#and when he leaves this room hes going to uproot himself entirely | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sunlightmurdock · 2 years

Text

Ceasefire | 0.1 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Prologue | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Synopsis: Bradley Bradshaw is in San Diego, summoned to Top Gun for the first time. Commander “Hyde” Simpson is his flight instructor, and she doesn’t have time for schoolboy crushes.

Warnings: ex-husband!beausimpson, divorce, age gap (rooster is somewhere between 26-28, reader is 38), power imbalance between instructor and student aviator, swearing, angst, smut, pinv, oral (f&m)

…

You move out on the fourth week of class. A year ago, you could have never imagined finding four weeks of sleeping under the same roof as your husband to be so difficult. Everyone in the house was walking on eggshells around Beau.

He never lost his temper with you, and especially not around his children, but he made it clear that he wasn’t happy. He spent most of the time in his office.

You were actively looking at properties the entire time, but the urgency came in the third week. You were packing lunches for the kids whilst Beau was standing to your left, making a coffee. One of the rare times he had let himself be alone in a room with you since you told him you were leaving him.

“Where’s your ring?”

You had paused, halfway through cutting the crusts off of Taylor’s sandwich. Your eyes had fallen down to your ring finger. To Beau, it looked exceptionally bare. To you, it looked exactly the way it had for over a week by that point.

“I stopped wearing it.” You answered softly, without turning to look at him. There’s a heavy silence between the two of you. He sets his mug down on the island, leaving his half-made coffee to go cold.

He passes by you without a word, sulking off back to his office.

You know that Taylor is finding it difficult to grasp. She knows what divorce is — she has friends with mommies and daddies that don’t live together anymore. She just doesn’t understand that situations change. In her head — divorced parents were divorced parents and together parents were together parents.

Dylan doesn’t want to talk about it. He told you on the way to school drop off that he was happy if you were happy. That isn’t as true as he would like you to believe, you know him well enough to know that for certain.

Beau barely acknowledges you telling him that you’re moving out — beside the initial custody argument.

You offered fifty-fifty. He’s hurting. He wants full.

You got the keys for your new place on Wednesday. Dropped the kids off at your mother’s house on Friday night — giving you Saturday and Sunday morning before your mom drops the kids home, to make your new house a home.

It’s nowhere near as big as the place you shared with Beau, but it’s nice. Two storey [ ] with a yard, still close enough that they can stay in the same school and see their dad as often as they would like.

You set up your bed on Friday night just so that you don’t have to spend a second in that big, old house with Beau, alone. You just can’t stand the way that he looks at you these days.

You move all of the furnishings in first. You let yourself think that you’re doing a great job bringing everything in from the u-haul and finding a new place for it in the house.

Until it comes to putting the kids’ rooms together.

You growl in frustration, dropping the screwdriver to the hardwood.

Whoever decided to make the instructions for furniture picture only was going to have to fight you one day soon. Words would help. Words would make this entire situation infinitely easier. You’re in your own head about it more than anything. If you splinter a piece of wood on one of these bed frames, your kids will show up in a strange place with no place to sleep.

You’ve already uprooted a huge part of their life. There’s no way in hell you’re letting them turn up here without somewhere to call their own. You check your watch. It’s already 2pm. You still have half a truckload of stuff to unpack, and two bedrooms full of furniture to build.

You should’ve been able to do this. When you had told Beau you were leaving him, it hadn’t once occurred to you that the hardest part of divorce would be conquering flat-pack furniture. You’re strong, and smart and you’ve always been so independent. Flat-pack furniture should not be your downfall.

And yet, here you are.

Surrounded by pieces one through fifteen, and bunches of screws A through H - with no idea how they’re supposed to fit together.

You could call Beau. He’s only twenty minutes away. You know he’s sitting in that big, empty house, all by himself. He’s probably waiting for you to call him. Probably just waiting to know that you can’t do it without him.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

You pick up your glass and take a sip of the mediocre wine your mom had given you as a housewarming present. The liquid swishes around your mouth as you pass it from cheek to cheek. You stare at the unassembled furniture. You make a mental note to buy yourself something a little stronger as a real housewarming present once you’re done with this crap. You’re reminded of playing Lego Star Wars with Dylan. If only assembling things in real life was as easy as it was on that game.

That’s when it clicks. The number in your phone from two Fridays ago. Bradley. Sweet, willing, eager Bradley. ‘Call me for anything’ Bradley. He did say anything.

It’s been easy enough to ignore him so far.

You purse your lips and consider whether it’s an abuse of your power to have one of your students do your dirty work for you. It does seem kind of like you would be taking advantage of the fact that this boy clearly has feelings for you. But - it’s not your fault that men will do anything for a chance to get in your pants. You could do with the help.

You wish you could say that you debated it for longer than a minute. Even more than that, you wish he didn’t pick up as quickly as he did.

“Hello?” He pants. Your brows scrunch. He’s really out of breath.

“Hey, it’s Hyde… are you… in the middle of something?” You ask tenderly. He’s breathing on the other end of the line like he just got done running a marathon. He quickly reassures you that he isn’t busy. “Okay. Um… I need a favour. If I texted you my address, do you think you could help me with something?”

He agrees. So quickly. Quick enough that you regret asking him before the call is even over. You sit back against the wooden floor and stare at the disassembled furniture for a moment. This is a mistake.

You make as much progress as you can before he arrives, so that he doesn’t have to be here for as long. You’re about halfway through building Taylor’s big-girl-bed when the doorbell rings.

You push yourself up and walk to the front door. Regret fills you for not tidying the place before he got here - there are boxes everywhere. You correct yourself. Your intention isn’t to impress him. Maybe this will be the thing to finally put him off. Hopefully after he’s done what you need him to do.

“Hi,” You pull open the front door and look him up and down. He’s standing there in jean shorts, flip flops and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt with a tank top under it. He grins at you and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head.

His cheeks are flushed and a little red. Those stupid puppy dog eyes are looking at you like you’re the best thing they’ve ever seen. Not to mention, he’s quite literally glistening. It’s a hot day. You can tell he’s been out in the sun, his chest is a little too red.

Your smile falters slightly, “You’re… really sweaty.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” Rooster chuckles, wiping his forehead with the back of his palm. “I was playing football down at the beach with a couple of the guys.”

You swallow. Nod your head. Remind yourself to breathe.

“Of course you were.” You mutter under your breath as you step out of his way and motion for him to come inside. Of course he was. You can picture it now. You bet every woman on the beach couldn’t take their eyes off of him. The tank top is thin and exceptionally dry for how warm his cheeks look. Meaning he was most likely playing shirtless.

You don’t want or need to think about that right now. It’s already been a long day.

“Sorry?” Rooster didn’t quite catch what you said. Thank god.

“Nothing, um - this way.” You walk off ahead of him. He happily trails along behind you. He’s never seen you out of your work clothes before. You’re just wearing a simple sundress, nothing special, and your hair is claw clipped up out of the way. His eyes are on the back of your neck as you walk up ahead of him.

He imagines what it would be like to touch. To run his fingertips along the length of your spine. In lieu of that, he trails the same distance with his eyes. They linger on the curve of your ass, the way the material hugs it. The way he could surge forwards and press you into any wall in this house and just push that fabric up out of his way.

Rooster takes a deep breath. He swallows, then turns his focus to the architecture.

“Beautiful home, Commander Simpson.” He remarks politely.

You feel bad for having him come all the way out here, taking him away from his friends in the middle of summer to have him build furniture.

