostitute. That matter wouldn't normally trifle me, let alone induce guilt, but there it is.

But he came to me now, asked me to take him. Was he simply submitting to his lofty teacher's assessment? Is that what brought this on? As I study him, confusion welling like tears, I see something other than that. Perhaps I want to see it, but it's a point he's been shamed over by In-Hun and used by myself as a probe to tease.

"Enjoying it makes you feel conflicted?" In his naivety, perhaps he assumes the only people that enjoy sex submissively are prostitutes, and that's why they do it. Slaves to desire and nothing more.

His mouth moves wordlessly, unable to even admit the pleasure. But his gaze doesn't deviate from my own. His spirit isn't broken, I'm sure of it. "Not it," he stammers. "It's not what we do, it's that it's you that does it."

My brows knit together as I try to pick apart his words. "What I do makes you feel conflicted?" But the meaning unfurls as I speak. Pushing myself up on one elbow, I look down at him, my hand resting on his neck. His heart is running as wild as his emotions.

"The way I feel—my dreams—" his words stop and start. Impatience is a barely restrained force as I wait for his thoughts to be articulated. "I yearn for you," he whispers finally.

I hear the now that's missing. His adoration lay at someone else's feet, undeserving as they were. But now his allegiance has changed. Something stronger than anger expands in my chest, I can barely breathe for the possessive instinct that overwhelms me. He is mine—body and heart. A battle was won that I had no idea I was fighting.

My fingers curl around his pale and fragile neck, as my thumb runs over his Adam's-apple to the crest of his chin. His head tilts with every minute direction of my hand, apprehension in his eyes, waiting for whatever comes.

He used to feel like a small bird trapped in my fist, I could anticipate the beat of his frail wings before I'd loosen my hold, and mirth would rise as I'd imagine the ways he might try to escape. Now, as he lays beneath me, if I closed my fingers on that bird until bones crunched, the only fight would be its heart against a delicate cage made of ribs. Yet if I hold my palm flat, the bird will perch on my finger.

His spirit isn't broken but he is enamoured in the foolish way he loves, forgetting himself. "You are the fool it seems," I admonish gently, but there's no heat in it. If he is a fool then I must be one, too. Of course I’m aware of the exceptions I make for him.

And he reads between the lines, for once seeing me as transparently as I see him. "Then I am your fool, My Lord." They are the first firm words he's uttered.

Will he now defend my honour, the way he did his teacher’s? Has he done so already? I'm drowning in curiosity over matters that should be insignificant. No—his loyalty is not insignificant; small perhaps but persistent, like the grain of sand that becomes a pearl. I won't probe. Proof of his nature is already abundant, in my memories and before my eyes.

"My fool." The repeated sentiment falls softly from my lips; a coveted caress. Past that, I find it difficult to move from this moment. The stillness draws out as I simply hold his throat in my palm, enjoying the racing pulse that radiates from his surrendered heart. That revelation calls for motion, my hand answers as it slips down to his heaving chest, fingers splayed across vulnerable flesh. He’s blissfully warm where the beat is strongest.

The tip of his tongue darts forth again as a tentative hand drifts up to my arm. Gentle fingers test my bare skin. "You're cold," he murmurs, "let me." The offer is made as his hand falls to the robe, opening it from around himself and proffering one side.

A heavy breath rushes from my lungs as I nod, unravelling muscles that had tensed at some point. Arm laid flat, I settle beside him, allowing the material to be draped over my torso. He fusses over it, focussing on his work as our makeshift covers are smoothed around my shoulders. There’s a furrow between his brows as he does so and I can’t help the way my lips pull at the corners.

“Are you going to mother me now?” I can’t blame him when my jest falls flat. When has he ever heard me joke to know how my tongue paints humour? But that doesn't stop the whiplash of regret that’s inflicted when he recoils, looking down in self-deprecation. I already know his cheeks are red despite the dark withholding solid facts.

He may be quick but so am I, I grasp his hand before it disappears in the folds of fabric. And with his hand I catch his attention, both brought to my mouth as I push a firm kiss to his wrist and then place his palm flat against my chest.

"Don't." It's a one word warning, I'm not sure how to tell him not to pull away from me again without ordering him or begging. After all his candour I should be softer, I just have little practise. "I like your body heat."

I listen to him breathe in the quiet, three haggard exhales before he moves closer. His hand stays where I placed it, warm and soft, and that sensation spreads as his body presses to mine. He tucks his head beneath my chin, and the air that leaves his body caresses my skin. "Is this… OK?"

There's little to be done against the will of my fingertips, my hand runs the length of his back before resting at his nape, holding him tight against me. I hum a yes and it sounds like a contented purr. But there are matters to straighten before I let my senses dull. I already slackened by allowing us to lay here—we should be in my own bed. "Tomorrow you will eat every meal in my presence." He nods quickly, hair tickling my neck.

"I will, My Lord."

"I do not want to see you get sick again." The hardness in my tone resurfaces, but by the way he clings tighter to me he reads it in the context intended: worry rather than impatience. Perhaps he has started to know me, or my hands give me away. They have a mind of their own as they sweep over his smooth skin. "Do you need to eat now?"

"No."

My finger drifts to his chin, tilting his face up so I can peer down at him. "Are you lying?" He shakes his head, a singular and minimal motion, eyes locked to mine and lids heavy. With sleep, or perhaps...

"I want to stay here—this way," he murmurs, emphasizing his meaning by pressing closer.

I draw a line down his torso, finger coming to stop at his naval. "If I hear any complaints from here," I poke at his slender stomach to emphasize my meaning, "then I will feed you myself." The soft beneath my touch pulls taut. He’s tense. Did he expect hurt? It would be a fair assumption given the marks my hands have already made on him. The taste of that realisation is sour but short lived when I hear the soft huff expelled from his lips. Before I’m certain of the reaction that I just witnessed, my fingers run along the seams of his muscles, to the soft spot above his hip. The tensing becomes a full flex as his body curves protectively and something happens that I hadn't expected or considered.

The huff becomes a gentle gurgle. He’s laughing. He’s laughing and I have never wanted to capture something as futile with my fingers before now. I’ve never heard him laugh, and if he’s smiled I can’t recall it. The night and it’s secrets be damned, I can’t see the expression this new development brings to his face. I want to see how his eyes wrinkle, the shape his lips take, the warmth flood his features, whether his cheeks dimple. And now I have stared too long so he grows still. Does he think I disapprove of laughter?

“It’s ticklish,” he murmurs as way of explanation, as if it’s needed and I’m too dull in my senses to draw that conclusion on my own.

“I realise.” And even I can hear the pleasure on my tongue. There’s a pause, he’s hesitating, I imagine he intended to apologise for such a natural and wonderful reaction. It’s down to me to make some things clear, I’m not one for many words, especially when it comes to assurances. “I like your laugh. You will do it more often.” It sounds as ridiculous as I intended the demand be, and he hears it. I grin when my efforts win another soft snort.

“Yes, My Lord.”

#painter of the night #seungho x nakyum #nakyum #seungho #fanfic

156 notes · View notes

365days365movies · 3 years

Text

January 12, 2021: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) (Part 1)

Hey, uh...

I can’t remember if I’ve seen this movie or not.

OK, HEAR ME OUT HERE. I was 9 years old when this movie came out in the USA, and I vividly remember the buzz around this movie when it came out in theaters. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, for those of you who don’t know, is the movie that really introduced wuxia to the United States in the modern century. Directed by Ang Lee - y’know, this guy...

...buuuuuuuuuut, also this guy...

AND YET, still this guy...

- this movie has won a HELL of a lot of awards, and was the critical darling of 2000. And again, I know some of you Tumblrites (goddamn Zoomers DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER NICKELODEON ORANGE AS A COLOR??? Kidding, by the way, y’all are cool) may not be old enough to remember that time, but lemme tell you: this movie was a Mandarin-language movie nominated for Best Picture. Not just Best Foreign Language Film (which it WON), but BEST. PICTURE. Trust me. It was a big deal at the time.

The film actually did win Best Original Score, Best Art Direction, and Best Cinematography. And as I watch this, I’m going to be remembering both the time period it came out in, and the film that actually won Best Picture that year. What won Best Picture that year, you ask? Well...

Yeah. But is CTHD better or worse than Gladiator? Well, that’s what I’m gonna try to figure out, as well as whether or not 9-year-old me saw this movie already. I don’t think so, so that’s why I’m watching it now.

So LET’S GO BACK TO THE YEAR 2000, PEOPLE! We just got over that whole Y2K thing (only for the ILOVEYOU virus to pop up), the election was TOTALLY NORMAL (that’s a joke, it...it was not), AOL was the most successful internet company ever (HA! Classic. And Ask Jeeves is gonna last forever, I’m sure), and the below movie would win Best Makeup at the Oscars.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s an Academy Award-winning movie. How the hell does THAT make you feel? Makes me feel conflicted, I tell you what. ANYWAY MOVIE TIME SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap

Li Mu Bai (Chow Yun Fat, the man himself), a member of the Wudang sect of swordsmen, is retiring. He goes to his old friend (and maybe more), and leader of a private security group, Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh), who asks her to deliver his personal sword, Green Destiny. Shu Lien goes to Beijing to deliver the sword to an ally of theirs, Sir Te (Sihung Lung), while Mu Bai goes to the grave of his master, who was killed by an assassin named Jade Fox.

In Beijing, Sir Te and Shu Lien talk about the whole “more than friends” thing between her and Mu Bai, and they go to store the sword in a study. There, Sir Te’s granddaughter, Jen (Zhang Ziyi), speaks to Shu Lien about the sword, and about the nature of swordsmanship. This serves an introduction into the world of wuxia swordmanship...and I am GODDAMN HOOKED IN

So is Jen, it would seem, as she speaks with admiration about the freedom that comes with the Way of the Sword (which is distinctly different from the Way of Sarah (Blessed Be Her Fall)). See, Jen’s about to get married, in that arranged way, and she’s not a fan of the whole marriage thing. I get the feeling that she’s planning on doing something about that.

But no time for existential crises now! Someone’s trying to steal Green Destiny! A ninja sneaks in and succeeds in stealing it, but Shu Lien attempts to stop them. However, the thief is trained in Wudan, much to Shu Lien’s surprise. A rooftop chase occurs, giving us the first display of the rampant wire work and loose physics characteristic of this genre, and GODDAMN IT FUCK YE-NO

Keep it together, man, you gotta treat this film critically and seriously, not like an excited little kid watch some kickass martial arts shit. Even though this fight scene is AWESOME, holy shit...

The thief succeeds, but only because a second assailant appears with a dart, distracting Shu Lien. In the morning, the night guard says it was someone from Governor Yu’s household. In the street, the attacker is believed to be the mysterious Jade Fox, who would covet the sword of the man she killed so long ago. Ugh, this movie already rules so hard. Anyway, Shu Lien comes to see Jen again, who’s currently writing calligraphy.

Shu Lien comments that calligraphy writing is similar to swordsmanship. Jen quickly notes that she wouldn’t know. She expounds again on her regrets on marriage, and Shu Lien explains that she was engaged to a fellow swordsman who died. And although Shu Lien and Li Mu Bai love each other, they both feel bound to their fallen friend, and do not act on their feelings. Oh my God, I’m digging this fated romance shit SO HARD

NO. Professionalism. Breathe...focus on the year 2000...Napster...Survivor and Fear Factor...Harry Potter...Pokemon the Movie 2000...Pokemon the Movie 2000: The Power of One...

...Whew. OK. Back to CTHD.

Jen rests in her home, while two people spy on the...Yus. Wait, Jen’s name is...Yu Jen. Um...it’s her. The ninja is Jen. You couldn’t see it in the GIFS, but the ninja could easily be a woman, no question. It’s totally Jen, acting on her desire to be a true swordsperson. I mean, look at her stare at that sword earlier in the movie. Calling it now, it’s her. But...who threw the dart from the rooftop?

Looks like it’s Jade Fox, as a man from earlier explains. See, he’s a police chief from another area, looking for Jade Fox. He believes that she’s somehow infiltrated the Yu household, possibly arriving with them to Beijing. Jade Fox killed the policeman’s wife, making this personal. Together, the policeman Tsai (Wang Deming) and the Night Guard Bo (Gao Xi’an) team up to find her.

They aren’t the only ones, as Li Mu Bai just arrived to Beijing to talk with Shu Lien, and finds out that Jade Fox ha returned. Remember, Jade Fox killed his master, so he has some stakes in this. Meanwhile that night, Tsai and Bo (Team Law) meet Jade Fox, AKA...Jen’s governess! NICE.

Jade Fox (Cheng Pei-pei) fights the...wait...wait WHAT DID I JUST TYPE???

CHENG PEI-PEI FROM COME DRINK WITH ME IS THE VILLAIN OF THIS MOVIE???

And now Chow Yun Fat is fighting one of the first wuxia film stars? OH MY GOD

Chow Yun Fat’s about to kill her to avenge his master, and then the mysterious ninja (AKA probably Yu Jen) saves her from him. The two of them fight, and Jade Fox kills Tsai just before they escape using a streamer HOOOOOOOO IT’S REAL HARD STAYING PROFESSIONAL RIGHT NOW

The next morning, though, Yu Jen learns more about Jade’s crimes, and expresses guilt about taking Green Destiny. Additionally, Shu Lien claims to know who the culprit is, and threatens them with punishment unless the sword is returned. Essentially confirming my suspicions, the ninja returns that night to put the sword back, and Mu Bai is waiting there for her.

Yet another physics-defying rooftop chase occurs, although this one is less frought. They actually refer to the gliding technique as “flying,” and as a technique of Wudan. Interesting, engaging, cinematical, movielian, I love it. I need more of it, MORE PLEASE.

Looks like I might get what I want. Mu Bai offers to be Jen’s teacher, as he sees great potential in her. But she shuns the ways of Wudan, allows Mu Bai to take back Green Destiny, and returns to Jade Fox. Jade Fox is trained as a Giang Hu fighter, a more brutal lifestyle.

And yet, Jen isn’t really into that either. Turns out that she’s been studying the Wudan manual on her own, and has EFFORTLESSLY surpassed her illiterate former master. With nothing left to teach her, Jade Fox leaves with a veiled threat.

The next night, a man visits Jen, and they embrace passionately. He’s a bandit from the Gobi Desert named Lo, AKA Dark Cloud (Chang Chen), and the two met when his gang ambushed her caravan travelling through the desert. He stle her comb, and this girl just GETS ON A HORSE, GRABS A BOW AND ARROW, and HUNTS HIM DOWN LIKE A DOG FOR THAT COMB. She faces down the gang of bandits, and Dark Cloud leads her away, gives her water, and she KICKS HIS ASS!! But she asses out from exhaustion, and he takes her back to his Cave of Wonders.

He cares for her, and as soon as she regains her strength, she just knocks him out. Cold-blooded, goddamn. But she gets lost in the desert, and passes out again. Lo brings her BACK to the Cave of Wonders, and cares for her AGAIN. My dude is a PRINCE. I mean, he’s a thief and probably a murderer, and definitely a bad person, BUT NEVER MIND THAT FOR NOW.

As you probably guessed, Stockholm/Lima Syndromes set in, and the two fall in love...like you do?

But Jen’s nobleman father is looing for her, making trouble for Lo and his people. He vows to go legit and make himself worthy for her love in her father’s eyes. He tells a story of a boy who leapt off a mountain to save his parents. A literal leap of faith. In their last night together, she gives him the comb that brought them together, saying to give it back when they’re together again.

But now...Jen’s fated to marry, and it can’t be avoided. Lo gives the comb back to her, as she tells him to leave. And I...I need a break. If I don’t take a five minute break, Imma explode from how much I love this goddamn movie.

PART 2 COMING IN A FEW!!!

14 notes · View notes

sargeantwoof · 3 years

Text

bit by bit, I’m gonna build my house in the wildest thickets

She was reduced to - to innocence, the scent of flowers, a scream - things lacking the whole - snippets of what was re-packaged and relayed to men, landing on the ears of her mother and her father.

She was taken - that much was true. She was out, picking flowers, when the ground opened up and swallowed her whole.

She was, she was, she was - until, she wasn't.

***

No one asked.

***

The thing about spring is that often, people forget just how cloying it is.

It appears, nipping at the heels of winter, the sky lightening, the flowers blooming, and people rejoice, because finally, the hard and harsh winter is over - finally they are saved.

People forget how spring's sweet scent covers the rot that froze during winter. How the heady scent rises in the wind, bringing heat and warmth, but also tempestuous storms and thick rains.