“Thank you, Bradley, that’s very sweet of you.” You stop outside of the kitchen, figuring that the least you could do is supply him with free alcohol for his troubles. “Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, wine, or lemonade.”

“Beer’s fine.” He smiles and leans against the kitchen doorframe as you step into the kitchen to get him his drink. It’s as you’re pulling a can from the fridge that you notice just how big he is. His head isn’t that far from the top of the door frame, that door frame’s at least six and a half feet tall. He’s broad too.

Your eyes are on him for a second too long, the fridge door hanging open as you stare at him.

“Did you want a glass? Ice?” You ask as you set the can on the kitchen island. Rooster shakes his head and steps forward to take it.

“No thanks, this is perfect.” He smiles once more. Isn’t it? Inviting him here was a bad idea. You know that now. Now that the only thing stopping you from tackling him to the ground and putting your mouth on every inch of that tanned, muscled skin is this kitchen island between the two of you.

“So, what did you need my help with?” He taps the top of the can for make sure it won’t fizz too much when he opens it, then pulls back the tab. You watch the way the material of that ugly shirt tightens around his bicep as his arm bends to bring the beer to his mouth. His lips cover the edge of the can. Then his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he takes a sip.

You watch the condensation drip from the bottom of the can onto the reddened skin of his chest, the droplet sliding below the fabric of his tank top.

Badideabadideabadidea. This was a bad idea.

This is going to make a funny story for your friends to hear. You inviting over one of your students, who you know has a crush on you, making him do your dirty work and then checking him out whilst he works. This is a HR nightmare. It might make a funny story someday, but right now, alarm bells are going off in your head.

You close your mouth. Find the neurological function to make yourself nod. Lift your hand and tap the counter to remind yourself to move.

“Right,” You’re back in the room. You’re Commander Simpson. He’s a Lieutenant. That’s all. Rooster doesn’t seem to have noticed your temporary mindlessness, “Um… I was trying to figure out how to build some furniture, and the instructions are all pictures - and I thought back to how you said you were a visual learner, and um…”

He watches you, lips quirking as he waits for you to finish your sentence. This is ridiculous. You should not be getting this hot and bothered over someone who was in high school when you were pregnant for the first time. You collect yourself.

“I was just wondering if you might be able to help me figure it out.” You finalise calmly.

“Sure, I’m great at this kinda thing,” Rooster agrees, “I love building stuff.”

He does. Genuinely. But truthfully, you could’ve asked him to clean the gutters and he would’ve done so with a smile on his face.

You’ll never know how hard it was for him to try to control his expression as he left the beach twenty minutes earlier. The urge to grin as big as possible was truly difficult to combat.

“Okay, great. I’ll show you what we’re working with.” You step out from behind the kitchen island and nod for him to follow you. He trails behind, looking around at the place as you lead him. It’s nice. Much nicer than his apartment near the beach with Jake and Javy. That’s kind of a man cave. He imagines you wouldn’t like it too much.

His presence behind you is heavy as you lead him upstairs. He hopes you’re headed to the master bedroom. His eyes are still on your ass as you walk up ahead of him. Bradley’s brain is working in overdrive right now, trying to figure out how to make a move without freaking you out. Without overstepping.

You stop at the end of the hall. Point to Taylor’s room on the left, then Dylan’s room on the right.

“You have two kids?” He knows this. He saw the picture on your desk. They’re cute kids. You hope that this puts him off.

“Uh-huh. Taylor’s five, Dylan’s eleven.” You tell him. His face doesn’t change, his expression remains calm and positive. You fight back a scowl.

“Wow. I can’t believe you have an eleven year old.” He tells you.

You stare at him, expressionless. Maybe for a second too long. You stop once he shifts uncomfortably and scrunches his brows slightly, worried that he has said the wrong thing.

“I just mean, because-“

“Rooster.” You interrupt, raising your palm to stop him. He shuts up. You shake your head slightly. “I didn’t ask you to come over so that you could flirt with me. I’m flattered, but this is not going to happen. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” He agrees. The look in his eye lets you know that he doesn’t actually agree. He passes his beer into his other hand, “But I can’t promise not to tell you how pretty you look, Mrs. Simpson.”

“Commander.” You know he knows that. He’s testing you to see how committed you are to the identity of being a married woman. “And easy on the Simpson. I’m still debating getting rid of it.” - and you just played right into his hands.

Bradley smiles with his back to you as he steps into Taylor’s room and looks around, then composes himself before he looks at you over his shoulder. “What’s your maiden name?”

You pause, leaning against the doorframe. You debate not telling him. It would set a principle, but would but ultimately pointless. He could just check in work on Monday. Your maiden name is clear as day in your Top Gun class portrait. So, you lean your head against the doorframe and you tell him.

He nods. Then, he says your full name. Your first name and your maiden name together.

“I like it. Doesn’t sound as scary as Commander Simpson.” He decides. He crouches down and grabs the sheet of instructions from the floor, mulling over the pictures. You watch him. Beer in one hand, instructions in the other. Sunglasses on his head. Gold cross necklace dangling between his collarbones. Your gaze lingers there.

You wouldn’t have pegged him as a man of faith.

“Maybe I’ll stick with Commander Simpson, then.” You answer. He looks up at you through his lashes and smiles.

He shrugs his broad shoulders slightly. “Hyde works too.”

You chuckle. Then nod towards the pieces of wood on the floor. Time to get this conversation back on track. “The beds are the most important thing, because they’ll be here tomorrow and obviously they’re going to need somewhere to sleep.”

“Sure, makes sense.” Rooster agrees. He shrugs the Hawaiian shirt off of his shoulders and drops it to the floor. The way his eyes meet yours as the fabric falls to the ground tells you that that was an extremely tactical move. Your lip quirks. He might as well be flexing for how much he’s trying to impress you right now. “Got it.”

You nod your head, pushing yourself off of the doorframe as he settles down to sit on the floor of your daughter’s new room. He grabs the base of the bed and pulls it up to rest on his knees, then examines the bags of screws. Right to it. He makes quick work of figuring out which pieces are which and which screws he needs.

You watch for a moment. It’s clear from this glimpse of him at work that you’ve been neglecting your more personal needs these last few weeks. That’s all that this is. That’s the only rational explanation for this. You haven’t slept with Beau in two months now, and you’ve been so busy, and you just haven’t felt like taking care of yourself. Clearly, after Bradley leaves, you need to spend some time alone to tend to those needs. That’ll clear your head.

Once you have made this decision, you bring yourself to stop staring at the way the muscles in his arms move as he begins to put the bed together.

“Should I stay and help?” You ask. Is it wrong to treat him like a handyman? - Probably. But you really can’t stay and watch much more of this. It’s regressive, honestly, what seeing a man at work does to you.

“No, this won’t take me long. If you’ve got other stuff you need to be doing, I’ve got this handled.” Rooster looks up at you, big brown eyes and all, and answers you with a smile. You nod your head.

“Alright. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” You tell him. You turn and head downstairs.

Without the added pressure of wanting to physically assault furniture, you actually manage to make a good amount of progress. You empty the remainder of the truck, even if that means filling your garage with boxes for later. They’re all things that can wait. After that, you finish getting the living room unpacked and decluttered. It actually looks worthy of being seen by the time you’re done.

About an hour after you originally left him, you decide to check on Rooster. You grab him another cold beer from the fridge and pad barefoot through the house. A dangerous game when there are loose screws around. As you walk up the stairs, your brows furrow. The hallway is suspiciously tidy. There aren’t screws on the floor anymore.

Only, Bradley isn’t where you left him. Your lips part in surprise as you step into Taylor’s room. Not only is her bed built, but so is everything else. The wardrobe, the dresser, her colouring desk. Her curtains are even up. Granted, this is all flatpack furniture. It’s probably pretty easy to put together if you know what you’re doing. You understand that he did this just to impress you. Well, you’re impressed.

You press a hand over your mouth. You can’t help but compare him to Beau. This would’ve taken Beau weeks to get around to. When Taylor was born, her nursery wasn’t finished until a week after her first birthday, and that was after you finished it with your dad on Labour Day weekend. Beau was just always too busy.

“Rooster?” You call out, wanting to thank him. Maybe wanting to kiss him a little bit too. You shake your head.

“In here.” He calls back. You turn and cross the hallway into Dylan’s room. Dylan’s bed is built and Bradley’s working on his desk now. Your jaw hangs open.

Your eyes fall immediately to the folded Hawaiian shirt on the floor, and the tank top that has joined it, messily discarded on top of it. Your eyes land on him. He’s on his knees, not looking at you, attaching a metal leg to the top part of the desk. The gold cross on the chain hangs loosely over his collarbones as he works. He’s leaning forwards slightly, brows furrowed as he focuses.

He knows you’re standing there. He knows what he’s doing.

You’re grateful he’s so focused, because it means he doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on his bare chest. It isn’t your fault. The way the muscles in his arms contract each time he turns the screwdriver would have anyone staring, you’re sure of it.

Finally, he lifts his head and looks up at you through his lashes. He looks at the beer in your hand, then back at your face, “Is that for me?”

“Yeah.” You realise, letting out a breath as you extend the drink towards him. He sets the screwdriver down and stands to take it. You watch as he brings himself to his feet, standing in just jean shorts, his boxers peeking out just slightly from the waistband.

Your eyes trail up, towards the soft line of hair on his stomach, to the small patch on his chest, stopping to admire each ab on the way up. Rooster watches the way you look him over. He bites his cheek to keep from grinning. Or worse, talking and ruining this moment.

“I just wanted to say how much I appreciate you helping me today, you’re — you’re a lifesaver, really.” You breathe, folding your arms over your chest as you lean against the doorframe to your son’s room.

Rooster shrugs his shoulders like he isn’t thrilled with the praise he’s receiving, “Happy to help. Plus, like I said — I love this stuff. It’s kinda therapeutic. Some people do puzzles, I build flat-pack furniture.”

You laugh softly and this time he does grin at you, pleased with himself for making you smile. There’s a beat of silence between the two of you. He doesn’t want to speak again, he’s worried he won’t be able to stop and he’ll scare you off with word vomit.

“I’m almost finished with this room, if it’s alright?” He nods back down to the half constructed desk. You nod your head quickly and take a step back.

“Sure, of course.” You breathe out. “Um… well, I’ve got a few things left to unpack in my room. So, I’ll - I’ll be right across the hall. Okay?”

Well, now he knows where your room is. And you just invited him to head over once he’s done in here. He nods his head, chewing on his cheek for a moment, “Sure thing.”

“Okay.” You turn and walk towards your room and shake your head. This is ridiculous. You’ve never been floored by a set of abs before. You roll your eyes at your own behaviour as you push the door half shut behind you.

Rooster finishes Dylan’s room. Desk, dresser, hangs the curtains. Then, he walks the length of the hallway and nudges your door open, knocking as he opens it. You were expecting him to take longer. You’re sitting on the floor, flicking through a photo album that you came across.

“Finished already?” You ask, looking up at him in the door way. You notice that he has failed to put his shirt back on. You look him over, then look back down at the photo album and turn the page away from your wedding pictures. Rooster crosses the room without waiting for permission, and crouches beside you. He mhm’s and tilts his head to look at the pictures.

You turn your head and scrunch your brows, fighting back a smile at his sudden confidence.

“Is this your daughter?” Rooster asks as he points towards the toddler on the bottom left. You smile softly.

“My son.” You correct. Dylan was a mama’s boy growing up. Mama had longer hair, Dylan wanted longer hair. Beau had taken him for a haircut before his first day of Kindergarten. Dylan had loved his big-boy hair but you had cried for hours. He looked too grown up, too much like his dad.

“Look at those freckles.” Rooster smiles. Your eyes are on him. He chuckles softly as his attention turns to a picture of Dylan with Spider-Man face paint. Realising that you aren’t looking at the album anymore, Rooster turns his head to look at you. He’s kneeling right next to where you’re sitting. He’s far, far too close.

You look back to the album and flip the page. Rooster gasps.

“Wow, look at you!” He leans in closer, his bare shoulder brushing against yours. You look down at the vacation picture he’s staring at. It’s you with Dylan from nine years ago. You’re in Florida in this picture. You’re at the beach. You’re in a bikini, your hip is popped out and you’re laughing towards the camera.

Dylan’s almost two in the picture. You’re both down by the waves, walking back up towards the dry sand, each of you with one hand on the handle of his bucket filled with water. You remember that day so clearly. The water was to fill the moat around the sandcastle you and Beau had spent hours building, with extremely minor assistance from your toddler son.

That had been such a fun day.

“He looks just like you.” Rooster smiles. You aren’t sure yet if Rooster knows who your husband is. You’ve never hidden your relationship with Beau, but in the interest of preserving your work-life balance, you don’t exactly publicise it either. Everyone always says Dylan looks just like his dad. All he got from you was his smile.

“Can - May I?” He remembers that day in your office as his hand reaches past you for the edge of the page. You watch his hand pass by you. This can’t go on. You grab his wrist, wrapping your fingers around tanned skin.

“Rooster, I know what you’re doing.”

He looks at you, caught. Then, he smiles, a mischievous glint in his eye, “What am I doing?”

You could tackle him. Space. You need space. You push yourself to your feet, taking a few steps back to put some distance between the two of you, “You come over here all sweaty and… ugh, and then you take your shirt off and you’re so helpful and polite — and you just need to get it through your head that this is not going to happen!”

He watches you. Bradley tries not to smile. He nods seriously, like he understands. He’s not even on the same chapter, much less the same page.

“Okay? Ever!” You reiterate.

“Ever?” Rooster’s lips quirk. He tries to stop himself from smiling, but fails. The twinkle in his eye makes you want to scream.

“Ever!” You bite back. “It can’t. I’m your instructor, we have a professional relationship and it’ll never be anything more. That’s that.”

He nods. Everything about what he says next tells you that he understands what you have said. The gentle okay, the competent nodding. But it’s the look in his eye that tells you he thinks he still has a chance.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?” He laughs, shrugging his stupid, strong, broad shoulders at you. He pushes himself up from the ground, still grinning at you.

“You know like what!”

“I just think you wouldn’t regret giving me a chance.”

“Every guy your age thinks they’re good in bed. They’re not.” You squint your eyes at him. Maybe you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. Nonetheless, he listens. Which makes it even worse. Beau would ignore you until you calmed down. Not Bradley. He wants to hear this. “Why would I put my entire reputation, everything I’ve worked for through my career, on the line for a five minute fuck with a kid who probably hasn’t made a woman cum in his entire life?”

“I’ve made women cum.” Bradley answers defensively. He holds himself back from telling you how many times. Because he knows exactly how many times.

“Every guy thinks they have.” You’re still dubious. This is still not happening.