Spring comes, as she always does, but she is not the simple joy of flowers growing. She is layered, wrecked against her own edges, her own worst enemy.

***

She was out, before she disappeared, giving her mother a flashing grin and a quick nod as she darted for the trees. She ran through the forest, sticking to the shadows, admiring how cool and lovely it was.

In the world, with no mother and father around, she was free, allowed to be with no constraints. She wasn't quiet or careful, wary of her mother's churning temper or her father's loud bellow. She could simply exist as wild as she was.

So, when she had outrun her attendants and watchers, she slowed to a stop, coming across a thicket of blackberries.

It was there, with juice staining her hands and a wild look on her face as she wove herself a crown of thorns, that darkness himself came across her.

***

Her mother called her Kore, expectations thick on her tongue. Her father called her nothing, he simply expected her to do as he commanded. She gave herself a name, one she whispered in the dark.

Persephone.

***

Darkness was neither here nor there, he simply was.

As he watched the girl set her crown against her brow, the thorns bringing beads of ichor to the surface, he knew.

She simply was too.

***

She winced as her mother tightened her grasp on her arm, plastering a smile on her face at the warning look her father sent her before she dropped her eyes to the ground.

"Welcome All," her father boomed, the floor rattling with the force of his voice. "Welcome to the Solstice."

At his words, the crowd let out a raucous cheer, Persephone's lips twisting at the noise. Her mother cut her eyes to her in another warning before she let go, her words do not embarrass me and stick close unspoken but understood. She dipped her head in acquiescence letting her mother get away from her before she spun towards the edges of the crowd, slipping through the columns to find herself a solitary place.

She slowed as she came across a singular soul, out in the shadows of Olympus.

"Oh," she said, quietly as he lifted his head to meet her inquisitive gaze. "Oh," she repeated, her eyes flashing in surprise as he stood, darkness billowing out from underneath his feet and shadows stretching towards him. He said nothing, inclining his head as he strode past her, the marble bench he had been sitting on in sudden vibrant sunshine as soon as he passed by her.

Lying innocuously on the bench sat a crown of purple-robe black locust, its lilac flower bright and bronze-tinged leaves shimmering.

Persephone reached out, trailing a hand over the crown, grinning when the sharp prick of thorns met the flesh of her thumbs. She placed the crown delicately across her brow, letting the flush of wildness prickle across her skin before she hid it, turning and going back into the party.

***

No one asked. He asked.

It's just - well - no one believed her when she said yes.

***

She left more often than not, finding excuses to leave, reasons to run, places to hide. She was wild, she had decided, and she was unable to be contained.

She was raw, flesh and sinew, a simultaneous breaking and re-making, a gift and a curse to all who laid eyes on her.

She was her own person, her own body, her own soul.

***

When she stumbled across him for the second time, she left scratches down his arm, watching with narrowed eyes as his alabaster flesh bled ichor, instead of the shadows she expected.

He smiled at her, a grin of fluttering crows and heart-stopping danger and wickedness and cruelty, and he didn't temper the gleam in his eyes.

She narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth, biting her cheek and spitting her golden ichor at him. He laughed, tossing his head back before turning cool eyes on her. She eyed him again and snarled, feeling wilder than ever, her heart thumping in her chest.

If her mother had seen her then, she would've been horrified. Her father would not have even recognized her.

But he did, and in the end, that was all that mattered.

***

Spring is deadly.

She hides her poison in flowers, her stench of death beneath her smell of growth. She does not forget - though others do - that things must die for her to come to fruition.

Death comes for all, but he never looks more beautiful than he does in Spring.

***

They met again and again, days slipping past each other until months had come and gone.

They rarely spoke, content instead to draw blood, to exist, to saunter through thickets and brambles, letting thorns drag on their skin.

Until - until - the day came, and he leaned in close, and whispered in her ear.

***

He was a proud God, a strong one too, though that was neither here nor there in the grand scheme of things.

However.

He was so very proud.

And so, with all the nagging of his family to find a wife, to settle down, to get some peace - it all was endlessly irritating but only in the way a fly irritates a cow. There was no real bite to it.

He knew he would not care for a partner who had no desires of their own, who sought to be powerful through him and not powerful in their own right. Any who was afraid of blood was unacceptable.

So, when he stumbled across her in the woods, he did not covet and he did not crave.

He stood and watched the drops of blood fall and thought, an equal.

***

"Would you like to come with me to see how the dead live?"

"Oh," she said, her tone delighted. "Oh, yes."

***

She stole down to his kingdom, slipping through the cracks and crevices he had pointed out to her over their walks, until she found the river of abandoned dreams, Cerberus standing guard proudly. She cooed at him, her wildness crackling over her skin as she scratched his middle head, and watched the steady stream of ghosts slip past her curiously.

She turned to follow, feeling scraped raw and new, with splinters in her lungs as she grasped just how much she did not know.

How much had been kept from her.

She ran along the path, following it to the grey castle built into the dark cliffs towering over the dead. She strode in, tossing open the doors and scowling at his raised eyebrow.

"I want," she said boldly, glaring at him in a dare. "To know." She pointed out the doors she had come, waving her hand about in an attempt to encapsulate what she meant. "All of it."

He leaned back, his body a line of lethal grace. "Oh," he said slowly, smiling at her, another fierce grin of darkness. "The dead do nothing but tell stories," he said, nodding his head at the doors. "And teach."

She grinned at him, fierce and bright and luminous in the dark grey of the Underworld. "I'll return later."

He shook his head, smirking. "I have no use for a cage," he said. "Come and go, it's yours."

She grinned even brighter at him, her crown of thorns scratching across her forehead as she whirled around, heading for the pools of silvers ghosts she could see in the distance, her feet steady throughout the rocky ground as she ran.

***

She stood among the trees in the sunlight, watching as her brother pulled his chariot of sunbeams across the sky. She scowled at the freedom he had, unattached from the earthly coil, unburdened from attendants and watchers. She still had to run for miles to escape, sliding between trees and changing direction, until the voices following her fell fainter and fainter on the breeze.

In the beginning, it had been an exciting way to start her days. Now, though, now, it felt tedious because even with all the time in the world, she had more important things to do than escape the women her mother assigned to be her sycophants.

She had no need for endless praise and everlasting sacrifices. She wanted - craved, really - to know.

She frowned, looking again at the sun. She only knew of one who would let her be.

And, earlier, she had heard her mother whispering plans of marriage into one of her attendant's ears, the nymph flushing green in shock as she met Persephone's eyes.

She tilted her head, resting it against the trunk as she watched the sun crest in the sky. She knew who she wished to marry.

***

"Come now, Kore," her mother said gently, her venomous words held fast behind a façade of sweetness. "We must be going to the meadows, for it's time to gather your bouquet to present to your father."

Persephone nodded once, a sharp dip of her head before turning and heading to the meadow, her mother's gaze heavy on her skin as she started plucking flowers caustically, ripping them from the ground without heeding their roots, their drops of pollen spilling out from between her clenched fingers, her displeasure obvious to all who laid eyes on her.

She paused suddenly, her thoughts whirring. Perhaps not, she thought, sending a savage grin at the ground before kneeling down and gently tugging the roots of the flowers away from the soil. Perhaps not, she thought again, shoving her hand into the red-orange clay and thinking of him.

She nearly gasped at the rush of power that left her, before she stood, hiding her scheming eyes behind her flowers and sighing so that none would look to closely at what she had done. She spun in a circle, grasping the flowers and their stems slowly, letting her mother think she had been cowed into doing her duty.

She took a deep breath, when her mother's gaze finally left her and glanced down, taking in the shifting doorway she had created. She looked up quickly, taking in her distance from her attendants before smiling and stepping down once hard.

She dropped through the earth, a scream tearing from her throat as she fell, her flowers tumbling down with her, pollen and sap spinning through the space with her before she grinned, hitting the ground with a muted thud and snapping her head up to see him, staring at her.

"Oh Persephone," he said, a grin growing in the corners of his mouth. "What did you do?"

***

She would refuse to answer for years, but she knew, in that very moment, that she had chosen a side.

And contrary to popular belief, it had not been his.

It had been hers.

***

Earlier, in their beginning, he had tried, once, to call her Kore.

She had screamed at him, her throat rough and raw from her sudden expulsion of noise, that it was not her name.

He had blinked, one quick flicker of movement before he dipped his head and asked, quietly, "Who are you then?"

* Persephone. Bringer of Destruction. (an aptly named girl) *

"Persephone," she had snapped, a defiant look in her eyes.

He tipped his head back, eyeing her contemplatively. "I like it," he said, grinning at her scowl. "Not that you need my approval for anything."

"No," she said, grinning at him suddenly, her eyes fierce and glittering, a savage twist to her lips. "I don't."

***

#hades/persephone #hades #persephone #hades & persephone #fanfic #alternative take of a myth #these are my myths now #character study #persephone is her own person #ancient greek #demeter #zeus #sargeantwoof #ao3fic

7 notes · View notes

hihowareyawrites · 4 years

Text

Did You Know I’m Utterly Insane?

Cross Posted from AO3

No pairing; Solf J. Kimblee character study

Summary: Solf J. Kimblee was not a man who was uncertain of anything, generally. He felt completely aware of everything he said and did. His refusal to continue his father's business, his eagerness to leave home, and his fondness for destructive alchemy- yes, it was never anything he was unsure of. But now and again, he did question his well being.

Solf J. Kimblee was not a man who was uncertain of anything, generally. He felt completely aware of everything he said and did. His refusal to continue his father's business, his eagerness to leave home, and his fondness for destructive alchemy- yes, it was never anything he was unsure of. But now and again, he did question his well being.

If nothing else he was defined by his savior faire- his uncanny ability to enter a situation and claim it, appearing dominating and submissive all at once. He would not hold the conversation captive, but rather steer it with small comments and gestures. It was something that made those around him captivated by his presence, and also, wary of his aura.

But of course, he knew what he was doing.

He would observe others, their empathy and their compassion. The way they felt for others. He wondered what that must be like, to see the pain of another person and truly understand what it is they were feeling. It was something he found trying. He'd given the effort as much as he could, he must feel some care for his mother (or so he thought), since he did intend to give her some of his income provided by the state.

But was it compassion? Or was he just repaying a debt he felt he owed her, out of respect? Respect was an easy emotion for him. He could acknowledge another person's ability or conviction, and he could respect them. But that didn't necessarily mean he cared about what happened to them beyond that.

No, perhaps he cared more for vanity and social status than he'd thought. The delicate thought and meticulous eye he would give to his appearance was unlike the passing glance offered to those suffering around him. But he couldn't understand what he was supposed to feel, then.

He did feel however, anger. He had a reservoir of bitterness welled up in the black of his heart, something he felt could devour him from the inside. He had no desire to truly help people. Some might credit it to late teenage angst, or perhaps a typical anger issue distinctive of young men. But he didn't find either apropos.

The creation of his alchemic specialty was with that distinction; that he had no internal drive to aid the masses. It would get him nowhere, he felt. Of course he was capable of preforming standard alchemy, he could do it if he needed. If he wanted. But he didn't want to.

He channeled the frustration, the apathy, the anger, the distaste for things around him, for people, into his work. Maybe it was because his father pushed such a rigid lifestyle on him. Maybe it was because no matter how hard he saw his mother work, she could never get ahead. Maybe he was just born with a natural affliction. The reasons didn't matter, the results did.

When he'd first arrived in central for his exam, he found it was a much different place from his small hometown. It was large, it was loud, it was a city. It had the capacity to house so many, but were those on the streets then, the remainder? He'd passed a number of homeless people, starving and cold and sad- and he found he felt nothing. No concern to help them, no desire to do more. He only thought it was the way of nature, survival of the fittest, and moved on. He felt nothing.

It occurred to him that perhaps, his view was unnatural. Perhaps his lack of concern for others wasn't standard, and he felt for the first time ever, a sense of inferiority. What genetic trait was he denied that allowed others access to an emotion he couldn't attain? What sort of defective make up did he have that rendered him unable to feel and act as everyone else does? He'd never an issue with memorizing algorithms or music or languages, and yet the simplest task of all was something that would not come easy to him.

But he could pretend it did. He studied them, the people around him. The ones in the large central office, the ones he passed on the street, the ones who sat near him in wait. He studied them all, and carefully built a persona.

When it came time for his interview, he imagined what each of his emotional models would say- how they would react. His skills were enough to award him a rank of major, a coveted watch, and a unique title. But he applauded himself on his ability to fit in with the masses. He allowed himself a sliver of haughtiness, that they did not truly know the man they had employed. He considered they had seen through him and simply did not care, but his ego preferred the former.

He did however tell them of his indifference to committing murder on behalf of the state, how it was a duty he would gladly uphold for his military. They praised him for his candor, and his loyalty. This seeming confession of psychopathy was overlooked. This confession meant nothing.

He found these brief moments to be the most rewarding; the only time where he truly felt like he might be happy. Deceiving others, earning praise, things that others may find unbecoming traits.

In training, he found his objective difficult. Many of the tasks were laden with bouts of heroics. Saving this civilian, protecting this city, et cetera. He found it banal if nothing else, but moreso uninvigorating. Why should he care if one more person were to die? Or perhaps one hundred more? What could they possibly offer, if they hadn't the will power to keep themselves alive of their own accord anyway? He hadn't become a state alchemist to be a charity worker, he had become a state alchemist for... now what was the reason again? It didn't matter, he found comfort in being apart of something.

While reading one night, he came upon studies of sociopathy and psychosis. He tried to separate himself from them, but found it harder as he skimmed the psychology book further. Yes, perhaps he did relate to this- perhaps his feelings were symptomatic of personality disorders he'd only known in passing until now. But should that make him a bad person, if he was suffering from an illness of the mind? Some may applaud him for seeking a normal life anyway. He applauded himself. He was twenty three, and doing well enough.

Still, there was a dull ache in his chest, for something more.

Only a few years later, they were being sent to war. He found purpose in his orders. They were giving him a command, a standard to perfect. It didn't matter what the order was, he was determined to be the best at it, regardless.

His new favorite hobby was walking down the streets, post-destruction, and admiring his own work. There was the exhilaration of the act of course, but there was nothing quite like enjoying the afterglow of the efforts either. He'd liken the entire experience to sex, but without the obligation of human connection after. This experience was all he needed to feel alive. He wished the war would go on forever, that he could live this way for the rest of his life. Every day would be a new opportunity to best himself, and he would seek enlightenment with every attempt. Yes, that would be ideal.

He tried to make acquaintances, to associate with living people, but none could understand him. It wasn't that he wanted nor needed to be understood, but he desired some sense of comradery with anyone here. Even though the uniforms on their backs were the same, he felt as though he simply had many enemies he could not and should not target.

When he was handed the stone, a tangible shard of human souls, there was an immediate connection. This small crystallized object, formed from human suffering, had more in common with him than any of the people around him. It existed only to cause chaos. It too was burdened with a tempest of agony, and he used it to inflict the same on those around him. This stone was truly the only thing that he understood, that understood him. It too existed merely to cause suffering.

He'd not be separated from it. He took their lives solely to preserve his possession- it's possession of him. He held out his hands promptly, to be cuffed. At the movements of his arms those around him recoiled, knowing full well what his hands were capable of. Surrender however was not a known attribute. He stood on trial and accepted any guilt. He did not flaunt it, he simply agreed. His assigned lawyer threw down his papers in frustration; why must this man cooperate with the jury and not his own attorney? He admired his new home, a stuffy, dark and damp cell, and shrugged off the gnawing feeling of claustrophobia. Surely, this is where he would spend the last of his days. He would be handed the death sentence eventually, right? It was only a matter of time.

And then 6 years went by. And there was nothing. Truly, he would be left to rot here. He announced full guilt in the crimes he committed, and they allowed him to live. This confession, too, meant nothing.

There was an emptiness growing in the pit of his stomach, so deep he thought the stone would become lost in it. What is all of this for? What was any of this for? He couldn't remember now.

And soon he was released. With bravado and a false sense of self entitlement he announced his deserving of freedom; truly, if they would release him after all this time, he had earned it. But there was still a confusion, a lack of certainty. What his goals were, what his plans were. He followed orders diligently, set himself to one goal and chased that goal. Chased it until it impaled him through the side. Chased it until it dared make him feel humiliated in front of dozens. Chased it until he was told to give up, and focus on something else. Failure was a new feeling.

Or, it was until it started to occur again and again. And then he began to realize that he was never succeeding at anything. The praise and acclaim he had earned in Ishval meant nothing. Now, he was unable to accomplish any given task. He stood in apoplexy until the order was given to rescue Pride, and he decided he would not fail again.