“I have!” He insists. “Y’know, I’d be happy to show you-“

He takes a step forward, you take three steps back and point a finger at him accusingly. He raises his palms in surrender.

“Damn it, Bradley — what is the matter with you? - Why can’t you just go point those puppy-dog eyes at someone your own age?”

His lip quirks. That might not have been a compliment, but he appreciates the fact that you think he has cute eyes anyway. He licks his bottom lip, tilting his head. His eyes fall down to look you over before he finally shrugs and explains himself.

“I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re funny, you’re smart — actually, I can’t stop thinking about you.” He admits. He isn’t sheepish about it at all. He looks you in the eye as he says it. “And I think that I’m pretty good in bed. But… if I’m not, then maybe you could teach me a few things.”

This time he takes another step toward you and you stay where you are. He takes another step. Then another. A few more. Until he’s standing in front of you. He reaches out tenderly and touches your waist, stroking the curve above your hip with his thumb.

“You know I’m a fast learner.” He whispers.

You look up at him. Those soft, longing, puppy-dog eyes are staring down at you. Waiting for your answer. You do know that he’s a fast learner. He’s an excellent student. He doesn’t feel the need to say anything else. That’s good, because if he had, you might’ve combusted.

There’s silence between you as you look over his features. Bradley knows that this is make or break. He leans forwards, closes his eyes.

“Ah- stop.” He jolts and pulls back, blinking at you, afraid he’s done something wrong. Your first instinct is to shove him. The rational side of your brain wins this argument and you don’t push him, but you still need him — and his fucking perfect torso — away from you. “Sit down.”

Bradley hesitates. His brow furrowed slightly, lips parting like he might have something to say. You point at the edge of your bed sternly. Ultimately, the teacher’s pet in him takes control. He stumbles back and sits on the edge of your bed with his hands in his lap. He smiles at you.

It takes real willpower to not comment on how soft your sheets are. He wonders where you got them from. His aren’t anywhere near this nice.

You relish in the distance, like it finally gives you room to breathe. Your lungs fill and deflate a few times over, grateful for the sense of calm each breath brings you.

He’s just looking at you. Strong and tanned, a grown man, sitting on your bed and waiting for you to tell him he isn’t in trouble.

“Talk me through it.”

“What?” Bradley seems confused. There’s still such eagerness behind those eyes. He wants to do what you ask of him, he just doesn’t know what you want from him. This isn’t entirely his fault. You know you’ve been giving him somewhat mixed signals.

So, you’re as clear as you can be.

“Tell me what you’d do to me,” You watch his eyes glint with excitement. He smiles slightly. “If I let you. I’ll decide if I think it’s worth it.”

You watch him shift. He leans back on his palms, parting his knees a little as he takes a moment to unashamedly look you over. It feels good to do so. He’s tired of having to steal glances at you during class. Truthfully, last week he had a kink in his neck for two days because of how long he had spent with his head tilted, watching the way you looked bending over your desk to grab something.

“I’m not the best with words.” He admits sheepishly. You watch a gorgeous terracotta spread onto his cheeks, warming his chest.

You maintain your cool composure. You know that you’re the one with all of the power here. He’ll never know you’re bluffing. You fold your arms over your chest. “How about you try, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rooster breathes out, clearly excited by the fact that you just pulled rank on him. Your lip twitches at this knowledge. “I-I would… alright, fuck, um… Well, I haven’t stopped thinking about tasting you since I first saw you.” He shifts but doesn’t stand, he swallows nervously. You bite your cheek, not wanting to give away your feelings about what he just said yet.

“So first,” He leans back on his palm, breathes steadily and continues, “I’d kiss you. Show you how good I am at that.” He grins, amused and half-embarrassed. He bites his lip and fiddles with the ring on his finger. “I-I’d…”

You watch.

It’s clear that his mind is in overdrive. It’s not that he doesn’t know what he wants to do to you, it’s that he doesn’t know what he wants to do first. You swallow at the realisation.

Bradley’s staring at you and trying to ignore his cock stirring in his shorts as he thinks of you naked. Under him. On top of him. In front of him. He shifts slightly. He doesn’t know whether to start thinking about something less sexy, or to keep talking.

He doesn’t have time to decide.

You rush forwards, pressing a knee into the mattress, swinging your other around his hip, grabbing the back of his neck as your ass rests against his thighs.

You grab the back of his neck, pulling him forwards until your mouth is on his. He’s been waiting for this, and he doesn’t waste a second in making sure you know you’ve made the right decision. His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him.

It’s desperate and fast as his other hand slides up into your hair, controlling the way your mouth moves against him.

Beau hated facial hair. He found it untidy and unprofessional. You loved the feeling of scruff on your cheeks and your thighs but it was a rare occasion that you experienced that with Beau. With Bradley, that stupid 80s moustache is everything you’ve been missing.

His hands skim down your sides, gliding over the curve of your ass and pulling you forward. He grinds his hips forwards against you and squeezes at your backside, groaning gently against your lips.

You relax in his arms, lips parting just enough for him to slip his tongue into your mouth, caressing it against yours.

Your fingertips skim over his muscles shoulders, down onto his back. His lips move against yours as your hands explore his torso. You rake your nails along his shoulder blades. Revel in the feeling of him holding you, kissing you.

Bradley stands and turns, placing one knee onto the mattress, holding you tighter against him as he lowers you down onto it. He settles between your legs, rolling his hips forward against your core. Your dress bunches up around your waist as he grinds against you.

“You always smell so good.” He murmurs affectionately against your mouth before lowering his head to kiss softly at your throat. He slides his hand up along the length of your neck, taking your jaw between his index finger and thumb, keeping you where he needs you. Your head lulls back willingly against the sheets, exposing your neck to him.

He works soft kisses along the length of your throat, his fingertips skimming along the soft skin of your thighs, his hips grinding forwards. It hits you like a tonne of bricks when he pulls back to look at you. Those pretty, brown eyes.

The gold cross dangles forwards off of his collarbones, grazing your lips. You open your mouth and stick your tongue out, letting the metal fall against your tongue. Bradley watches, his arms planted on either side of his head, a soft smile toying at his lips.

“Fuck,” He breathes out. His hands push up along your thighs, squeezing every inch or so until he’s at your hips. His eyes flicker downwards and linger between your legs. He swallows, “You’re so sexy.”

You lift your chin, tilting your head slightly as your eyes fall down to admire the way he looks kneeling between your legs.

His fingers reach the edge of your dress. He runs the fabric between his fingertips and looks back up at you. Asking silently for permission. You give a soft nod and lift yourself so that he can get rid of it. Bradley’s hands move knowledgeably, firm on your sides as he guides the fabric up, up, until it’s not covering you anymore.

He drops the dress down onto the floor and sits back on his knees.

You stretch your arms out above your head, extending them across the mattress behind you. His eyes glint excitedly. “Is this what you had in mind?” You breathe out.

Bradley grins as his fingertips curl around your hips. He tugs you closer to him, grabbing and squeezing at the soft skin of your thighs. He shakes his head, “So much better than I could’ve imagined.”

He moves, leaning down and pressing his lips to your collarbone. His mouth moves slowly, firmly. His tongue grazes your skin as he pulls away. Your instinct is to close your eyes, to give in to the warm feeling his mouth sends through you — but you have to see this. You can’t take your eyes off of him. Each kiss ends with his tongue grazing your skin and a soft sigh slipping your lips.

His lips work along your bare torso, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses in his path. He pauses when he reaches your breasts, squeezing them in his hands.