And though hard he did try, he found himself truly recounting his life's purpose as he lay on the ground hemorrhaging. His life force escaping out his throat and onto his tailored suit. In this moment, he confessed his crimes and his failures, to himself. He recounted them and, for the true first time in his life, felt regret. Regret he had not accomplished more. He realized then, while he had confessed his crimes to others, he never truly had to himself. And upon doing so found he was remorseless. And found that aside from orders given from others, his actions were without goal or purpose. He realized, only now in death, that he had never truly had free will. His conviction was a ruse, he acted only on the conviction of others.

"There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing. "

Solf J. Kimblee was not a man who was uncertain of anything, generally. Except for his own identity and reason for living, he questioned only when it was too late.

#solf j. kimblee #Solf J Kimblee #kimblee #fma fanfic #fma #Fullmetal Alchemist

21 notes · View notes

dirthavarens · 4 years

Text

Burning (Dragatha)

Fandom: Dracula (2020) Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Rating: Explicit Warnings: None Word Count: 7,022 Summary: Agatha felt infinite, truly capable of all things, indestructible, as he returned her grin. She felt something in her jolt and rush, buzzing and ringing a clear melody that she could not yet understand. As if it were a foreign language neither of them had learned.

[READ ON AO3] {pt1} {pt2}

or read below::::

----------------------------

He swept her from where she stood and hoisted her into the air. His lips ascended to hers and she caught the kiss, unsure of what else to do. She had been trapped, forced into the closest thing to a confession since she had last stepped into the small dark confessional box so very long ago. And somehow, through pressuring her, making her face the truth she never wanted to admit, crumbling her resolve and pride to dust…

He freed her.

Something in her ruptured as he parted her lips and drank her in, a groan ringing clear against his mouth as her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. His claws pressed into the fabric of her slacks, piercing and ripping the fabric easily as he squeezed the supple flesh beneath his hands. Agatha secured herself to him as his mouth parted from hers, trailing down to her chin, her jaw, and came to rest at her neck.

He’d never been so tender as he traced her jugular with a whisper of his lips, breath hot from the blood she gave him at the beach. Her flesh prickled with excitement as he planted a kiss on the expanse of her throat.

“I never promised a bed,” he entreated as he nipped slowly at the nape of her neck, pulling the flesh between his teeth careful enough to not break the skin. “I said there was always next time.”

“Is this not the next time?” she breathed the question into the air above him. It could hardly be anything else, she was sure of it.

“As observant as ever,” chimed the Count proudly as he drew his head back to look at her. “Where?”

Agatha’s head clouded when she met his gaze, unsure of what he meant, nearly forgetting the English language altogether. There it was. That admiration and respect for an equal yet a devout prayer on the surface of those dark…

His eyes were amber in the light….

Her jaw slacked as she stared down at him, awestruck by the way her new discovery had shook her. They had been black the night of the convent. Black in the dim firelight aboard the ship. Black as he took her the night on the beach…But in the light of her home, his eyes burned and shone as amber.

“Agatha.” Her name drew her out of his gaze and she hastened to remember what he had asked.

Where?

“Naar boven.” She reached for the first language she could and found it her native tongue, her accent heavy in which she spoke. Then, more clearly, “Up the stairs. The first door on the left.”

Dracula navigated with ease from her kitchen, back through the hall, up the stairs, and stopped at the door, pressing her back against it. All the while she reclaimed his lips, knowing she did not have to speak of him or what burned between them for just a moment longer.

You’ll be a part of me.

She had not considered the true depths of his statement, had not known what it would mean. In the years she had to sort through his memories, his worst crimes, his darkest and most intimate moments spent as a vampire… Agatha had never considered.

She was the first to open her vein, even under the circumstances, to him. Surely that was enough to render her special. However, he had known the darkest parts of her, her longings, the moment she turned her back on the structure of the Holy Order, and the moment she had her first brush of desire since taking her oath.

Their first night, their only night, together had not only been that. Never had he offered his blood to another. It was his most coveted possession, the very life which flowed through his veins. Four hundred years and he surrendered his existence to her in the matter of a month.

“My dear...” he interrupted, drawing his head back and smiling up at her all teeth and eyes glinting in the darkness. She knew hers did the same but could not stop marveling at him. Had he always been so beautiful? Had half a century sweetened his countenance, made her soft? “...perfect soţie.”

Yes, it had. Or perhaps, it had given her time to think.

She heard the door click beneath her before he released his grip and set her down. Her feet touched the ground but she felt weightless, entirely surrendered to sensation as he traced her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Now you know,” she confessed in less than a breath, her words falling on him in near silence. His hold of her face shifted then, his index finger resting under her chin and drawing it up to meet his eyes.

“I’ve always known,” he returned, voice just as damnably quiet. “Four centuries of biding my time, waiting for you to come to me. How could I not?”

His words sent chills down her spine. The legends were wrong again. Dracula had not taken a virgin, he did not need to. A perfectly corrupt nun and vampire hunter seemed to suffice. She grabbed his hand and watched as his digits took residence between the spaces of her own. He was her beast, more capable of anything she ever anticipated and no amount of Hollywood dramatization or novelization could give him just credit.

She wondered for a moment, her insatiable curiosity peeking through vulnerability, if he was aware of the ever growing superstitions that enshrouded him. Did he know of the legends that had formed around him since Mina, Piotr, and Olgaren escaped and told their tale? Was he aware? Did he even need to be?

No. It was not the time for such thoughts.

“What is it?” His tone changed, taking up the same curiosity that undoubtedly reflected in her eyes.

“Nothing important, I assure you,” she returned as she became privy to her surroundings once again. “Much has happened since you slept. I was...reflecting.”

“I expect to know every last detail,” he hummed and pecked her lips. “Please, lead on.”

She led him into the bedroom, stepping backwards as she adjusted her hold of his hand. The bed, unimpressive but sizable enough, was in the center of the room. She dropped his hand then, as the backs of her legs touched the mattress, and looked up at him, the only light coming from the streets below.

That look in his eye had not left, even in the darkness, and a sigh fell from her. To think she looked at him with contempt and vindication the last time she drew breath was absurd to her now, though it had been appropriate given the circumstances.

She was not without her share of crimes. Not now, not as he took her in his arms, a wanton kiss of teeth and tongue pressing into her. She hadn’t been for years. He would know of the lives she’s taken, the mourning, the months spent in meditation and penitence.

“We’re all sinners, Agatha,” declared the Count as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Don’t blame the beast for hunting the rabbit.”

“Stay out of my h--” Her words were lost to another kiss as he skated his fingers under her tucked blouse and pulled the fabric from its confinement.

‘No. I want to hear everything and you keep a great deal trapped in that beautiful mind of yours.’ He lifted the shirt over her head in an easy motion and discarded it somewhere behind him. Dracula licked at his lips as he placed his hand to her collarbone, his thumb pressing into the divot below her throat. “Let me hear you.”

“Count Dracula, second in name and first to the throne of Wallachia,” she started as she made quick work of his waistcoat. She drew his attention, his eyes alight with the flame that burned entirely for her. “Never again shall you compare me to a beast, am I understood?”

His answer came in the form of his claws gripping around her throat. He brought her mouth to his, a growl sounding in his chest, and kissed her deep. She opened for him as his free hand tore the last bit of fabric from her torso and her breasts bounced at the sudden freedom. Agatha knew she was no better, but the way he obeyed as his mind quieted, crackling only with the heat and desire that churned within him, made her head spin.

‘Do I have more clothes available to me?’ The question struck her as odd, but she nodded against his lips, not daring to break the kiss as her fingers twisted into the thick onyx atop his head. ‘Good.’

He released his hold of her throat, their lips haphazardly connecting, and tore at his shirt, the buttons clattering to the hardwood beneath them as he shifted out of it. She moved a hand to his chest and carded it through the fur upon his chest, the skin below it just as scarred, just as immovable under her, as she remembered.

A gasp sounded through her bedroom as he broke from her and lowered his neck. He planted a single kiss at the column of her throat before he began his journey. Her fingers returned to his hair, tightening in it as he descended to his knees. The flesh of her torso felt like velvet under his touch. He had touched the finest silks in the East, through all of Europe and beyond, but none had evoked the same fascination as the expanse of her body.

Dracula had expected royalty, expected a scholar, a debutante even, but never a nun. No, he had not planned on finding an impertinent, pestering nun at the convent the night he came to bring upon a reckoning and reclaim Jonathan Harker. He had not planned on her.

Her head tilted, her hair falling as a curtain behind her, as nipped at the edge of her ribs, sucking and pulling at the skin, marking her. Blood that was not hers to have rose and reddened the flesh under the deliciously punishing ministrations of his mouth.

Something twinged tightly inside of her as she thought of what she must look like, bruised and almost bloody, under him, sighing with pleasure. A sight that would have once disgusted her, repulsed her to her very soul, sang so sweetly to her there was little else she could want. He moved to the other side of her torso, just under her breast and bit down, once again sure not to puncture her skin.

His fingers snapped open the button of her pants and he gave a delighted purr against her skin as they slacked around her waist.

“No,” she breathed unexpectedly, even to herself. He broke from her then, his gaze turning up to her, perplexed. “I want…”

Dracula’s eyes widened as a smile stretched across his face. He said nothing as he pushed himself from the ground, meeting her gaze, breath coming hard from his lungs. They stood in near silence then, each observing the other, waiting. He wanted to, no, he needed to hear her say it and she damned herself for having ever spoken.

“Say it,” he entreated, voice low as he all but begged her. The smile was gone from his lips, replaced with muted amusement. “Tell me what you want.”

She closed her eyes for a moment as she felt the same brand of shame she had experienced only moments ago wash away from her. Why was it so hard for her? Was her pride so strong and was she so damnably stubborn that she could not simply instruct the man to whom she was so attracted to…

To feed from her?

“You didn’t need my permission last time,” she said as she tried to hint to him, without outwardly saying so.

“Are the English so unwilling to be brash? Have they caused you to lose your edge, Agatha? You seemed to have no issue downstairs.” Had she not been a vampire, his closeness would have toppled her, dropped her to the mattress behind her.

She remembered what he had done at the beach, how his blood had dripped from his wrist and how it beckoned her. With a breath, she bit into her lip hard enough to draw blood and moved so her mouth was nearly against his. His tongue snaked to her mouth and traced the inside of her lip, sweeping away what little blood there was. She had been feeding regularly and should have known the wound would close as quickly as it formed.

“Tell me.”

“Taste me,” she muttered against his lips, damning the smile that they pulled into. “I’m no longer the human you’ve had in your veins for half a century. People change.”

“You don’t,” he returned, amused by the recount of their time on the Demeter. “Are you sure? I’ll know everything. Every moment, every thought, every piece of you for the last fifty years.”

“What was it you said earlier? Oh, yes. Every last detail.”

“How were you ever a nun?” he mused as he shifted away from her, pushing her slacks down her body, and watched as she stepped from them, her shoes going with them. The Count took a step back and peered at her through the darkness. “Not even God cannot take credit for you, dragă mea.”

“You let me drink from you. Are you to tell me that you hid information in your blood?”

He paused as her finger hooked into his waistband. She noticed his chest stop as he was poised with the question. For all that she saw in his memories, Agatha had known he had spared no details. She saw slaughter, villages, men, women, and children alike torn apart as he brought chaos upon the Earth.

“No.”

“Then why would I?” She unhooked the button and shrugged the slacks down his hips. She reminded herself that he was not wearing undergarments but could not help herself as she glanced between them at what awaited her. Agatha returned to his eyes and watched his coy smirk return. “Has anyone told you that you have no shame?”

“I do believe you just told me I have quite a bit,” he returned and glowered, albeit playfully. He stepped out of his pants, then his shoes, and kicked them to the side. Her breath hitched as he closed the space between them, his hand gently caressing her hip. “Though, I suppose only time can tell. Now, where were we?”

He lowered them to the mattress, Agatha moving back as he climbed over her, and kissed her once, twice, a third time before he withdrew from her. He reached behind him, removed the socks from his feet, and let them fall.

“We can wait,” he started again as he returned to her.

Wait? For what?

She scowled up at him, unsure of what exactly he was referencing. Whether it be driving into her or drinking her blood, Agatha did not want to wait. She had spent fifty years waiting.

“Speak plainly.” As if she was one to talk.

“Until I’m inside of you.” But he delivered. “Blood is lives, Agatha, but I’m not going to be drinking your blood to merely gain insight or feed. I’ve never had another vampire’s blood. And seeing how you responded...”

Wantonly, devoutly, unabashedly, animal.

“You think it will heighten the experience,” she stated without wanting to tell him that it had. When she had drunk his blood that night, it had sent her to a place upon high that she had not been able to attain since.

“You know it will,” he smirked as he took her lips, a hand sliding between them to her core. His finger dipped between her folds and traced idly over her clit, applying no pressure but it excited her all the same. “I could take you right now, you’re certainly ready enough.”

“Then why don’t you?” Somewhere caught between a question and a demand. She closed her eyes as he slipped the digit inside of her, not needing to see the smile caught on his lips to know it was there.

“We have all night,” he lulled tenderly as his lips moved from hers. He shifted them up the bed with his free hand, careful not to scratch the inside of her as he began to twist his finger deeper into her. He laid at her side, supporting himself with his forearm, and watched her face as he slowly worked her. “I only had an hour to work with before. I have an entire night and every intention of giving you what was so unfortunately absent last time.”

‘I’m going to take my precious time with you, Agatha Van Helsing. And I will make you last until sunrise.’

Agatha’s legs wavered as she felt him move inside of her. He had only his middle finger plunging into her warm depths, but she revered the leisurely rhythm he set. She peered up to see him studying her as if she were a novel and found herself smiling at the sight. His focus on her was, appropriately, otherworldly as he sank deeper into her, shifting himself minutely to ensure he went to the knuckle.

She whimpered as he stroked at her walls, holding the sound in her throat in the hopes he gave her more.

“That wasn’t the agreement,” he gnarled mutely as he shifted down. His leg caught hers and bound it to the mattress below, opening her wider for him. Her hips jutted towards him as he inserted another digit, pumping it into her with the same tedious pace at the first. “You agreed to let me hear everything.”

‘I granted you permission to hear my thoughts,’ she corrected, her closed lips grinning as her indignance granted her a harder thrust of his fingers. Agatha was right and he knew it. She wondered…

Could he last until sunrise?

‘Then tell me.’ Another hard thrust. She clutched to his wrist and savored how his muscles and tendons flexed under her grip as he moved inside of her. Like waves, they eased and tensed against her thumb in a perfect, unbroken rhythm. ‘How does it feel?’

Her back lifted when he brushed her sweet spot and a groan crept into her throat. She moved his wrist so the palm of his hand was at her clit and another soft sound broke through her as he obliged her. Even if it was for the shortest moment as he easily shifted back into his previous position.

“How do you feel when I have you like this, Agatha?” He found her lips, kissing her deep and she grounded herself by it, drinking in every bit of sensation he could give to her.

‘Depraved.’ She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t speaking the entire truth either. He was going to open her vein soon enough and she would be found out. ‘Incredible.’

He removed his fingers from her and broke from the kiss. Agatha gave a breath of protest that grew into an audible sigh as she watched him draw them up for inspection. She could see the glint in his eye that gave way to what came next.

“No. You had your fill at the beach. I forbid you.”

“I most certainly have not had my fill,” he retorted absently, paying her no mind as he watched how his fingers glistened, her juices stringing as he separated his fingers. “I don’t even think that’s remotely possible now.”

“We’ll add it to the list of your addictions later,” she huffed, not understanding how this was even a subject for debate. Anything to draw a response from her…or maybe he meant it.

“You certainly are climbing that roster fast,” he murmured as he returned to her, pressing to her lips in a quick kiss. “What would you have me do with them?”

He grazed the inside of her thigh with the back of his hand trailing from her knee to her core. All the while, he took the utmost care not to let her own wetness touch the smooth of her skin until he slipped the fingers idly down the outskirts of her folds.

“Return them,” came her command, tired of his dawdling. She had him in her bed for no longer than ten minutes and he was already teasing her. He paused at her entrance and sank, with no pressing urgency, his index finger into her.

“Here?” The grin of a panther. He curled his finger against her spot and laughed when she contemplated smacking him. She agonized when he stilled his finger and withdrew it at her thought. “No?”

“Yes,” she corrected hotly and grabbed his hand.

“Yes?” He asked innocently as he teased her entrance, dipping his finger in and out of her.

“Stop wasting time,” she barked.