Bradley groans, grazing his teeth along your right breast and he kneads the left in his hand. His hips grind forwards against the mattress, searching for friction, as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You exhale softly, sliding your fingers up into his sandy curls, keeping his mouth on you.

“Mmm.” Bradley’s heart soars as the sound leaves your mouth. He’s been daydreaming for four weeks about what you would sound like, and it’s so much better than he could have ever hoped to hear it in real life. He’s spurred on, even more desperate to please you now, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud, pinching the other between his index and thumb. He pulls away, grazing his teeth lightly over the skin - just enough to make you shiver.

Then his trail of filthy kisses continues. His nose grazes your sternum as his mouth works towards your navel. His hands are strong and capable, holding you in place by your ribs. You remind yourself that he’s one of the best fighter pilots in the world - behind you, of course he knows what to do with his hands. You’ve been underestimating him.

Perhaps on purpose to deny yourself the same luxury of daydreaming. It’s almost dismaying to know that you’ll be aching for this feeling again once it’s gone. Part of you was hoping that this would confirm to you that he’s just a boy posing as a man - a kid with no idea how to please a woman. His eyes are on you as he sticks out his tongue and trails it in a line across your stomach. From your ribs, over your bellybutton, ending with a desperate and open mouthed kiss to your bikini line.

You think that he’s going to go all the way. His hands slide down to your hips, fingertips curling into the edges of your panties on either side. He groans softly, closing his eyes. Then, his mouth works more kisses, dirty and possessive, against your hips, lips nudging at the hem of your panties. But you don’t feel like you’re kept waiting. If he told you that this was the main event, you think you would be okay with that.

It’s odd. You can feel his eagerness in his movements, his desperation to please in the way his tongue moves against your skin. It’s been a long time since someone has burned for you in the way that Bradley so clearly does.

“There’s so many things I want to do to you.” Bradley mutters against your skin.

“So, impress me.” You tell him. Your confidence is false. You just need him to think you’ve still got your sense about you, when truthfully, if you had any - you wouldn’t be in bed with one of your pilots.

Bradley lifts his head. His chin grazes the edge of your panties as he does. He smiles up at you. “Yes, ma’am.”

You chuckle softly. Rooster’s fingers pull gently at your underwear, he guides it down just an inch or so. His mouth is on your hips, leaving kisses against each one, pulling slowly at the fabric, moving his mouth with it. His eyes are on you, smooth honey and shining amber. His mouth works alone your pubic bone, soft kisses, gentle flicks of the tongue.

Then his mouth is on your clit as soon as it’s exposed to him. It isn’t rushed. It’s just what he needs, what he’s been waiting for. He groans against you, working his tongue in soft circles around the throbbing bundle of nerves. His eyes are still on you. Your eyes are closed. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing as he admires the way your tits rise and fall with each deep breath you take.

His hands trail from your hips, up and along your sides. His hands roam your skin. Move up and back down again. He revels in the feeling of you under his fingertips, on the tip of his tongue.

“S-Shit.” The realisation is all-consuming. You don’t mean to say anything until the word is already out there. This is not the last time you’re going to let this man into your bed, is it?

Rooster hums contentedly at your praise, his hands slide back down to your thighs to squeeze at the muscle. He pulls back just long enough to get your underwear the rest of the way down your legs, guiding your right leg over his shoulder as he settles back down into his previous position. His hand grabs at the back of your left thigh, he lifts it up and out of his way.

You aren’t struggling against him, but you can feel his grip on you. He’s stronger than you gave him credit for.

He’s gentle between your legs, pressing his mouth firmly against your core and working his tongue against you. His free hand slides between your legs, he dips the tip of his index finger into you, then slides it in up to the knuckle and curls. You moan softly, grabbing ahold of those beautiful umber curls, ensuring that he doesn’t get ahead of himself and lose pace with his mouth.

“That’s it.” You whisper. Rooster looks up at you. “Just like that, that’s good.”

Told you so. It’s written across his face. Luckily for you, you can’t see that. He slips his ring finger into you alongside his middle whilst his tongue works confidently along your core and back up to your clit. He lets go of your thigh and rests his forearm across your stomach, keeping you nice and still for him.

He scissors his fingers inside of you, making you gasp softly. You tug at his roots, he moans against your clit. You both shiver. Rooster’s tongue flattens as he drags it along your core. He pulls his fingers out and puts them immediately to work, taking over the pace on your clit. He buries his face between your legs, curling his tongue into you.

“O-Oh.” You can’t pretend you aren’t surprised. It’s like every single sound that slips your lips spurs him on more. Your grip in his hair tightens with the knot in your stomach. You press your heel hard into the mattress, shifting your hips against his mouth. He presses down hard on your middle, keeping your firmly in place.

You moan, head lulling back against your sheets.

“I’m almost there.” You breathe out. You can’t remember the last time you came from oral alone. Rooster groans softly, his mouth and fingers switch place again. He can’t resist looking up at you, the wound up look on your face makes his shorts grow impossibly tighter. His fingers fuck into you, curling and twisting. Youre gasping, willing yourself not to cry out his name - you figure that’ll probably send the wrong message.

This whole thing is sending the wrong message.

Fuck it. You moan his name softly, his grip on your hip tightening in response. It’s toe-curling. You’re busy trying to catch your breath during your comedown when you remind yourself to loosen your grip in his hair. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit, grinning as he peppers kisses across your thighs.

He unbuttons his shorts, kicking them off and moving back up to kiss you on the mouth. You grab hurriedly at the back of his neck. He grinds himself against your core, his straining cock grazing your soaked folds. Rooster slips his tongue into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him. He guides one of your thighs up around his waist, then pauses to palm over his cock, trying to ease his discomfort.

“Where do you keep your condoms?” You’re half grateful that he’s smart enough to wear one. His question snaps you back to reality. Your eyes widen. He winces internally for breaking you from the moment. He feels you grow more tense against him. He strokes delicately against your waist to ease your tension.

“I don’t have condoms, I wasn’t - I don’t do this.” You motion between the two of you and sigh. Rooster holds up one finger. He stands and grabs his shorts, dipping his hand into the back pocket. You feel like this is a sign. Maybe not from god, you don’t know whether you believe in this kind of divine intervention. Maybe from your Grandmother. Some kind of horrible punishment for letting yourself fall for this.

Doubt fills you. You absolutely should not be doing this. Beau received the divorce papers yesterday, and here you are - in bed with someone else. Not only someone else, but someone in your class.

He pulls a condom from his wallet and stands upright to push his boxers down. Your mouth goes dry as he steps out of them and tears the foil. He isn’t looking at you, focused on the latex instead. You’re glad.

Every ounce of doubt that you had just left your body. When Rooster lifts his eyes again, you have moved. You’re pushing yourself towards the edge of the bed. His hand drags from the base of his cock to the tip again and back down as he watches you near him. He watches, taking his lip between his teeth as you look up at him and lean forwards.

Five weeks of daydreaming of this moment hasn’t been enough to prepare him for the sight of his cock on your tongue. He swallows, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of your hair to keep it out of your face. Your lips wrap around him, the taste of latex on your tongue as you work your mouth around his length. Your fingertips follow the line of soft, almost blonde hair from his pelvis, up onto his stomach and onto his pecs.

You’re glad he had a condom, because there’s no way you’re backing out when you’re already in this deep - and it would have been truly shameless to let him fuck you raw. You are glad. But, you can’t help but find that it was either an extremely presumptuous choice, or a signal that he is no stranger to casual hookups. Either answer displeases you.