“Ah, already so impatient. What a long night it’s going to be for you, Agatha.” He returned his fingers to her with a laugh, sinking into her slowly, as if he hadn’t just been inside of her. Then, he went deeper, giving her just a taste of what she wanted. “Fortunately for me, I have all the time in the world and I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere any time soon.”

Before she could come up with another retort, Dracula shifted on the mattress entirely, looming over her as he worked slowly inside of her. Agatha gazed up at him, cursed how obscenely handsome he looked, and gave a sigh when he pressed his lips to her forehead.

“If it were possible, I think it very likely that I would hate you,” she breathed.

“If it were possible,” he echoed glibly and began to trail kisses along her hairline, nipping once at her earlobe and then once more at her jaw. Dracula curled his fingers as he thrust into her. “How lucky for me that you don’t.”

Her head dug into the pillow as he ensured to hit her with each stroke into her. She wanted to damn him, curse him to the very depths of Hell itself for how he so easily set her on edge. She would damn herself in the process for she was a puppet in his hands, responding to every motion of his lips as he played at her neck. A soft moan for each suckle, her fingers carding through his head. He had fed on her half a century ago and never left a mark.

Another curl of his fingers and Agatha groaned into the air of her bedroom, letting the sound spill from her without reservation. They were no longer on the beach, no longer in the public’s eye and within the confines of her own home, she was at last free.

“Ooo. Now there’s an interesting thought. Do I set you free? Do I liberate you?” He asked breathily as his kiss danced at her collarbone, driving even harder into her. Another cry fell from her lips as her legs constricted around his arm. She could feel her walls tightening around his fingers, the pressure behind her impending orgasm so painful she could hardly stand it. “Do I?”

She lost herself as he eased another finger inside and came around him. He dug his teeth into the flesh above her breast, breaking skin not drinking, as he forced her down on the mattress, leaving her to squirm and writhe against him. “Christ, yes!”

“Wrong name, but I’m certain you’ll get it right before the night’s over.” His laughter rang clearly into the room. She relished in the sting of his bite mark as he removed his fingers from her, leaving her orgasm to spill from her and onto the sheets below. Her chest heaved as he kissed the mark and she could feel his tongue sweep away whatever blood had resided there.

Dracula took a breast into his mouth, his now free hand grabbing at the other and teasing her nipple with the slick wetness that soaked his fingers. The mix of sensation, fire and ice, felt like magic, a rush of pleasure heightening the afterglow of her release. He ran his tongue over her, flicking and suckling as he coaxed soft breaths from her. A maestro with a one woman orchestra.

He took special care as his tongue left her breast, kissing it supple flesh beneath him before glancing up. Agatha met him, looking down, and groaned at the mere sight of him. His hair disheveled, eyes dark, a smile fixed on his face as though he'd been stuck that way for centuries. She tugged at his scalp, unsure if she wanted him to continue his descent or steal every last possible molecule of air that resided in his lungs. It's not like he needed them.

Her short moment spent in unclear speculation was forgotten as he made the decision for her. Dracula moved up her body and took her lips with an unnerving slowness. She captured his bottom lip in her teeth and tugged as the skin, pulling it away from the jagged points that lie below.

‘Beast,’ she thought with a smirk that forced her to surrender his kiss. Agatha felt infinite, truly capable of all things, indestructible, as he returned her grin. She felt something in her jolt and rush, buzzing and ringing a clear melody that she could not yet understand. As if it were a foreign language neither of them had learned.

“You’re one to talk,” he crooned softly as he brought the pad of his thumb deftly over her lips, gently hooking the bottom just enough to reveal her teeth to him. He let out a small breath, his admiration clear. “Sharp as knives. Agatha, they’re beautiful.”

He kissed her. “Absolutely, infuriatingly, beautiful.”

Her fangs? A simple byproduct of her arousal. A simple byproduct of being a vampire.

He deepened the kiss, his thumb playing gently at her cheek. ‘Don’t play the fool, darling. You’re much too smart for that.’

He broke the kiss. “You, Agatha Van Helsing, are captivating and I will never have enough of you.”

“The one toy you will never put down?” Her question came by instinct. The reality was that his sentiment had caused too much stirring in her lifeless body. She was warmed, comforted, by his words, as though she had gone far too long without knowing she needed to hear them.

“Something like that,” he huffed and pecked her again. Dracula returned to her side, his hand guiding her to face him. “Call it fate, if you have to categorize it. Do you even believe in such a thing?”

“Is now the appropriate time for such talks?” Her brow raised at him.

“Now is exactly the time for such talks. Tell me,” he hummed as his claws trailed down the silhouette of her frame. She had long since had the body of a young woman, she knew, but he seemed entranced all the same.

“I do believe in fate. How else can I explain our meeting? I was the one person in a thousand miles who knew how to kill you and Jonathan Harker was directed to my convent on the off chance it happened to be something other than a miracle.”

“You don’t believe in miracles,” he interjected, his voice sober, but his fingers still a whisper at her skin, raising it wherever they roamed.

She relaxed into his touch. “No, I don’t.”

Over the swell of her breast, tender upon her ribs, a feather at her hips.

Agatha let out a soft sigh.

“You were a nun for most of your mortal life. Why the lack of faith?”

A light pressure at her skin drew her attention as he smoothed his hand over her supple cheek, lulled her as his familiar touch trailed up her spine. So light, so conflictingly tender against his low voice.

“I had lived a very long life in a few short years. You remember them, surely. I’m almost positive you’ve drank enough from me to know the exact second of my birth. Miracles didn’t exist.” She blinked at him, his touch feeling cold for only a moment. His expression dropped, his hand stopping at her shoulder blade.

A fortunate life? No.

A life full of personal successes and freedoms? Yes.

“Didn’t?”

“Why are you asking me this? You know the answer. As I said, the second of my birth,” she returned. His hand was still at her shoulder, gently coaxing her nearer.

He shifted closer to her and his arms came around her. Count Dracula, slayer of thousands, was…

Embracing her.

Her arms reflexively tightened. It was one of the habits from the nunnery she had tried so break. Then relaxed and held him to her, breathing him in. It was his natural scent. The one he carried at the beach, the one on him as he clutched to her face before the explosion, the one that fed on her in the depths of the convent.

How did he no longer smell of the sea? The blood perhaps?

No, he hadn’t drank nearly enough for that.

No, the sensation held a vague familiarity in it. Strange and juxtaposed to reality. But she was aware of her surroundings, in control of herself. No, it was him entirely.

‘Relax, Agatha. Respiri, dragă mea.’ He instructed soundlessly. ‘You’re allowed to like the way I smell.’

She grabbed at his leg with her own and yanked. Did his ego never rest?

“Ah, so I was right?”

“Quiet.”

“As my Queen commands.”

He pressed to her forehead, his hips swaying towards the warmth of her abdomen. She felt his erection press against her and instinctively shifted her hips. Agatha tucked each leg on either side of his waist and pulled him closer to her.

“Now?” His breath was thick as his hand wound gently into her thick brunette locks.

She backed away just enough to fit her hand between them and trace her fingertips around his length before guiding him to her entrance. Agatha sank onto his cockhead with a shaking groan, unaccustomed to the feeling of him not already being slick before entering her. It was a different kind of pain that her own body accounted for as she rolled her hips down, slowly taking him deeper into her heat.

“I want to show you something,” he sighed and rocked into her as she descended. “Let me kiss you.”

She would have torn her heart from her chest if it meant he would meet her hips like that. Agatha knew the risks of what he was implying. She knew that he could take off in an instant, raze the block before sunrise.

But… She trusted him. An incomprehensible thought to her human self.

“Yes.”

Tender though his kiss was, instinct took over when his lips met hers. She took his mouth hungrily as she sank onto him as deep as her body would allow and he pushed the rest of the way. Agatha ground her hips as her world plunged into darkness, her own moan echoing around her. Sensation was all that she had now, heightened as his opiate ran through her.

So it could work on other vampires.

‘What do you feel?’ his inquiry imparted into space around them, something like electricity sparking around her, cascading around her like fizzling fireworks fading in the night sky. Except, they never went out. She felt like summer, like the very sun was touching her skin without a single drop of light around them.

‘What do you?’

A laugh as his hand gripped her thigh, somehow pulling her even closer to him. He angled himself as his hips rocked back and thrust into her. Dracula filled her completely, delicious warmth crashing over them both as they easily found perfect rhythm.

‘That’s what I’m showing you. Indulge me, Agatha. What do you feel?’

Another thrust as she pressed her forehead as she parted his lips, deepening the kiss.

‘Sunlight.’

She groaned into his mouth as he rolled them on the mattress and sank into her until she could feel his pelvis against her, her head hitting the pillows. Agatha clung to him, not wanting to lose the sensation that flooded her body should her lips dare leave his, such infinite heat.

‘Divinity.’

Dracula broke the kiss, Agatha being drawn to reality once more, and pressed his forehead to hers as his rhythm faltered. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her hands surrendering to the tense muscles beneath them as he claimed her. “Centuries I’ve waited for you.”

“Wait until you’re fucking me midday. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it twice as much.” She couldn’t help the quip, her words melting into a sigh as her walls began to clench around him. Her chest pressed to him, eyes clenched, head digging into the pillows as he ground his hips into her, the pain it caused evaporating to pleasure instantly.

‘Such a mouth,’ another hard thrust as his pace became near punishing. Agatha twisted beneath him. Her back arched as she rocked her hips sporadically against his, chasing her own release as she tightened around the throbbing cock within her. ‘So you did wake me to fuck and kill me. And here I thought you were beneath lying.’

‘Can you blame me?’

‘Hardly.’ Dracula shifted, stilled inside of her, and her eyes shot open. “A promise is a promise and I am a man of my word.”

“Do it,” she commanded, her head turning, neck outstretched. How he pulsated within her aching heat, it was all she could do to keep her trembling form steady.

She felt a breath against her skin and moaned in the darkness as he kissed her. She clutched to him with a type of desperation she’d never known as he sank his teeth into her. Something between a scream and a groan tore through her as he rolled back his hips and slammed into her tightness again and again. He claimed her, marked her, with every penetrating thrust, fucking her deeper, her body shaking beneath him.

“I mi-missed you… m-m--” her words came in choked gasps, twisting and crying out as she felt her blood flow from her veins to his. Inside of her in every possible way, surrendering to her. He forfeited every possible ounce of himself to her, the highest form of homage he could pay.

Her orgasm crashed around her endlessly, agonizing and absolute. His arms wrapped around her and as he pulled them back until she was sitting atop his lap, his cock still seated deeply inside of her.

‘How exquisite you are. Fifty years of nightmares and this is the dream to which I wake. Lay claim to what’s yours, Agatha.’

His reverent prayer rang clearly in her head, pushing through the impassioned storm raging within her, and she began to move her unsteady hips against him. She shifted to take him deeper and his teeth tore at her neck, blood and saliva spilling from the artery. The pain alone was enough to make her cry out but his snarl sent her over an edge she didn’t know she was teetering. Her encore was a rush unlike anything she’d experienced, her juices spilling around him to the point he pulled out to let the excess run out before plunging back into her depths. He withdrew from her neck, the wound left open, the column of her throat in his hand, and demanded her mouth as he snapped her attention to him.

Her blood smeared against her face as she kissed him, the remnants of the liquid spilling into her mouth as she opened at his prying teeth. Metallic and unimpressive to her own palette, but blood all the same. Blood was lives and she read her own as her teeth tore into his lip, drinking in their combined flavors.

His hand shifted to the back of her neck as he broke from the kiss, looking between them to watch as she rode him. Her hips ground into his with increasing instability. She took him deeper with each erratic movement until her legs shook, his name spilling from her lips.

“Like that. Keep…” another hard kiss, the words a growl in his throat. “...just like that, just…”

He grunted when she brought a hand to his throat and turned his head in her hold. Agatha understood what he had meant when he said she smelled like him. While she found her own blood of no interest to her in his kiss, she found it to be much more enticing when in his veins.

“You don’t have to ask, Agatha,” he panted and held tightly to her hips, driving into her as she pushed down on him.

Would she ever tire of hearing her name leave his lips?

No. She decided as she descended upon his throat, drinking him in the moment she broke flesh. The inferno within him burned hotter than it had in the kiss and she revered the way it poured down her throat.

The knife. His hunger gnarled angrily to his core as he first tasted her. Unabashed before the entire convent, needing to know her. An interest the second she stepped into the courtyard. A deeper wickedness in her than he could have dreamed as he drank from her vein.

Agatha vowed never to indulge in blood. It was a medication not an addiction, an unfortunate side effect of her existence.

He wanted her during his time aboard the Demeter, considered it heavily through the game, but would not have her in a dream. Never had he thought such things. Humans were prey. But Agatha Van Helsing?

Agatha had made many vows and had broken just as many.

How the name stuck to his lips, reverberated in his mind even as he had slept in his cabin for a week. Not in conquest, in respect, in admiration. He knew their game would play on for eternity if fate allowed. Only one could reign victorious and such an opponent would never surrender. She was a beautiful balance of power and cunning, and he could not stay away. Even if it took four hundred years more, he would find her again.

His blood was old, but hers revived it and she was tasting their memories, their game, their careful dance upon a tightrope.

She returned to him in an instant, immortal. Her soul was not as saved as he had conjectured. He could call her a bride, but that was beneath her. She scorched the earth on which he tread and now he could burn freely. A life without her in it seemed a dull life indeed, and he knew he could not, would not allow her to slip away again. He knew her secrets, knew her more intimately than anyone could, but it wasn’t enough. More than he coveted her, he needed her.

It was hard to focus as he shoved her onto the bed, his neck shifting. Blood fell to the sheets as her teeth detached from him. Dracula gave no time for her to gather her thoughts before he thrust deep into her. With every short stroke, Agatha felt him spill deep into her, reveling in the bestial growl that erupted from his mouth. She had not anticipated the deep, vocal sigh that followed. Her walls ached as he pulled out of her, a mix of their release coming from her entrance behind him.

She noticed his vein still open, the slow trickle flowing into the hollow of his collarbone and onto her chest, calling to her. Asking her to break her vows once again.

As a nun, she had turned her back on nearly every form of temptation, her wicked curiosity the exception. As a vampire, Agatha learned to control temptation. But as his blood began to run into the fur of his chest, she found herself overcome, as though something awakened within her. A deeper and more powerful hunger than she could fathom was beset upon her, and she could not resist.

He needed to feed. He had gorged himself on the Demeter but that was half a century ago. If she drank more from his veins, he would become famished, insatiable. Just a taste of what spilled out would be enough.

“You’re a vampire, this is…”

He had been in her thoughts, a silent audience until she came to an impasse.

“Don’t insult me by saying natural,” she returned in a heavy breath, her eyes flooding a deep red.

“I’m saying what you’re experiencing is my hunger. You drank my blood, you have my thoughts, my needs, coursing through your veins,” he explained quietly, his voice like gravel as he raised a hand to his neck. He wiped at the blood with two fingers and brought them to her lips, a wicked grin upon his own.

She took the digits carefully into her mouth, her tongue wrapping around them. Agatha nursed and licked until they were clean and then some. The feeling of him inside of her, in any form, could not dissuade the hunger building inside of her. She drowned in the radiance of their sin.

“This is not sin,” he interjected as he pulled the digits from her mouth and moved his head to lick her own wound clean. Her fingers nestled into his hair, holding him close as he planted his lips to her neck wherever he went. He ran the hand down her torso, skin like silk beneath his fingers as he descended to her core. “You’ll need something to eat soon. My appetite isn’t easily sated.”

He pressed against her clit before he withdrew his hand and shifted down her body. His head came to rest between her legs and Agatha quivered as his tongue flicked the nub.

“C-clearly.” The smell of their blood around her, Dracula working at her core, his thoughts of her playing in her mind… Control was slipping from her grasp, unwinding like a loose spool of yarn falling over a cliff.

And Agatha Van Helsing never lost control.

#my writing #dragatha #bbc dracula #bbc dracula fanfiction #dracula #dracula fanfic #dracula x agatha #count dracula #agatha van helsing #fanfic #vampire!agatha #lmao only half an hour behind scheddy

31 notes · View notes

xmxisxforxmaybe · 4 years

Note

13. papi and vega for the fun sex tropes 😳😳

13. Anything involving the secretive brushing of fingertips against inner thighs in public spaces.

AU Papi/Louis, of course, because Papi-top would never live without his Louis-bottom. I struggled to think of a way to do this in public, so I didn’t . . . forgive me?

* * * * *

Papi sits near the window of their small cottage, mostly because the fumes from Louis’s paints gets to be too much. Amazingly, the smell never bothers the smaller man, who will work for hours until his body is aching and so stiff that Papi has to help him into a hot bath.

Once Louis is settled in the tub, his muscles already responding to the heat, Papi will climb in behind him and start to massage away all the knots until his lover becomes pliant, lying back against Papi’s chest.

While the water is still warm and Louis is drawing closer to sleep, Papi’s hands change, morphing from virtuous to sinful, as they start to slide over Louis’s skin instead of massage.

He starts out innocently enough, feather light strokes over Louis’s arms, up and down until Papi sees the goosebumps appear. He smiles, knowing that although Louis is still enough to be asleep, he is very much awake.

With that knowledge, Papi’s hands slide under the water and stroke Louis’s sides; he’s still thin enough that Papi can count his ribs, his thick fingers all but fitting perfectly into each indentation. It used to concern him, but when after months of eating well, his physique never changed, Papi just accepted Louis as slight, feminine.

Louis’s head shifts, rolling to the side, and now his neck is bared for Papi. Up from beneath the water, like a Siren’s call, Papi’s hands respond to this new bit of flesh. He lightly strokes the muscles of Louis’s neck, one finger running over the soft skin of his lover’s pulsepoint, under which Papi can feel Louis’s heartbeat.

He rests his fingers here for a minute, counting, making sure the man he endured so much suffering for was real, making sure that he wasn’t still stuck in that awful place, alone with nothing but ghosts of memories and visions of what would surely never come because Papi was going to die.

Except he didn’t.

Sensing Papi’s pain, Louis’s hands move under the water and brush along the insides of his lover’s muscular thighs, the hair, coarse when its dry, soft and silky after its time submerged in the bath.

When Papi’s cock hardens against Louis’s back, he knows that he’s come home again.

Louis continues to ghost his fingers along Papi’s thighs, shifting so he can reach higher and higher.

“The water’s getting cold, mon chou,” Papi says quietly.

Louis smiles at the term of endearment, and turns his face towards Papi’s, his full lips silently begging to be kissed.

Papi’s hand slides along Louis’s jaw, cradling his face as he bends to kiss him.

A flash of tongues.

A breathy sigh.

And Papi breaks the kiss, Louis’s lips still pursed, begging for more.

“Come,” Papi commands, pushing his lover’s body forward so he can rise from the tub.

Louis follows, stretching and listening to his bones pop satisfyingly into place before he accepts the towel waiting in Papi’s hand. Louis smiles, knowing his lover watches every move he makes, his cock still hard, evident beneath the towel slung low on his hips.

Before they leave the bathroom, Louis stands in front of Papi and leans in to kiss the butterfly on his chest, three soft pecks, always: wing, body, wing.

Papi leans down and nuzzles Louis’s curls, pressing a quick kiss to his head before taking his hand and pulling him into their bedroom.

“I love our freedom to do this, Louis,” Papi says as he opens Louis’s towel and gently pushes him to lie down on the bed.

“The one thing you have in abundance now. Freedom,” Louis says, the word never feeling tiresome on his tongue.

“Only one thing?” Papi asks as he smirks and drops his towel. “I’d like to think I also have you . . . in abundance.”

Louis laughs, his eyes bright with mirth since they aren’t currently hidden behind his glasses.

“Yes. Yes, you certainly have me,” Louis says, a pretty blush coloring his cheeks as Papi gazes at him, laid out on their bed and waiting.

This time, it’s Papi’s fingers ghosting along Louis’s inner thighs as he climbs into bed and takes his coveted place between them.

Louis’s lips are open and his eyes are shut and Papi is, as always, enamored by this small, sometimes still annoying man. He lets his eyes trace over his frame, lingering on the lean muscles of his chest and the angular sharpness of his jaw. Louis has such a masculine face, and Papi loves to cover it in kisses until Louis laughs and pushes him away, “Pas plus, pas plus.”

Louis’s body is covered in goosebumps now, so Papi ceases his stroking and switches to a touch with pressure. He grips Louis’s thighs and rubs them before he moves up to his hips, pushing him into the bed in a way that makes Louis’s cock fully erect.

Papi leans down, his muscular chest pressed into Louis’s hardness as he kisses across his lover’s lean torso before moving lower, his tongue following the dark hair on Louis’s stomach until he reaches his cock.

Papi takes him in his mouth, sucking him in all the way until he can bury his nose in the coarse hairs at the base. Louis moans, his fingers clutching the sheets and he knows he has to be still or Papi will move too soon.

Reaching between Louis’s legs, Papi cups his testicles and pulls on them, teasing them as he pulls his mouth up and lets go of Louis’s cock with a slight pop that seems to echo off the walls of their bedroom. Papi moves his hand up and strokes lightly, giving his wrist a little twist as he reaches Louis’s tip.

“Papi,” Louis moans. “I need you.”

Of course Louis tells Papi he loves him, and Papi returns the sentiment, but love was never their most powerful bond: it was need.

First, Papi needed Louis.

Then, Louis needed Papi.

Back and forth, until now . . . now they finally knew that all along, they needed each other.

So when Louis begs for him, when Louis needs him, Papi always, always gives.

Reaching into the nightstand, Papi pulls out the lubricant and spreads a generous amount on his fingers. He tosses it beside him on the bed and smears it over his fingers to warm it up. Louis’s propped up now, his big, blue-green eyes filled with an uncontained desire.

When Papi runs his fingers over Louis’s opening, he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in anticipation. Papi has never been too rough with him, but there’s something about this part that makes Louis feel the most vulnerable—and sometimes, Louis wonders if it’s because he doesn’t feel good enough to belong to this pillar of a man who gave up everything for him.

But that question gets buried when Papi slides one finger inside of him, stretching him until he’s ready for two, and by the time Papi adds the third, Louis isn’t thinking anything at all except how good it feels to have Papi’s fingers moving in and out of him, brushing the part of him that makes him flush with pleasure.

“I’m ready,” Louis pants, his bottom lip freed by his declaration.

Papi reaches for the lubricant again and locks his eyes on Louis’s as he slickens his cock, his strong hand sliding up and down his substantial length. He’s so beautiful in this moment, so strong and sure; he needs to be because as soon as he plunges into Louis’s body, Papi becomes a slave to the sensation of his lover surrounding him, chasing nothing but Louis’s tight, tight heat.

Papi leans over Louis’s body, bending to kiss him as he aligns his cock with Louis’s entrance. He deepens the kiss as he pushes into his ass, his hands running up and down Louis’s body until he is fully sheathed.

Both of them groan in an almost identical sound, and when Papi starts to move, he straightens up and slides his hands under the cheeks of Louis’s ass and squeezes. Louis spreads his legs a little wider and Papi hooks his knees to bring him flush with his body. Once he slides his hands down to grip Louis’s thighs, he starts fucking him.

Hard and fast, just the way Louis likes.

Most of the time, the stimulation from Papi inside of him is overpowering and all Louis wants, but today, Louis’s cock stays hard and when he reaches down to stroke himself, Papi can’t help the long moan that leaves his throat.

Never is Louis a more delectable sight than when Papi is buried balls deep in his ass with Louis’s own hand wrapped around his hard cock.

Papi knows he won’t last long like this and he gives Louis little commands in French. When Papi feels that tightening at the base of his spine he commands Louis to let go, and when the hot ropes of cum shoot from Louis’s cock onto his stomach and his chest, Papi is lost, groaning out Louis’s name as he stills inside of him and fills him up.

Papi slides out and stumbles back to stand, bending to grab one of their towels from the floor.

He cleans up Louis, and Louis smiles at him, shaking his head at what a mess he made. Papi towels off his own cock before climbing into bed and nestling into his lover’s back. Papi presses soft kisses to the smattering of freckles that dot Louis’s skin, and he’s thankful that Louis will never have to feel the harsh sun on his back again if he chooses not to.

Freedom.

That’s all Papi ever wanted.

And now, Papi has freedom . . . and Louis.

#Papi #Louis Dega #Papi x Louis #Papi x Dega #papillon fic #Papi x Louis smut #Rami Malek smut #papillon smut

31 notes · View notes

fraink5-writes · 3 years

Text

From Darkness Into the Lantern Light - Chapter 4

As promised, these chapters are coming out really fast now.

Thanks, of course, to @leio13 for her hard work editing!

Summary: Once upon a time, there was a cold-hearted queen. Although the Tsaritsa, as she was called, possessed her own divinity, she coveted the powers of the other Archons. Aiming to steal the Geo Archon’s gnosis, she sent her strongest warriors to Liyue Harbor. But just when Rex Lapis was almost defeated, he escaped to another vessel, that of a powerless baby, and was swept away to a hidden tower for his protection.

Many years after the great fight, the young and ambitious Harbinger, Childe, arrives in Liyue to grant the Tsaritsa’s desire, but, on his search for the Geo Archon’s gnosis, he ends up tangled in a mysterious man’s dreams to see Liyue Harbor’s Lantern Rite.

This chapter can also be found on Ao3 here. Without further ado, please enjoy!

Mingyun Village hardly lived up to its name. Childe doubted that it constituted as a real village even in its peak. It consisted of a few distant buildings, located near the entrances of mines. Given a couple of years, the buildings would cease to exist entirely. They were in ruins, not much more than straw roofs held up by dilapidated wood. A ghost town like this was a perfect haunt for hilichurls, yet there were none to be seen. Stranger still, one of the buildings appeared to be insignificantly less disrepair than the others; in fact, the lights appeared to be on. In front of the building, over what was once probably a village message board, a new sign with obnoxious lettering read "THE CRUX" and in smaller letters below, "Tavern."

Childe's lips curled. This was an even better situation than he had hoped for. "Let's go there. We should be able to get something to eat."

Zhongli nodded slowly.

On cue, Childe swung open the door to the establishment with perhaps too much enthusiasm. The door's hinges jostled, and Childe was met with stares and murmurs.

"A guest?"

"Our first guest?"

"Here?"

"Ahem, hello." Childe cautiously closed the door behind him and Zhongli. "Sorry about the door. How are you fine folks doing?"

"Wait a minute…" A large man with messy hair surrounding his face stepped forward, clutching at the knife on his hip. "I know who you are." Childe only had time to force a grin before the man pointed his knife and called out, "Seize him!"

Where an ordinary person would feel caution, Childe felt excitement. He counted in his head: nine people in the tavern, three of whom probably couldn’t fight. In other words, favorable numbers. He pulled out the dagger on his right to parry the incoming slice. Then, he swung into the man’s left side, but he was blocked. Swipe after jab after swipe, the man left no openings for Childe’s offensive. So the people of this tavern are, in fact, the crew of the legendary Crux Fleet. It was time for Childe to take the fight a little more seriously.

Right as Childe’s blood got pumping, two pairs of arms seized him from the sides. A woman of unassuming stature stepped in front. “Make no mistake: our goal isn’t a fair fight. We’re just going to subdue you until the Captain returns.”

So the captain isn’t even here? Childe’s sigh was cut short by a fist in his chest. The two bandanaed men tighten their grips on his arms before another punch landed under his chin, rattling his brain.

Think. The two men at Childe’s side wouldn’t be so hard to shake off. But once he broke free, another punch flew into his abdomen.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance against Captain Beidou,” the woman scoffed while preparing her next fist.

Another blow to the face. Childe could easily dod—her knee slammed into his stomach. When Childe staggered, the anticipated fist knocked his jaw. She was relentless, and the next kick was sure to be worse than the first one. Childe braced himself.

“ENOUGH!” Someone’s voice boomed as a spear cracked the floor between Childe and his opponent. “Don’t touch him!”

As the tavern crew faltered, Zhongli stepped in front of Childe and plucked his spear from the ground. His straight back towered over Childe as power coursed from his firm legs to his wide shoulders. His stance was as impenetrable as a shield, sturdy as a boulder and sculpted as a statue. Childe’s heart fluttered as his breath finally started again. For a brief moment, he had even forgotten the Crux Fleet and his desire to meet their captain.

But Childe’s rationality returned when Zhongli cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for raising my voice.” He was regular Zhongli again. The other had been but a fleeting manifestation—a dream. “But he has sworn to guide me to Liyue Harbor in order to see the lantern festival. Don’t any of you believe in the sanctity of contracts? Or, if Liyue is so different than what I have read, don’t you all, at the very least, value the pursuit of dreams?”

Both the Crux Fleet and Childe were taken aback by Zhongli’s efforts at peace. Finally, the acting leader of the crew, the one who had ordered Childe’s capture earlier, stepped forward.

Now he will make a mockery of Zhongli’s pacifism and cause such a great trauma that Zhongli will want to immediately return to his tower. Childe squeezed his dagger, preparing to fend off anyone who dared challenge Zhongli.

However, the man sheathed his knife. “I know the importance of following your dreams. In fact, if it weren’t for Captain Beidou, I’d probably still be wasting my life away on the docks.”

Childe’s knife fell to the floor. He painstakingly squatted down to pick it up without creating a stir, all while intently watching the brawny man.

“If the Captain heard that, she’d laugh!” The scrawnier of the bandanaed men taunted.

“Ahem.” Ignoring the comment from his fellow sailor, the man turned back to Zhongli. “Anyway, what’s your name?”

“Zhongli.”

“I’m Juza, Chief Mate of the Alcor. When the Captain isn’t around, I am in charge here. Out of respect for your goals, we’ll let you go.”

“Thank you.” Zhongli bowed politely.

“Really?” The eyepatched woman whined. She looked ready to punch Childe again.

“Yes, really! I wouldn’t want him to become like the old me, wasting my days away. It’s thanks to Captain Beidou that I am living a fulfilling life, and I think she would give Zhongli the same chance.”

“That’s so corny though.”

“I don’t think you have the right to call anything corny, Furong,” another woman with a braid teased.

“Hmph! Finding the right person is important. Besides, we’re both looking for a fight, anyway, aren’t we?”

“A fight?” Zhongli interrupted, bewildered.

“Yes, you see, I am the strongest person on this ship, minus Captain Beidou. Even Juza has never beaten me at arm wrestling! But one day, I’ll meet the right person who can beat me in a match. Ahh… That’s how I’ll know they’re the one for me!”

“I hope you meet them someday soon.”

“I’m in no rush. I do enjoy this freedom. But, if you want, we can go a round? I’m sure you’ll fare much better than your partner there.”

Childe grumbled. He wanted to warn Zhongli against it for many reasons. What if he lost? What if he won?

“I accept.”

“Alright!” Furong led Zhongli to a nearby table where the woman with braided hair and a woman in purple were having drinks.

“Good luck!” The first woman muttered as she stepped out of the way.

Furong put her right elbow on the table and encouraged the clueless Zhongli to the same. “You mean, you’ve never arm-wrestled before?”

“No, but I was curious.”

“Well, it’s simple. Grab my hand. The goal is to bring it down to the table with yours on top.” Furong firmly clasped Zhongli’s hand. “We can do a practice round. Not that the results will be any different though.”

“Ready?” Juza stepped in as referee. “Go!”

Furong immediately slammed Zhongli’s hand to the table. With an unchanged expression, Zhongli remarked, “I understand now. I am ready for the real match.”

“You sure?” Furong gloated, but Zhongli would not be deterred.

“Alright, ready? GO!”

Zhongli’s and Furong’s hands vacillated at the center, but they steadily tipped in Zhongli’s favor. Then, when they were a mere 45 degrees from the table, their position flipped, and Zhongli’s hand hit the table.

“Haha! Winner again!” Furong beamed. “No offense though! You put up a great fight, but it would take exceptional strength to actually beat me."

“Yeah, yeah, enough of your boasting.” The skinny man with a bandana sighed then turned to Zhongli. “At least, you’re not trapped in marriage. Oh yeah, I’m Xu Liushi. You may have heard of me. Probably not though—too young.”

“Have you ever heard of Third-Round Knockout?” The other man with a bandana chimed in.

“No, what is it?” Zhongli asked, slightly taken aback by the name.

“It’s a famous hole-in-the-wall at Liyue Harbor. Xu Liushi here gave it its name.”

“Oh really? What an honor.”

Xu Liushi fidgeted with his bandana, “Oh, it’s not such a great story…”

“Yeah!” The woman with the braid raised her drink. “He’s the one who passed—”

“Sshh!! Let me tell it at least!” Xu Liushi cleared his throat before resuming his proper story. “You’ve never been there, but their speciality is fermented rice balls.”

“It sounds delicious.”

“Well, essentially they are just rice balls swimming in wine. When I was younger, I lost a bet and had three whole bowls…”

“And fell into the harbor! Haha!” Furong cheered, joining the other ladies in a toast.