To signal this to him, you use your nails as your hand trails back down the same path it had moved up. Rooster watches faint red lines form in the wake of your fingernails, trailing the length of his entire chest. His cock twitches on your tongue. Interesting.

“Fuck, I have to be inside of you.” He breathes out, tugging at your roots. Your eyes widen slightly at the action, you pull back and wipe the corner of your mouth. He wastes no time in grabbing your hips, lifting and dropping you more into the centre of the mattress. His lifting technique is poor, he’s going to give himself a bad back by his mid-30s.

You open your mouth to tell him this, then close it again. It’s not the time.

“Ah.” You press your foot against his thigh and he stops immediately. He’s getting a little too cocky for your liking. “Say please.”

Rooster’s brows scrunch for a fraction of a second. Your eyes bore into each other’s. His lip quirks slightly.

“Please.” He says gently.

You smirk, lifting your foot and instead resting it against his shoulder, parting your legs for him. He lets out a heavy breath, almost a groan of relief, then moves forward. He kisses your knee as he shifts closer, planting his palm beside your head, his other hand guiding his cock between your legs. His eyes are on yours as he presses the tip of his cock into you and then pulls back. You narrow your eyes at him. His lip twitches as he sinks into you, just a few inches at first.

He squeezes at your hip, rocking his hips gently back and forth to let you adjust to his size. You moan softly as his cock grazes a nerve inside of you, letting out a contented sigh.

“Fuck.” Rooster curses. His fingertips whiten against your hipbone as his pelvis presses flush against yours. His stomach presses to yours, your leg over his shoulder letting him fill you as deeply as possible. He leans his head forwards and presses his lips to yours, licking into your mouth. “Fuck.”

You arch your back, pushing your chest up against his as he fills you up. There’s a silent exchange between the two of you. Rooster takes the hint, picking up the pace, rocking his hips to fill you harder and faster.

He’s relentless, dragging against your walls as he bottoms out again and again. It’s impressive, really. You’re doing your best not to look like a completely fucked out mess under him. He’s mesmerised, his lip between his teeth as he watches your face. Even now, you’re so cool, staring up at him.

Your lips are parted and you’re moaning for him, he knows he’s making you feel good, but this is different than when he sleeps with girls his own age. You’ve still got an air of control about you. He likes it. He sits back on his knees, grabbing your hips with both hands so that he has more power to fuck you harder.

“A-Ah… oh, fuck.” You moan out, grabbing hard at his thigh for leverage.

Rooster groans, sliding his hands along your sides, cupping your breasts in his hands.

Beau wasn’t much of a moaner. You’ve been missing out. The sound of Rooster’s hoarse, deep, desperate groans would’ve been a fine form of foreplay because they’re bringing you closer and closer to coming for him just as much as his cock is. His thumb swipes across your nipple, pinching the bud gently. You swallow hard, pushing your hips against his to meet his thrusts.

He fills you over and over. You’re doing your best not to compare him to Beau. He’s doing a good job of keeping your mind off of your husband. Ex-husband. You’re going to have to get used to that.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Rooster murmurs, squeezing your tits in his hands, punctuating his declaration with a sharp thrust. You gasp, arching your back away from the mattress. “So fucking sexy.”

Your eyes close for a few seconds, focusing on the intensity of the orgasm building in the pit of your stomach. Rooster moves his hand between your legs, he pushes down gently on your pelvis, circling your clit with his thumb. His thrusts remain at the same pace - relentless - fucking you until you can barely keep your eyes open.

His name spills off of your tongue so naturally, over and over. You’re amazed - later you’ll be embarrassed - at how easy it was for your brain to accept that this is happening, and with him of all people.

Rooster watches as you near your climax. His lip between his teeth. That gold chain bouncing on his collarbones. His curls sticking to his forehead just slightly. The sun-soaked redness on his chest and shoulders has deepened now that his body temperature has risen. He’s gorgeous.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. God, you’re fucking incredible.” He pants. His thrusts become more desperate. Hard and fast, but not rushed. Bradley’s thumb continues at the same steady pace, working your clit until you’re gasping for air. He watches, mesmerised. Your chest heaves, tits rising and falling with each breath. Your eyes are screwed shut, lips parted, moaning. You’re pressing your nails into his thigh.

He has to close his eyes. He pants hard, trying to ground himself.

Your walls clench around him, squeezing his cock. He whimpers, leaning forwards and pressing his chest firmly to yours. You grab the back of his neck to keep him against you, shivering from the unfaltering stimulation. Rooster slips an arm under your back, pulling you tight against his body. He manages a few more hard thrusts before he’s faltering, moaning against the crook of your neck as he fills the condom.

Bradley rolls off to lay at your side, breathing hard.

“Christ.” He mutters, letting out a contented sigh. He reaches out and grabs your arm, tugging hard. You hit his chest, brows furrowing as your cheek smushes up against his pec. He wraps both arms around you and rests his head on top of yours.

“Oh, um…” You’re trying to pretend you aren’t trembling. You haven’t had an orgasm like that in a while. “I don’t… I-I’m not a huge cuddler.”

Rooster lifts his head as you wriggle out of his arms. His brows furrow slightly. You can tell he’s disappointed by that revelation. You stare at him. “Huh. I love cuddling.” He explains.

You nod, pushing yourself up until you’re sitting. You look across at the person laying in your bed. He’s stretching his arms up above his head, eyes squeezed shut. He relaxes again with a sigh and turns his head to look at you.

He smiles sweetly. Like he didn’t just rail you.

You smooth down your hair a little and then move to stand up. This was a mistake.

Rooster catches his breath first. He doesn’t seem to notice your inner turmoil. He takes the condom off carefully and ties it, “Do you have a trash can?”

“There’s one in the bathroom.”

When he returns, you’re back in your dress, scraping your hair back into a makeshift ponytail. He leans against the doorframe to your bathroom, clearly not ashamed that he’s severely underdressed.

“Look, Bradley,” You reach up and scratch at the back of your neck nervously. He’s naked in front of you, watching you shift awkwardly on your feet. There’s no easy way to say this, and you’re a little out of practice. “This… was fun. But-“

He nods his head, moving his hand to cover his modesty.

“Sure. Got it. Our secret.” He agrees, nodding his head.

You nod, ready to agree with him, then pause. Your mouth opens and closes again. Then, you sigh. “Well, yes. But - also, this can’t happen again. You know that, right?”

He fights back the urge to smile. He nods his head seriously.

“Oh. Sure, that’s okay.” He has a feeling you’ll warm up to the idea, especially as you get to know him better. He swallows, then looks down pointedly. You realise his boxers are on the floor beside your foot.

You crouch and pick them up, handing them to him quickly. You watch as he steps into them and adjusts himself, then grabs his shorts to do the same. He fixes his hair, running his fingers through it and shaking to spring it back into its usual style.

“Alright. Um… I’ll see you on Monday.” Rooster decides. “I know the way out, I’ll just grab my, uh, my shirt and stuff first.”

It’s awkward already. You nod nervously. You hope that this tension doesn’t carry over into the classroom - or worse, into the air. You’re scolding yourself right up to the point that you hear the front door close behind him. What the fuck was that?

You stand alone in your room and press a hand over your mouth. Holy shit. Monday is not going to be easy.