Xu Liushi averted his gaze. “Yes, that’s basically what happened. No employers want a sailor who can’t control his drinking. Only Captain Beidou gave me a chance. I’ve cleaned up my act since then thanks to her, and one day I will make it back there and show them how much I’ve changed!”

The whole tavern went up in cheers.

"Hey, why does his dream get applause and not mine?" Furong demanded.

"Because his is actually good." The purple lady remarked nonchalantly.

"Pay them no heed." Juza cut in before Furong could retaliate. "Third-Round Knockout has a good reputation—in spite of its nickname—you shouldn't worry about going there."

Zhongli, his eyes glittering, turned back towards Childe, who just shrugged with a small smile. But Zhongli’s attention was quickly snatched back by the other man with a bandana.

“Wanna drink?”

“Yes, please. May I have a glass of water?”

The man filled a large beer mug with water. “I’m Drake, by the way. The ship’s steersman. It’s actually pretty rare that I leave my position on the Alcor, but the Captain let me off this time. Although, frankly, I prefer being at sea.” He poured another mug for himself (this time with beer) and promptly chugged half of it down. “That’s probably true for most of us. I actually wanted to be at the helm of my own ship, going wherever I please. Of course, I trust Captain Beidou’s leadership, but sometimes I still dream of my own vessel…”

“Most of us, though, are pursuing our dreams by following Captain Beidou,” the braided woman interrupted. “I’m Huixing, the helmsman. Nice to meet you!”

“The pleasure’s mine.” Zhongli bowed. “What is your dream?”

“Mine? To see a leviathan with my own eyes! A giant sea monster. I heard Captain Beidou slew Haishan, the legendary creature of the sea, by herself—how cool is that? That’s why I believe that if I stick with Captain Beidou, I will surely get to encounter a behemoth myself. Suling must think the same way.”

A man with a goatee waved from the back of the room and headed over. "I'm just a smith. I don't have any dreams of taking down behemoths. I joined Captain Beidou’s crew in order to see rare weapons. With the Captain’s guidance, finding a legendary weapon won’t be a dream for much longer.” He eyed Zhongli briefly. “Oh yes, have you heard of Hanfeng’s Ironmongers?”

“No, sorry, I have not.”

“Well, my cousin, Master Zhang, is the boss there. If you visit him when you get to Liyue Harbor, he can fix you up with a better polearm than that one. You can tell him I sent you.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous. I must do something in return for all your kindness.”

“Have any mora on you?” The woman in purple chimed in.

“Sorry, I left my wallet at home.”

Childe held his forehead in his hand with a sigh. There was no way this kindness, as Zhongli put it, would be free, which meant one thing: Childe would be paying the expenses.

The woman chuckled. “Well, you’re in luck right now. I’m just the bookkeeper for the Fleet. I can’t set the prices.”

“If she was able to charge you, you wouldn’t have anything left for the rest of your journey,” Juza laughed.

Unlikely, Childe thought to himself.

“I’m all about making money,” The bookkeeper emphasized. “Afterwards, I don’t care what happens to it.”

“That’s a fascinating economic philosophy,” Zhongli remarked without a hint of irony.

“It’s a life philosophy. Life isn’t all about the results—life is the process itself. You should keep that in mind with your dreams too.”

“Don’t mind her; it’s good to focus on your dreams.” A woman in blue nudged the bookkeeper. “Although, I’d say I’ve gotten awfully sidetracked.” She laughed. “Oh, excuse me, my name is Yinxing. I’m the Alcor’s surgeon.”

“What happened to your dream?” Zhongli asked.

“Oh, nothing really. I always wanted to be a veterinarian, but somehow I ended up working as a surgeon on this ship. I don’t regret it, but sometimes I do worry about the kittens I’ve left behind on the harbor.”

“When we get to Liyue Harbor, we can check on them.”

“Oh really? You’re a lifesaver, for the kittens. They should be with a Millelith named Yong’an.”

Zhongli had signed Childe up for three additional activities at Liyue Harbor already, and this last one was particularly risky. Childe would have to chat with him later, although he already considered it a futile effort. Childe was no longer the one in charge of the expedition.

“Hey, hey!” A child appeared from nowhere and tugged on Zhongli’s coat. “Do you wanna join the Cygnus Fleet? We could use someone strong like you!”

“The Cygnus Fleet?”

“It’s my very own fleet—er, will be! I’m gonna create a fleet even stronger than Captain Beidou’s! So you wanna join?”

“Aren’t you a little young to be sailing?”

“No fair! Captain Beidou says the same thing! But I stowed aboard our last voyage and was absolutely fine! Well, Captain Beidou was very mad, but…”

“If you start now, I’m sure you will be an excellent sailor by the time you reach adulthood.”

“Right?! Right?!” The kid shouted gleefully. “So will ya join?”

“Ask me again in a few years, and we’ll see.”

“Don’t forget: it’s Captain Yue and the Cygnus Fleet!”

“I look forward to hearing of all your accomplishments, Little Captain.” Zhongli smiled gently. The small curve of his lips was very unusual for his face but also becoming. Each second needed to be savored.

However, the blissful moment was interrupted by a rough voice. “So, what about you?”

“Who, me?” Childe snapped back into reality to find all the predatory eyes of the fleet upon him.

“Yeah, you.” Juza’s hands slid ever so slowly towards his sheath. “What do you want? Your dream?”

“My dream? Oh.” Childe laughed lightly. “Well, this is embarrassing…”

“Go on.”

“You see, what I’m really looking for…” Even Zhongli was watching Childe intently. “Is love.”

“You?!” Furong clutched her stomach in laughter.

“Hey! I don’t think you have any right to laugh! At least I don’t judge people by their arm-wrestling capabilities.”

“You wanna go a round? I bet you couldn’t beat me!”

“I wouldn’t want to try. I don’t want to accidentally end up your husband.”

Furong reached for her knife.

“Hey.” Huixing held Furong back. “You romantics shouldn’t fight. Shouldn’t you be wingmen?” She snickered. “But, I agree. It’s very odd that someone like you would be looking for a romantic partner.”

“How is it odd? We Snezhnayans have feelings too. In fact, our Tsaritsa is the Goddess of Love.”

“So?” Xu Liushi asked, “What kind of person are you looking for?”

Childe had not thought that far. He was hoping that a vague, universal would tide them over. “Someone who is gentle but tough when they need to be. Of course, although they strive for peace, they would be a warrior through and through.” That was the kind of person Childe would offer his life to.

“Good luck finding someone like that. It almost makes Furong’s marriage contest look reasonable,” gibed Xu Liushi, earning him stares like daggers from both Childe and Furong.

“Aaanyway,” Juza tried once again to reign in the rambunctious crowd. “What about you, Zhongli? You’re going to Liyue Harbor to see the Lantern Rite? You’ve never been before?”

“Yes, every year, I have watched them from my window. They twinkle so distantly like stars, yet they call to me. They beckon me. That is why I wish to see them up close.”

“They are quite a sight to behold,” Suling interjected. “Even when we’re at sea, we also enjoy watching them. Then we know we’re not so far from home.”

“Well, you know the legend about the Lantern Rite, right?” The bookkeeper asked.

“No, I do not. What is it?”

"They say that they started lighting the lanterns for the soldiers in order to show them the way home." The bookkeeper and other members of the crew began weaving many tales of Liyue’s history, none of which interested Childe. There were no lanterns for Childe. There was no snow, no fishing holes… Childe was very far from home.

Childe shook his head. He had left his old life behind when he went to the Abyss. As long as he kept the Tsaritsa in his heart, Snezhnaya was always close.

Childe watched as Zhongli exchanged stories with the Crux Fleet. He couldn’t help but admire the curious glow of his gaze and the grace of his gestures. Childe had thought of Zhongli as a paranoid recluse, yet, at the tavern, he melted in seamlessly with the group—or rather, he had melted the rough crew members into friendly conversationalists. His polite mannerisms exuded a gentle power.

But at the same time, there was another part of Zhongli that set Childe’s heart ablaze. Childe was itching to bear witness to his latent strength again. The same excitement that danced through his nerves before a battle ran rampant with desire: combative and carnal.

#Genshin Impact #Chili #Childe #Zhongli

1 note · View note

merrysithmas · 5 years

Note

you may have talked about this before but do you believe boris already knew he was queer and first approached theo bc he liked him or that he started crushing after they developed a close friendship and theo was what made him question his sexuality? i think theres reasons to believe either side- boris being bold enough to cuddle him in bed seems like he was making a move but him suddenly “loving” kotku seems like an impulsive move out of fear bc he realized he might like a boy. oof idk

I think Boris knew he was attracted to boys — which is evident by his playful, charming, almost teenaged-desperate pursuit of Theo. I think he probably inherently knew this about himself for a long time. I think Boris has always been physically attracted to boys since he’s entered puberty and since he’s still a young teen it is kind of a fun, funny, interesting, enlivening thing for him.

He’s never had a stable life and despite being all over the world he’s led an extremely sheltered existence in a certain way with only one terrible person as his constant (Vladimir). Boris lets it slip to Theo that everywhere the miners go they are hated — this includes Boris. Boris is hated by the public everywhere they go. So long as he is part of their unit, he is hated. That is mortifying to intelligent good-natured Boris. That is why he learns to slip out and around, to be so personable and friendly. His world travels have not been so glorious but probably rather extremely lonely and isolating (as with Judy in Canada), hurtful, and damaging. That is why Bami and Judy (and eventually, Theo) stand out to him so much — people who were kind to him in a childhood of isolated misery and directionlessness. Boris has no moral hang ups about his same-sex attraction - why should he? This directionlessness in his key developmental years is also a good thing: He never grew up around any sort of organized belief systems or stayed bound within an orthodox culture for too long for it to indoctrinate him as its own.

I think people really underestimate how incredibly remote and friendless Boris’ life must have been. Boris is a cheerful boy who Theo says is often plagued by black moods and sullen attitudes. He is an abused and secluded child dragged from location to location with literally no love or stability and constantly brutally beaten to the point where it does not even phase him. Boris actually equates love with that abuse — and nonchalantly claims his father loves him. That is painful to read, that amount of damage.

Living with a bunch of derelict miners whose leader was HIS FATHER (so surely then mostly assholes) and who are “hated everywhere they go” Boris has probably seen any NUMBER of things a conservative-minded person would (likely often erroneously) see as “morally unacceptable” — it’s like Boris is traveling the world with a crew of pirates. He’s probably seen drinking, all kinds of drugs commonly used in front of his face. He has esoteric knowledge about drug use that a child of his age should not — so he was taught by the miners: roll like this, dont include the stems, never mix this, tuck snuff like this, you can get this kind of drug here here and here, it isn’t safe if it doesn’t look like this. His young child’s mind eager to learn sucked up this black information from men who probably didn’t have a second thought to a child or what his developmental needs were. He’s probably first hand witnessed sex workers copulating with his father’s crew (how else would be have learned about the opportunity to lose his virginity in an Alaskan parking lot to a sex worker?), definitely thievery, and said he saw his father murder a man in the mine once and cover it up. Boris’ mind is full of a lifetime of this morally shadowed behavior being presented as normal, or at least secret but common.

I think he understands his attraction to boys in this same way. I think he feels it isn’t “appropriate” to share with Outsiders but it is something that Happens, something that is no one’s business but his own, and something that brings him pleasure and happiness and therefore something he will look for. However he knows it isn’t common or visible or “appropriate” to be showy about it in front of others — especially not people who could judge him (kids at school), kick him out (society), or hurt him (his father). Boris treats his attraction to Theo like his other vices and “bad” habits - barrels head first — but secret: deep dive into happy drug use (but don’t show his dad), steals everything he ever needs (but don’t let them see, put it in my coat), lies when it suits him (lies to Xandra and Larry and his father and Theo too), happily sleeps with Theo and has sex with him (but this is between you-and-me).

He knows other people might have a problem with his actions — but he does not. So that’s his hangup there. He is aware of and ever-vigilant of his surroundings. School: a safe place isolated from his father. He is free and happy to do what he wants at school — including crush on and go after Theo who he clearly likes. He thinks Theo is cute, flirts with him, tries to get him to notice him, talks to him after class, sits next to him on the bus, begs him to come over his house, tries to impress him with far-flung stories, gives him alcohol because it’s what he’s seen his father’s men do in pursuit of romantic partners or as a bonding ritual with one another.

Theo’s house is also a safe place. So safe in fact that Boris starts to leave behind some of the maladjusted development of his childhood and become more of a happy, clear-minded person. Boris and Theo suffer from arrested development and one of themes of the book is childhood lost. They are forced to mimic adults either knowingly or unknowingly, and act in ways that children should not have to in order to survive this Adult World alone. With one another they begin to heal from their traumas, their affection for one another the catalyst. Theo cooks for him, talks to a babbling eager-to-talk Boris (imagine how few people have listened to or understood the ideas of a smart boy like Boris, often surrounded by oafish alcoholics, his violent father where he is expected to keep quiet, or cultures where he does not speak the language), Theo sleeps next to him willingly, he likes Boris, a boy from New York (the top of the world!) he think Boris is funny and smart and worldly, shares his dog with him, hangs on his words, becomes his companion, cares for him if he drinks too much, tried to tend his wounds, welcomes him gratefully into his broken family, watches his favorite movies with him, celebrates holidays with him, inherently values him — and so starts to mend Boris’ broken heart.

A lot of things and viewpoints Boris has are clearly repetitions of things he has heard his father or the miners say — “Christmas is for children” (of course they’d say that to a tiny Boris longing for the magic of Christmas as a child stuck in a mining camp watching the peripheral joy of children around him and coming back to bleak hunger and a dark home), or “god yes I loved having sex with her” (about his hooker in the parking lot — Boris then says he knew she didn’t enjoy it and never shows enjoyment but rather avoidance towards women and girls in any genuine way afterwards, yet covets Theo’s physical company).

Theo on the other hand, who for a short while and then so painfully ripped from him, grew up with love. His natural disposition in Vegas comes from a place of being so recently loved and cherished by his mother and he here, in this lonely place, turns the focus of this disposition onto the one person who is kind and protective towards him: Boris — his one light in a life that has turned very dark. This is like an alien world to Boris. Lonesome and neglected Boris is touched and startled and soon changed by this kindness. So much so that Theo, unknowingly, alters the rest of Boris’ life (Boris feels Theo saved his life).

So that is why I believe the Kotku Gay Panic came about. After their climactic Vegas pool scene where their abuse and trauma is opened to one another (their wounds from their fathers, from fire, literally pouring into the purifying chlorine of the watery womb - mother - pool as they try to drown one another, angry at their attraction to one another, but then cling to and save one another instead) Boris begins to not just have fun and have sex and have freedom with Theo (all okay things by Boris’ standards as long as it is secret) — after that scene and they sleep together and Boris satisfies that teenaged human sexual need... they continue to hookup and be at bliss for a very long, happy time where they both begin to psychologically heal— Boris doesn’t just have sex and fun with Theo, he realizes he starts to love Theo.

Love - an extremely foreign concept to Boris who literally freaks the fuck out because he has no baseline for it. It isn’t the type of “love” that his father gives him (violent, untrustworthy), it isn’t the type of “love” the men who grew up around valued (cheap parking lot sex), it isn’t the kind of “love” his idol Larry has with Xandra (Larry lies to Xandra all the time), it isn’t the kind of “love” Boris has seen in his favorite movies (men and women over and over). No, this love with Theo is very very scary to him. Very perhaps dangerous. He doesn’t know.

I think Boris accepts his physical attraction to men as nbd. I think he probably feels most people feel such attractions or some other harmless private desires that certain people may see as an aberrant from “normal” for whatever reason (either typical kinks and silly hush hush sex shop porno stuff - or other far more despicable things he’s witnessed his father’s men do) and so thinks nothing of his own innocent, consensual goodtime-centered desires. Boris, who likely grew up with little exposure to healthy LGBTQ representation and has a very isolated POV in some ways, likely to some degree at the Vegas point in his life (however casually self-accepting he is) equates same-sex attraction with hush hush taboo sex activities — nothing to be ashamed of, but you’re not going to tell your dad.

As long as it is a personal thing, for him only, Boris embraces it. But it is the emotionality, the healing, the care, the love that freaks Boris out and makes him make a run for it to Kotku — only to recede to what he knows and repeat the exact kind of fake “love” he was taught by his father: unbelievable exclamations of devotion (Boris’ dad sobbing and telling him he loves him + “I love her I love her! She’s beautiful and perfect!”) coupled with the black truth (Boris’ dad beating the shit out of him + Boris beating Kotku).

Boris knows he likes boys but when he starts to love one — that’s when he runs away. Because that means something totally different: societally and personally.

#ask #anon #the goldfinch #boreo

172 notes · View notes

lovergurrl411 · 5 years

Text

Time That Never Was (one-shot)

Steve didn't know what to say as he stood in front of Tony. He'd heard that Tony had married Pepper, heard they'd had a kid--

I lost the kid.

We lost, and you weren't there.

--Steve had followed Tony's life from afar, with a feigned disinterest that Natasha always seemed to see through. But now that he was in front of him, pleas for a better future, a second chance, on his lips...

He was talking about more than the others could understand.

"I've got my second chance right here" Tony said firmly. But Steve heard what he hadn't said-- I don't forgive you.

No trust. Liar.

Steve understood, even though he didn't want to, so he left. He walked away, and it felt too much like Siberia. Too much like being in the cold, shield-less, heart burning with each step.

But time was nothing and seamlessly fleeting and suddenly Tony was in front of him again holding his sheild, being sassy, smirking like no time had passed at all between them.

How was he supposed to say sorry? How was Steve supposed to explain what he didn't really understand?

"Turns out resentment is corosive and I hate it" Tony said flippantly. But there was a glint in his eyes that spoke volumes.

"Me too," Steve said somberly.

They needed this. They'd spent so long bending that they hadn't realized that they weren't broken. Not really. Not ever possible because they were bonded in a way that Steve wished he would have realized sooner was okay.

Tony looked away from the intensity of Steve's gaze for a moment.

Tony took a small breath and refocused his gaze unflinchingly on Steve.

"We got a shot at getting these stones but I gotta tell you my priorities. Bring back what we lost--I hope--yes. Keep what I found? I have to, at all costs." Tony took a second to let the truth of his words sink in. Then he shrugged casually and stepped closer. "And maybe not die trying."

Steve wanted to shake his hand, and maybe in a different timeline, a different universe he would have. He would have let the feelings burning inside of him bury themselves with a tight smile.

But they were bonded.

No trust. Liar.

He needed to redeem himself, needed to--

"I'm sorry, Tony," Steve blurted out without thought.

"We're moving on, Cap," Tony said steely though he looked away. "Let it go."

"How are we supposed to if we don't talk about it? Any of it?"

Tony sighed harshly and took off his glasses in a fit of sudden fury. "Even when I try to bury the past you just can't be reasonable, can you?!"

"I'm not trying to be difficult--"

"You don't know what the word easy or simple means, Steve. So don't bother. We're not doing this."

Steve wanted to do as he said. It was a strange sensation, like being suffocated from within as chains sank into his tendons. He was fighting a destiny that said they needed to leave it all unsaid.

But Steve was nothing if not a man who scoffed at destinies. A man out of everything except a maddening desire to push forward.

"I'm sorry," he repeated vehemently. "I know I failed you--"

"You were supposed to love me," Tony spat harshly.

But now that it was between them, out loud, he couldn't take it back and Steve didn't want him to. He was tired of pretending.

"I know," Steve said quietly. "I just--I really am a man out of time, and that's harder in some ways than others. Being raised in the 30's and 40's, building my identity as a soldier--it made me blind to a lot of things. It was hard for me to understood a lot of things. And you were one of those things. I didn't know what loving you looked like. I'm sorry for that."

Tony leaned against the car, taking in Steve's ugly truth. Steve was bare under his gaze, giving all he had to give in that moment.

"Loving me wasn't science, Steve," Tony shook his head, confused. The hurt he'd clearly tried to bury rose to the surface. "You just needed to be there. Care. Never give up. And the thing that's worse is that you didn't even hesitate. You just left. You left me."

You left me.

You weren't there.

It all meshed together in this ball of regrets that sat in the middle of Steve's stomach.

"You didn't need me to be happy though," Steve looked away towards the clouds in the sky. It was easier than seeing the hurt and past swirling in Tony's eyes. "You got married, had a family. You found someone who loves you. Who loved you before we ever met. You never needed me--Bucky did."

"But I wanted you," Tony said simply. Steve understood the impulse, to selfishly covet. He understood because he'd spent more time than he cared to admit looking at tabloid pictures of Pepper and Tony before they moved out of the city.

"I wanted you," Tony repeated, and it punched a whole through Steve's chest.

I wanted you.

You were supposed to love me.

Tony closed the gap and let his lips brush Steve's. It was soft, but it was like a tidal wave had been broken inside of Steve. Desire crashed into him, and his arms buldged with the restraint it took to keep them from wrapping around Tony.

"Just once," Tony whispered against Steve's lips desperately. "Please."

And just like the last time Steve saw Tony, he heard what he didn't say. Just once, let go.

Please, kiss me back.

It was one moment in a lifetime where stars swirled behind Steve's eyes as he saw a future they could've had all the while he groaned against Tony's lips and wrapped his arms like vices around him.

Holding Tony was a lot like holding hope throughout the last fives years, and the kiss tasted of desire and tears because hope was devastating when it was so futile.

They were two boats caught in a storm in the middle of the ocean with nothing but the eternal feeling of freedom among the crashes of the waves sustaining them, reminding them that not all was lost--but soon. Soon.

And the moment was over. Their lips were branded with the taste of the other, and Steve wished he really could turn back time.

Tony turned to the forgotten shield, and held it out to Steve.

I forgive you.

I did find someone who loves me.

Keep what I found? I have to, at all costs.

I'm sorry, too.

The silence was heavy with promises that they never got to make, but that one kiss was enough to remind Steve why he was fighting.

We'll lose.

We'll do that together, too.

Steve smiled, though his eyes still burned. He took the shield.

And time moved forward, and as he fought with himself and Alternate Captain America was dumbfounded at hearing that bucky was still alive, Steve paused.

Maybe in another universe, another timeline, he could be brave and see.

"Love him," Steve said urgently. He knew he was out of time.

"What? Who? Bucky?"

"Tony," Steve stressed. He looked into the mirror of his own eyes and wondered if this was how Tony had always seen him--wide eyed, a little lost. "It's okay. To love him. To let go sometimes."

"Wha--"

Steve knocked him out, knowing he had to escape. He'd done all he could; he prayed it was enough.

He hoped that at least some where in the galaxy, through time and space, there was a Steve living happily ever after with Tony.

#stony #stony angst #steve and tony #avengers fanfiction #avengers: endgame #one shot #I needed this out of my system #if only this convo was canon #they lived happily ever after #somewhere #stony au #angst with a hopeful ending #stony fandom #stony fanfiction

91 notes · View notes

dreamdaddydutch · 5 years

Text

Desert Blooms

What can I say? This isn’t a happy one... I started this months ago, kept coming back to it and well it’s finally done. This is a Javier-centric piece set post rdr2, there’s a lot of reminiscing and it’s quite angsty, though kinda bittersweet (I mean there’s flowery, poetic language used. Standard). A fair warning - there’s references to suicidal thoughts and an implication to it at the end.

Character: Javier Escuella I Word Count: 3,117 I Category: Angst/Nostalgia I Warnings: Depression & Suicidal thoughts/implications

I want to tell you a story. It’s about love and loyalty, family and betrayal. Most stories you find in the lost pages of old fairy tales and on your screens, they have happy endings, perfect endings. Stories designed to fill a void that nihilism has created, caused by modern living to make you believe in something that died long ago. God is dead.

I want to tell you a story about a man who had everything and lost it, who knew what it was like to be loved before his dying days. It is a cautionary tale of hubris.

He sits and watches the world go by, it isn’t like the old days when he had to worry about his next move, when things were timed and he had a purpose. Now he is free to idly watch as the sun moves across the sky, relentless, heat beating down on the cracked earth, parched and crying out for water.

He shifts his weight a little, uncomfortable from where he has been sat for so long. An hour or four? He isn’t sure, it all feels the same now. The days they blend so easily into one, it reminds him of mirky soup… Being lost out at sea in a fog where you lose all sense of time and direction.

His boots had once been one of his prize possessions, immaculate leather, polished daily, golden tips always gleaming in the sunlight, moonlight, by grace of day or night he always looked the part. Now his boots were beat up, worn leather, the gold had long since lost it’s shine. They were caked in dust after too many nights falling down drunk under the stars.

The only thing Javier cared about anymore was Boaz, Boaz had treated him well for so many years and now he poured all his remaining love into the old horse. Any spare money he had after the essentials and the odd woman or poker game, that went on Boaz. New brushes to brush out his mane and tail, the finest snacks and saddle rug. As long as his old boy was happy he still had some purpose.

As they rode past a cluster of tall Cacti, he watched the flowers bloom with fascination. Yellows, oranges and pinks, bright beacons against a never ending wasteland. The flowers were honest, they knew their place. Javier contemplated how fragile life was, he plucked one of the flowers from a Cactus and held it close to his breast, he sighed, where had all the years gone? He was youthful once, wasn’t he?

Back in the cheap hotel he’s been staying in he looks at his reflection in the mirror, he’s looking old, scars more prominent now. He finds himself missing his longer hair and youthful charm.

Downstairs in the saloon someone is playing the piano and singing softly. Javier closes his eyes for a moment and remembers the past, somewhere across the hills he can hear the gang sing round Horseshoe Overlook.

When he’d first left Mexico and met Dutch he had nothing, Dutch had given him everything and then taken it away again in a matter of 10 years. Javier sipped his whiskey slowly, swirling the liquid round his mouth, taking in every individual note and remembering the late nights sat up with the others drinking. 10 Years and they had been the happiest 10 years of his life, until the end.

Javier joined the others downstairs, sat in a corner watching handsome men and beautiful women in their charm, stumbling and stuttering and twirling in the candle light.

It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. But with that comes knowledge, the knowledge of what life could have been. With it comes pain.

In a mirror he sees the reflection of someone sat behind him, all smiles and laughter as their man recounts tales of their youth.

Oh what Javier would have done, what he would have given had he of known what path the gang were going to take. He was blinded by loyalty he knew that now and his chance of growing old with the others had slipped from under his feet. He had wanted to be free for so long so that when he got it he had desired more, coveted what others had and believed that under the guise of freedom fighters, Dutch would bring them more glory.

Hubris. Yes. How he should have listened to his mother and his older siblings. For a moment he had it all, the gang had it all, they just needed to run away to live free without the endless pull of gold. The unsatisfying unrelenting beat of the word ‘more’. As one delves into sin without remorse, but then why should one? Naked flesh against his own as windows steam up in the winter. He had tasted that sweet fruit that had turned now and twisted his cheeks, made them bitter.

The threads of life were so fragile, like seedlings, they needed attention, care, if forgotten for more than a few days, life would be drained from their small foundations. And like a seedling he had been, so too were the others, all of them without the nourishment they needed to survive.

At first he had been furious with Arthur, John, Sadie and Charles, he found himself hating them and wishing they were dead. But now he felt nothing but sorrow when he thought of them, he missed them dearly. He wanted to say ‘I’m sorry,’ wanted to go back in time to amend what had happened.

He missed Sadie’s wild nature and attitude, John’s care with Jack, fishing with Arthur, telling tales round the campfire with Charles.

Small precious moments that he held dear now and never spoke a word of to anyone.

Only fools rush in, and oh how Javier had done that before he met Dutch. Back in Mexico the woman he loved had been his world and to be so betrayed by her in the end, he would have laid out in the dessert ready for death’s cool embrace if it hadn’t of been for Dutch.

Something in Javier had always made him run, made him keep fighting one more day. And the following day he felt the same, and so there was always the option of sweet release and ending his own life. But every day he promised himself one more day and so like the relentless turning of seasons, so he beat on.

He nursed the drink in front of him and thought of Mary-Beth, in particular one conversation they’d had one night.

He’d just finished playing Cielito Lindo and had walked off for a cigarette away from the group when he heard her voice, light and airy, inquisitive, caring…

“Hey Javier,” Mary Beth was sat on a log writing in her notebook.

He’d looked across at her, acknowledging her greeting without responding with words.

“Wanna sit?” She was kind, too kind he often felt.

“Sure,” he sat next to her and offered her a cigarette which she accepted with thanks, her thin long fingers curled round it. Javier lit hers first and then his own.

It was silent for a moment, not an uncomfortable kind of silence, more the silence that comes when you’ve been friends with someone for such a long time that you can sit in stillness and it doesn’t bother either of you.

They watched small particles of ash rise from the campfire, tiny flames in the air like fireflies. Above them somewhere an owl hooted.

“How you are?” She asked softly.

He tried to force a smile but it didn’t come, he wanted to lie to her to say things were fine, but she was an intelligent woman who would have seen right through it.

He bit down on his lower lip considering his response, “I’m alive.”

Mary-Beth wanted to reach out then, thought on the correct response only there wasn’t one. In the end it turned out that the company of the other was enough to make him feel a little better. Moments, there had been plenty, when words would not suffice, but there was a unity that made them feel close. Just to sit in another’s presence, glance over at them occasionally to know you weren’t alone, so watch the rise and fall of their chest and hear their gentle breaths.

That memory was one of his fondest, it was the closest they had been. His hands either side of him, warmed by the soft earth, a blackbird in the trees that told them they were alive. Gossamer threads, an orb spider just feet away spinning a web on a holly bush. Bright red berries, the smell of damp earth, wild garlic and mint. The horses close enough to hear them. Stream running. A small moth that landed on Javier’s hand just as Mary-Beth had stretched her own fingers out enough that the tips of their fingers met. Contact. Human contact. Love. Devotion. A promise and prophecy in her words.

It was gone now, and he hoped she was well, that she had found a better life for herself, one that she deserved.

Another night sat in the hotel saloon, drinking and Javier sipped the warm beer, barely enough to quench his thirst though nothing now truly satiated it. Nothing sunk as deep or warmed him in the way libations with his family could have. The taste of the barley hitting the back of his throat, took him back to a particular night when Jack was returned safely home.

The alcohol had flowed so freely, and he had danced, something that he rarely ever did. Even Dutch seemed happy and at peace. He could feel the warmth of the fireplace, hear the laughter that permeated the air and Jack, he was always there to make them smile. Like a mascot Jack had been the life of the gang, at its very heart and all of them would have done anything to protect him.

Javier had dreamt of having a child of his own, believed that one day he would settle down and live a simple life. That was not to be, he could not argue with fate.

The adrenaline that came with a shoot out and destroying enemies meant that parties would last long into the night, often until dawn broke. That was the unofficial end of such parties, the sky painted like a fields of forget-me-nots. There was no happiness like it, nothing even came close.

In the years that followed the fall out Javier had tried to recreate the feeling through new friends but none of them came close.

Javier found some solace in believing that maybe it was better he was alone, at least now he was incapable of hurting anyone else, of betraying his brothers or falling for the promises of a narcissist.

He emptied his glass, smiled to the bar maid who winked at him in return. Maybe he could fall for one more night of company. Though the laughter of others was nothing like that of Tilly, Mary-Beth or the other girls.

If he sat still enough in the shabby room that he rented in the hotel on the outskirts of the desert, he would make pretend just like he did when he was a child. He would close his eyes and when focused could believe he could smell the outdoors. Hear a fresh stream running, birdsong, the bustle of the camp, home.

Sometimes that home was with the gang, sometimes it was in Mexico with his parents and siblings. More often than not the two got muddled together, the sound of birdsong, of Pearson whistling, Dutch reading aloud entwined with the sound of a skipping rope scuffing across the dusty earth, his sisters singing… In the end he virtually stopped this practice, the mixture of sounds and images they conjured in his mind became more like a migraine, a picturesque and chaotic raging storm.

He recalled with fondness one fishing trip with Arthur, the two of them had rode out a short while from camp, a rare moment they shared together where Javier experienced what some would call brotherhood. They had talked about the English language and how things were pronounced, the had laughed and Javier had shared some fishing tips with Arthur.

They had sat in a comfortable silence for the most part, a silence that was born of understanding and belonging.

Javier spent a lot of his days playing cards, drinking, riding out with Boaz, but he didn’t touch his guitar not anymore.

Life, Javier believed was sacred. Whilst he had lost those he held dear, he felt he had been blessed to have shared the most beautiful years with those who had made life worth living. To be human was to love, to hurt, to feel joy, to suffer… And Javier have lived at times deliciously. He had borne back against authority and control; he had been free allowed to be a player in a tremendous adventure.

Javier had known love thrice in his life, once as a child. He recalled his mother cooking stew, his sisters making flower crowns which they would try to place on both his head and the head of his brother from behind without them noticing it. Then there was a woman, as golden as the dawn in spring and finally his new found family. Some never get to experience love, but he got to know what it meant, got to feel it in his veins and that made him feel distinctly rich.