…

Tag List:

@cherrycola27

@mak-32

@khaylin27

@stoncms

@shanimallina87

@cool-ultra-nerd

@angelmavmurdock

@gingerbreadandpaper

@mizzzpink

@whisperofsong

@throwinsauce

@perpetuelledaydreaming

@n3ssm0nique

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut

644 notes · View notes

mistiell · 1 year

Text

Strange Love Pt. 3

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem! Healer! Reader

Summary: Two months after your arrival at the little palace, you’re finally putting your escape plan into action. Unfortunately, a certain General seems to catch you in the act.

Warnings: Mentions of violence (Reader talks about her mother)

Word Count: 2.5k

Part 2 < current > Part 4

Two months after your life had been entirely uprooted, you’re creeping through the halls of the little palace under the cover of night. You’ve got the place thoroughly memorised by now, having taken late night exhibitions nearly every night since you arrived. It’s done a number on your sleep schedule. You’ve found yourself staying later and later to help the General with his work. As of recently, you find you don’t usually return to your room any earlier than ten bells in the evening. Not to mention the hours spent roaming the halls and making mental notes as you go.

You’re halfway through rounding a corner when you spot a guard standing at his post. After nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste to backpedal, you press yourself up against the wall. The guards. That was the one thing you had failed to take into account.

You angle your head to look just around the corner, finding that the man hasn’t moved. He’s leaned against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, head lolling backwards before snapping back to attention, only to repeat the process a few seconds later. You wonder if you can keep him between sleep and wakefulness long enough to slip past unnoticed.

Pressing your palms together and focusing on him, you slow his heart rate and even out his breathing in slight increments. You concentrate a little harder on his eyes, making his lids feel a little heavier. The goal is to make it feel like it’s happening naturally. It seems to work, because in a few short seconds, his eyes close and stay that way for a short window, allowing you to slip past swiftly and silently.

You do this with the next few guards you stumble across. It takes a little extra time seeing as you have to be very careful not to alert them of your presence, but it pays off when you make it to the dome room successfully.

You’re halfway through crossing the room and patting yourself on the back when a familiar voice has you freezing midstep.

“Y/n?” You whip around to face the General, trying your very best not to look guilty.

“Moi soverenyi.” Clearing your throat, you straighten before bowing deeply. He regards you with amusement as he crosses the distance between you, the corners of his mouth curled up into a small smile.

“Escaping, are we?”

“Oh— No!” Your voice bounces off the walls and you clear your throat again, cheeks flaring with embarrassment, “I mean, no. I’m not.”

“Relax, I was only joking.” He chuckles and you find yourself smiling sheepishly, “If you’re not escaping, what are you doing out so late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

He hums, and it feels as if he’s staring into your soul. In a way, he is. Or trying to, at least. In the months he’s known you, he’s learned very little about you. He’s made attempts at conversation during the time you’ve spent in his office helping him with his work, but you always respond with vague answers that leave very little room for questions.

“You could,” There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. As much as you hate to admit it, he’s devilishly handsome, “But I asked first.”

He’s got you there. You sigh through your nose and glance towards the entrance of the palace. You were so close. You turn your attention back to him, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I. I was about to take a walk along the lake.” He seems to think for a moment, “Would you like to join me?”

Your brows raise in shock and he has to stop himself from laughing, “Oh, um… sure.”

He smiles and gestures to the doors, “Shall we?”

You nod, following him out to the courtyard. There’s a thin veil of snow dusting the ground and the now bare trees, winter just barely beginning to replace Autumn.

As you traverse down the path towards the lake, it gets increasingly dark. The lights only go so far. As you grow further from the last lamppost and descend into the darkness, you find your pace slows.

The general slows to a stop when he notices you’ve fallen behind, his cloak swishing around the left side of his legs before falling back into place when he turns to look at you, “Is something wrong?”

You swallow, forcing yourself to look away from the darkness in favour of looking at him, “It’s nothing.”

He notes the tense set of your shoulders and the way you keep glancing behind him, putting the pieces together rather quickly, “You’re afraid of the dark.”

Your cheeks burn hot in embarrassment, both because of your fear, and the fact that he read you so easily. Still, you scoff at him, “I am not.”

“I thought you weren’t one to lie?” He smirks and you find it gives him this boyish sort of charm that has an infuriating swarm of butterflies fluttering about your stomach. You huff and cross your arms, and if you didn’t seem ready to gouge his eyes out with the nearest blunt object, he would have said you look cute when you’re frustrated.

“I’m not.” You insist, holding his gaze.

“Then shall we continue?” You shoot one last glance into the dark before nodding curtly, marching purposefully ahead of him to prove your point. You hear him chuckle at you as he falls back into step beside you and huff.

“You’re quite headstrong, aren’t you.” When you turn to glare at him halfheartedly, any lingering annoyance slowly slips away when you find he’s already smiling at you.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” The corners of your mouth curl up into a puckish grin, “I like to think it’s one of my best qualities.”

“Amongst many, I’m sure.” Heat flushes your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Is he flirting with you? Or is he being sarcastic? You laugh nervously and continue walking.

When you reach the lake, you both stop, standing side by side to admire the way the moonlight reflects off the surface of the water. It’s much darker here, but you find that it’s not as frightening with him next to you. It’s colder by the water, you realise.You forwent wearing your kefta as a precaution, leaving you dressed in a cream coloured shirt and a pair of brown pants with suspenders to match. Before you have the chance to warm yourself, the General wordlessly shucks his cloak from his shoulders and wraps it around yours.

“Oh, you don’t have to—.”

“Hush. I want to.” Something about the way he says it has your heart skipping a beat. It practically engulfs you, still warm with his body heat. The fur around the collar tickles your nose when you pull it a little more snug around your body, and you find it smells like the crisp air mixed with the scent of a forest after a downpour. There’s something else mixed in there, something sweet and a little tangy. Something that’s uniquely him.

“Thanks.” Is your quiet reply. He smiles at you in response.

You stand there in silence next to each other for a moment, taking in the scenery and enjoying the fresh air.

“There’s a lake a few miles from my house that’s a lot like this,” You aren't entirely sure what‘s compelling you to speak. Perhaps it's homesickness or sleep deprivation, maybe a little bit of both. Either way, he hangs onto your every word, “Not nearly as big, of course, and there were rocks along the shore that hurt to step on before it turned into sand the deeper you went. My mother used to take me there every weekend during the summer.”

Your smile is bittersweet and nostalgic as you stare out over the water. Moonlight bathes your features in an almost ghostly light and he finds himself wanting to freeze this moment, to capture it in a bottle to preserve your beauty. He finds himself wanting to know you, mind, body and soul. To know your deepest desires and fears, to know everything that’s made you into the person who stands before him now.

“You asked about my mother once, and why I was alone when Zoya and the others came to find me.”

He regards you thoughtfully and nods, “I did.”

A frown replaces the smile that once hung on your lips, “She was killed by drüskelle. She left for the village one morning and when she hadn’t returned by nightfall I was worried. I went looking for her. Part of me regrets it now. I’ll never be able to forget,” A growing lump in your throat cuts you off and you swallow hard, trying to will away the tears that prick the corners of your eyes, “Forget the arrows that stuck out of her back. There were six of them. Six.” You shake your head and wipe at your eyes quickly, “One thing I’ve never understood is why. Why do they hunt us for our abilities as if we had any choice in the matter?”

He feels a flicker of anger spark in his chest for you. He knows the question is rhetorical, but he wishes he had an answer nonetheless. Something to offer you that could quell your frustration and your sorrow. He knows how you feel all too well. When he was young, he used to wonder the same thing. He turns his attention back to the lake and thinks carefully about how to respond.