Rejection – he had rejected his past life, one that felt so distant like the first-time smoke swirled in his mouth. His family, they had set him free and he had abandoned them. He had consoled himself with the knowledge that this was for the greater good, with a lie that told him ‘I will come back for you.’

And he did. Too late, the years had wiped any trace of his siblings and mother from the earth.

Love was the remedy but also the poison.

Hunting, that had come before fishing, he had hunted often with his father so that when he joined the Van der Linde gang, it was too painful to recall. The rod instead became his comfort.

His hand stretched towards the sun, a hopeful orb in a desperate world.

He had liked fishing with Arthur, it was peaceful and reminded him of more simple times. He could hear Arthur’s humming, contently tapping his boots in time against the bank. The sparkle of the water at midday, the glimmer of water as fish swum underneath and the ripples spread out.

He recalled picking daises with Tilly, it was something to pass the time, an easy distraction from a more difficult situation. Between them they must have picked 70 daises or more. Tilly had made herself a small flower crown from them and woven leaves in between, Javier thought it made her look like a goddess. They’d sat on the grass afterwards drinking wine and reading, back against back for support, for comfort, just to know that they weren’t alone.

He’d liked those days where there was time to read in amongst the heists and the chaos. Dutch had given them life so he believed, only now he realised it had all been a trick. Dutch had conjured such beautiful imagery, but now the veil had been lifted he saw it for what it was, cheap parlour tricks like the kind Trelawny would perform with his cards.

He remembered in Shady Belle sitting on the wooden decking with Jack and trying to reassure him after what happened. He’d allowed the boy to hold his guitar, and started to teach him how to play, simple cords at first, simple melodies for simpler times.

More nights he reflected on the drinking and singing, his love of entertaining the others and the fact that his guitar gave him a role and a place among them. The days were long since gone where he believed in Dutch, his saviour. Even that word, saviour, now made him feel sick to his core. How could he have been so blind to believe such a man? Though he were certain in the earlier days Dutch was true, wanted freedom, equality and was not a bad man, no, but a selfish one who would allow harm to others to ensure he thrived. The hypocrisy of what Dutch became and those he was willing to sacrifice, that was what Javier couldn’t stand.

And the fact that he stood by him? The fact that he, after all he’d been through and who he was, he stood by and said nothing, he shook Micah’s hand and oh… Javier felt the bile rise in the back of his throat, he clutched at his breast, no more, he would beat himself up over this no more.

That was how a cult operated wasn’t it? He stared at his drink. It had seemed so appealing a moment ago, golden and cool, now the nectar had gone sour somehow looked more like unsightly bodily fluids left smeared on walls of unsuspecting victims. Javier was so tired; sleep had never been more inviting.

Now back in the desert, away from humans was where he spent several hours a day. As he stood and went to brush the dust from his clothes, he stopped. It didn’t matter anymore, the clothes on his back were old and torn, no amount of dust was going to make them look worse than they already were.

The leather straps of his sandals were worn, red sand underneath his feet, too hot now.

Javier guided Boaz out to where the wild horses were and set him free, watched with a gleam in his eyes as he witnessed his old friend finally experience the freedom his master had longed for.

He took one step, then another and another. He still had to pay the hotel, he had thought he would only be gone for an hour or two, he hadn’t planned for things to work out the way they did.

But now after 100 steps into the desert, it seemed so irresistible to him. Sand dunes in the distance of a great wide no where. He imagines how the stars would look at night. Determined, loyal now only to himself, he continues to walk until he fades like a mirage. Watch now, look out onto the horizon, can you see him? He’s there if you look hard enough, search hard enough so he isn’t forgotten.

No point turning back now.

#Javier Escuella #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #tw: suicide mention #cw: alcohol #writing #fanfiction #mine #angst #poetic language #post rdr2 #arthur morgan #mary-beth gaskill #Dutch Van Der Linde #tilly jackson #tw: suicide #cw: suicidal thoughts #cw: depression #depression

82 notes · View notes

mysteryofhistorysblog · 4 years

Text

by: Cesar Dela Cruz Karaniwan Jr.

18th of September 2020 Happy and Free! Amen. HalleluYAH! 😍💪🌈😇

Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.

Galatians 5.1

-------

Happy in love, owe, and filled with thanksgiving, is every redeemed to the Holy One of Israel, the Almighty, who sets free indeed! Amen.

HalleluYAH! 💖

What is the yoke of bondage? Oh they are the works of the law which bring away man from the sins of the lusts of the flesh which are forever within man, temporarily, Amen.

Here are the works of the flesh that manifests ("GALATIANS 5.19-21): Adultery, fornication, uncleanness (a spiritual uncleanness of the soul is when you have not been baptized "in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost/Spirit" [in the name of JESUS],) lasciviousness (e.g. "A Christian brother, that spiritually mated with "Shekinah of the Wailing Wall of Fort Antonia," who thrust his pelvis few/several times in a concert, from my point of view by given grace,) idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations (e.g. those that do rivalry accompanied with a desire of depressing another,) wrath, strife, seditions (an unrighteous form of rebellion), heresies (unseasoned preaching of either lies or irrelevance), envyings (that murderous character of Cain), murders, drunkenness (those which lose sanity while in excessive alcohol intake,) revellings (abusive or violent liberty/freedom);

But all these manifested lusts of the flesh may only be defeated and so may be mortified (either perpetually and or conditionally) by the power of the Holy Ghost/Spirit through the written Word of God, Amen.

HalleluYAH! 💖

-------

But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.

Matthew 6.33

Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

Proverbs 3.5-6

-------

Behold, "Matthew 6.33 & Proverbs 3.5-6:"

* After believing and accepting the Lord Jesus in your heart, mind, soul, and strength, you then (of your soul) MUST TRUST HIM WITH ALL HEART! that God's mercy may save you (and so teach you) by his Word, Amen:

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.

1 Corinthians 10.13

-------

Lo, behold, a wonder of amazing faithful grace the Word and the truth, so I quote the holy again:

"but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it." (1 Corinthians 10.13b)

HalleluYAH! 💖

Also, beloved, this is why yours truly 'IS A HAPPY MAN!" HalleluYAH! Amen.

For I am not exempted of those lusts of the flesh which have manifested forever in my reins! Oh! how wretched I was, until the LORD of glory, love, mercy, power, wisdom, and tremendous amazing wonder, provided a "way out for me with the same temptation, bearing it before all! HalleluYAH!

Before my smiling Faithful Saviour in heaven above, before the whole world, and before the while "world of wicked peeping voyeurs," self-righteous-with or without, I have escaped Satan's bruised head and evil trap of lusts temptation, HalleluYAH!

HalleluYAH! 💖 Praise the LORD Almighty King and Saviour, God alone our everlasting Father in heaven, the Prince of Peace, o all ye saints! Amen. 💖

Hey beloved, aren't you glad and happy of our great God and Saviour of Israel our LORD Abba/Father in heaven?

JESUS redeemed us! He God our Saviour perfects us, regardless of our infirmities: Only not let this happiness and freedom/liberty be an occasion of the flesh that any of you commit or do sin, beloved. Amen.

* If you're single, and might burn in sexual lust, then rightfully marry (do not do fornication - sex outside marriage); do not covet other men's wives: do not commit adultery. Amen.

* If you're wanting to be rich or successful on earth, then work hard with prayers and requests to God, and so be comfortable accordingly, if God wills: But never forget to love God more than your love for money, neither do iniquity for mammon's sake: And do not forget your offering (inclusive of the necessity - "the tithes," of a willing heart...) Amen.

* If you desire/want authority, education/excellency, fame, and or power: You profess greater on earth, beloved! Then always remember the laws of Moses, to abide and to uphold the laws of the land in perfection! Remember the poor, the sick, the disable, the fatherless, the widow, and the orphans. Amen.

* If you desire to serve in the body of Christ, the church/ministry, where you belong, beloved, then BE PERFECT! Be blameless! And do no iniquity, neither perversion nor any lie or corruption, for you desire the greatest professing before heaven and the kingdom of God above: ROMANS 14; 1 CORINTHIANS 13 etc., Amen.

Beloved, there is so much more to teach in the Almighty Word, but should have been in person, yet I am fulfilled and content, HalleluYAH! Remember, I am a happy man, Amen.

Hey, beloved not only me okay - but my wife (sister in our dear Christ,) too! For more than 14 years now WE ARE HAPPY TOGETHER, of course in and of the LORD and his liberty! Amen.

By the way, we (together with our daughter,) we are so, so little Philadelphia Church of God/Christ, Amen; we are his Philadelphia/ wild-olives (adopted/grafted Gentile Christian ministry/church)! "Revelation 3.7-12" etc. Amen.

HalleluYAH! 💖

Would you like to be happy right now, beloved? Then say with your heart in awe: "I praise and thank you LORD! HalleluYAH! Amen." And, Amen.

HalleluYAH! 💖

Let all with breath praise the LORD; Yeah, praise ye the LORD! and worship his holy name [JESUS]. Amen.

HalleluYAH! 💖

-------

I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.

Romans 7.25

-------

HalleluYAH! 💖 HalleluYAH! YAHSHUA! 💖

The grace of God our Saviour be with you all, beloved fellow Christian, Jew and or adopted Gentile. Amen.

PSALMS 150; MATTHEW 6.28-34; JOHN 8.36; ROMANS 7.24-25;

GALATIANS 5 etc.

Peace/Shalom 🌈💖💪😇💪💖🌈

Holy Scriptures:

Comments: by : Cesar Dela Cruz Karaniwan Jr.

*******

Happy in love, owe, and thanksgiving to the Holy One of Israel, the Almighty, who sets free indeed! Amen. HalleluYAH! Let all with breath praise the LORD; Yeah, praise ye the LORD! and worship his holy name [JESUS]. Amen. HalleluYAH! Peace/Shalom 🌈💪💖😇

#mysteryofhistoryblog

1 note · View note

moksharpg · 4 years

Text

Hi all! I hope everyone is having a great day! Below the cut you will find my sample application for the role of MANTRA! I’ve mentioned it before, but this application is meant to be super low-stress, low-pressure, which I hope I was able to capture in the sample app below. My sample app is by no means “the only way to do things” and is merely a snippet of me diving in my own character! I hope you all find this helpful and if you have any questions at all, please let me know!

Ｉ．ＴＨＥＰＬＡＹＥＲ

name/age/pronouns/timezone: Rach / 20 / She/Her / PST

approximate level of activity: 8; I intend to be on at least once a day.

triggers: n/a

writing sample: @ziadewans

anything else you’d like me to know?: nope!

ＩＩ．ＴＨＥＣＨＡＲＡＣＴＥＲ

desired skeleton: Mantra

full name: Aesha Khanna

faceclaim: Kelly Gale

age: 25

gender/pronouns: CisFemale; She/Her

occupation: Seamstress

are they a competitor for the throne?: No.

The more I dug into Aesha, the more I realized that she lacks a distinctly competitive spirit, one that may have drawn her to such a competition. Yes, she enjoys success and covets praise, but not in a way that is all-consuming. In many ways, this lack of explicit drive and motivation is what stands between Aesha and true success. Aesha is far more of a follower than a leader and certainly doesn’t seek out power as much as she seeks out her own independence and freedom. She’d much rather be part of a rising movement, than become the actual revolutionary that sets forth change. In many ways, becoming a participant in the competition would merely sidetrack her from her goals and desires, which Aesha has no interest in doing. Additionally, Aesha is so young. I think she lacks a lot of the tact, diplomacy, experience, and discipline it takes to be a strong leader and is still learning how to take care of herself, much less take care of the world around her. For the most part, Aesha likes her life and sees no reason to uproot it for a position she doesn’t even necessarily want. Still, she finds the entire prospect of the competition to be exhilarating and will no doubt be drawn into it as an avid onlooker.

bio/headcanons:

A baby girl is brought into this world; the identity of her father is completely unknown. Her mother remains tight-lipped on the topic and Aesha never presses out of love and respect for the woman who raises her and gives her the world. It’s a cruel fate to only ever know half one’s history, but she relents to the mystery of the past, having faith that when the time is right, the truth will come out.

Aesha lives a bright childhood, doted on by her mother and the other palace courtiers and dancers who are all too thrilled to have a baby girl in their midst. As Aesha grows older she’s often asked if she intends to follow in her mother’s footsteps, which she can only respond to with a hearty laugh, as her feet fail her far more often than her hands. She loves her mother and what she does, but it’s never been the life for her and she’s always known it.

Aesha learns to sew from her mother who had been hand-stitching her own costumes for countless years. In the hopes of alleviating some of her mother’s work, Aesha takes on the job of creating her mother’s costumes in its entirety and grows a passion for the work, forging leftover scraps of fabric into entirely new designs. Her stitchwork gains notoriety within the palace walls and before she knows it, she’s hemming garments for the wealthy and fixing torn fabric for nobility. It’s particularly humble work for the daughter of a temple dancer, but Aesha doesn’t mind, so long as the end result of her work is something of beauty.

Eventually, her workstation begins to sprawl beyond reason and for her twentieth birthday, Aesha’s mother purchases her a stall at Mahi Haat, with enough room for a small workroom in the back. It’s a kind gift that marks the beginning of a new chapter as Aesha’s adult life finally begins to take shape.

One afternoon she’s selling her wares when she catches a glimpse of a foreign man wandering through the market. She sees him and knows exactly who he is, because every time she looks in the mirror, she sees those very eyes in her reflection. They make eye contact and she thinks he knows too, but for one reason or another, she can’t bring herself to speak to him, and he disappears into the crowd of people. Still, there’s a part of herself that keeps a lookout, knowing that if she ever has a chance at seeing him again, she’ll be ready.

Aesha is quite adventurous to the point that she worries her mother greatly. She’s been known to travel to the edges of Parakram to find unique fabrics or deep into the jungles of Lasgarh to find berries to make dyes. In many ways, she lacks a real sense of responsibility and accountability, which allows her to be so spontaneous. While Aesha would like more stability in her life, her actions often contradict and she refuses to fully commit herself to the work and passions that could provide that stability.

para sample:

An easy gust kisses her skin, the breeze catching upon yards of bright fabric that dance in the wind. There’s a bright and lively chatter in the air as Aesha waits in front of the palace gates for the oncoming special announcement. In passing, Aesha’s mother had mentioned catching wind of a rumor regarding the Maharani’s future, but Aesha couldn’t help but sense that something a little more wondrous in the air.

Pargazi was always bustling and crowded, but the prospect of an important royal announcement always seemed to ignite the city with new fire. While she had initially intending on keeping to herself, one of the strangers who stands beside her turns to Aesha, unable to keep her excitement to herself, “Are you from Pargazi?” she asks, making friendly conversation as her impatience visibly mounted, “Or merely here for the announcement?”

“I’m a Pargazi native-- born and raised right here,” Aesha replies, as a tentative, but warm grin forms on her features, “Where are you from?”

“I’m actually just over from Lalitpur,” the younger woman replies, nodding her head in the direction of the coast, “But I convinced my mother to let me come. I simply couldn’t miss the chance to see the Maharani speak in person...I really like your dupatta,” she adds, cementing the broad smile to Aesha’s lips.

“Well, I can promise that you won’t be disappointed. The Maharani is a rather impressive woman, though I can’t begin to imagine what she’ll have to say today,” Aesha muses in response, “And thank you-- I actually designed it myself,” a hint of pride slipping into her words. “If you’re ever at Mahi Haat you should stop by my stall sometime.”

“I certainly will…” the girl nods as the sound of creaking signals the opening of the gates. Aesha’s eyes flash upwards and it’s as though she’s experiencing the palace for the very first time. She’s walked through these very halls and gardens countless times, but the energy of the crowd behind her inspires a whole new perspective-- a bit like looking at an old home through new eyes.

Her newfound companion interlocks their fingers and pulls Aesha forward, a flash of excitement striking through her veins as the pair of girls excitedly lay eyes on their queen. “Are you ready?” the younger girl asks her, giddily.

“Oh, I’m always ready.”

ＩＩＩ．ＯＴＨＥＲＳ＆ＥＸＴＲＡ（ＯＰＴＩＯＮＡＬ）

Pinterest Board

Personality Breakdown:

Myers-Briggs: ISFP -- The Adventurer - They tend to have open minds, approaching life, new experiences, and people with grounded warmth. Their ability to stay in the moment helps them uncover exciting potentials.

Temperament: Sanguine

Enneagram: The Enthusiast

#lsrpg #lsrp #literate rp #skeleton rp #skeleton rpg #sample app

1 note · View note