“I’ve seen too many Grisha hunted and killed in my lifetime. Families torn apart by the loss of parents and children. Lovers stolen at the hands of people who fear what they do not understand.” There’s a simmering anger in his tone that matches what you feel right now. A byproduct of lingering grief and despair. He turns to you, gaze softening, “You shouldn’t blame yourself. There’s nothing you could have done.”

You scoff and the bitter look on your face almost startles him, “There’s plenty I could have done. I could have gone with her. I could have protected her—.”

“You could have died alongside her.” His tone is gentle but firm, “You were a child. It wasn’t your responsibility to look after her.”

Looking back at the lake, tears flow down your cheeks and your breaths shake as you try to keep them under control. There’s a pull at his chest, an urge to take you into his arms and hold you until your tears have run dry. You glance back to him after a moment and he watches a flicker of embarrassment flood your features before you’re sniffling and wiping your tears away harshly. When you speak, your tone is formal and he can practically see you building your walls back up again, “My apologies, moi soverenyi.”

“Aleksander.” When your brows furrow in confusion and your lips part with an unspoken question, he tentatively takes your hand, watching you carefully and adding softly, “Call me Aleksander.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs as you gaze up at him, skin tingling where his hand grasps yours. A mix of emotions swirl in your gut, confusion amongst the second cluster of butterflies to flutter about your stomach this evening. There’s a part of you that wonders whether this is really happening or not. Whether he might actually feel the way you think he does.

The confused and cautious look in your eyes paired with the fact that your hand has remained limp in his has him moving to pull back. Until you finally snap out of it and grip it tight without thinking, accidentally tugging him a little further into your space. Your face flushes in embarrassment but you commit to it, gazing up at him earnestly, “Thank you, Aleksander.”

The sound of his name on your lips has his own heart racing, and for a moment he feels like a boy again, pining over you but too afraid to tell you just yet. It’s a foreign feeling now, being nervous about pursuing someone he fancies. But you’re different. Flirting with no strings attached is one thing.

Falling for someone when you’re guaranteed to outlive them is another.

“Of course.” He smiles, and you find yourself missing his touch when his hand slips from yours.

A yawn creeps up your throat and you blink your eyes a few times in an attempt to wake yourself up. It seems the sleep deprivation is catching up to you.

“Perhaps we should call it a night.” He suggests, watching you fondly while your eyes are squeezed shut when you yawn again.

The walk back to the palace is a quiet one, the only sound breaking the silence between you being the occasional gust of wind. When you finally step back inside, you revel in the warmth, slipping his cloak from your shoulders and handing it back to him.

“May I walk you to your room?” He asks and you smile.

“I’d like that.” You admit sheepishly and he smiles, following you in the direction of the dormitories, “You know, when I first met you, I never thought you’d be so… gentlemanly.”

He laughs genuinely at that, his nose scrunching and his eyes being forced closed with his smile. For a moment, you swear your heart has fluttered up and lodged itself in your throat, “Gentlemanly?”

“Yes, gentlemanly.” You giggle, catching the amused sparkle in his eyes as he smiles at you.

“When did the bar drop so low? When I was young, offering to walk a lady back to her home was just proper manners.”

“I’d like to think it still is, I just thought…” you trail off. What did you think? You’d heard stories as a child, of the Black General. The Darkling. He was ruthless, powerful, maybe even malicious in some accounts.

You’d heard stories of the Darkling, but never of Aleksander.

“You thought what?” He asks carefully.

“Well, I’ve heard things.”

“And these things… Do they scare you?” You look up at him and find something guarded in his expression. There’s an underlying meaning in the question. Something that lies in the subtext of his words.

Do I scare you?

“No.” You’re a little surprised to find it’s the truth. Despite how much you disliked him when you first arrived here, he’s grown on you. Somehow, deep down, there’s something that tells you you’ll never have anything to fear as long as he’s around.

Before he has a chance to reply, you arrive at the door to your room.

“Thank you again. For…well, everything.” You huff a small laugh, turning to face him as he nods. You notice that the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks are flushed a lovely shade of pink. You wonder briefly if it’s because of you or a lingering effect of the cold.

His rapid heartbeat would suggest the former.

“Of course.” He smiles softly, “If you ever find yourself unable to sleep again, my door is always open.”

“The same goes for you.” You smile, “Goodnight, Aleksander.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

You enter your room and shut the door behind you.

A/N: I haven’t started writing part 4 yet but I’m hoping to get it out soon! I hope you enjoyed!

Also, if you’d like to be added to the taglist just let me know in the replies :)

<————>

Strange Love Taglist:

@watersquirtpewpewboomm @sorrow-and-bliss

#aleksander morozova imagine #aleksander morozova fanfiction #aleksander morozova x you #aleksander kirigan x reader #aleksander x reader #aleksander morovoza #aleksander kirigan #aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling fluff #the darkling fanfic #the darkling imagine #the darkling x y/n #the darkling x you #the darkling x reader #the darkling

337 notes · View notes

roohuh · 1 year

Text

One Week

Part 23 of year Seven in Obliviate

Ominis X MC

Summary: You spend a trapped week in the Gaunt Manors courtyard

Warnings: Professor Gaunt forces himself on you

An entire week has passed with you trapped in the Gaunt’s courtyard. Every single day just as the sun begins to set Professor Gaunt brings you an ornate bouquet of flowers and asks you to join him. Every day you turn him down.

“Ominis will come for me!” You spit at your captors advances. On the first day you were so sure at any moment Ominis would burst through the gates and whisk you away, however as the week progressed and Ominis still had not come you started to worry that something had happened to him. Such an arrogant fool you had been to leave him and try to face this alone, especially after just promising to never leave his side. Now you pay the price for your pride. Each day feel longer than any you have ever lived before; you have nothing to do and no one to speak to besides a small mouse you had found wondering the garden. Winning his affections with bits of your plane meals that a neglected old house elf delivers you start to grow very attached to your little friend. During the long lonely nights he curls up with you falling asleep in your bosom as you tell him about your life. Often your conversation drifts to Ominis. You tell the mouse about how much you care for Ominis, how much you miss him, but most of all how worried you are about him. During the day the little mouse follows you around the garden sniffing the air. Occasionally the mouse walks straight into something and you wonder if he has problems with his eyes. You had tried to befriend the house but quickly realized conversations are out of the question as the elf had no tongue. You have mostly restored the garden back to the way you imagine it had looked before its owners decided it was not worth tending to. Without your wand you feel utterly useless trying your best to perform small magical tasks, but only with great effort can you do the most mundane of spells. As the sun starts its nightly crusaid into darkness your captor appears from inside the house carrying his usual bouquet of flowers. Pretending not to notice his approach you continue to pull weeds from a dried up fountain.

“Stop acting like a muggle.” The man says in disgust. “All you need to do is take my hand and I will release you from this cage and return your wand to you.” Uprooting more weeds you continue to ignore his presence.

“My patience is wearing thin little beauty.” Gaunt Hisses dangerously. More silence.

“Look at me when I am speaking to you!” He bellows, pulling you to his side with a flourish of his wand. Pinching your chin painfully he forces you to meet his gaze.

“I could take you so easily. You are utterly defenseless.” Your eyes narrow at the threat.

“Do what you will, but I am Ominis’ I will never belong to you.” Crashing his lips against your own, while holding you as you try to struggle away he bites painfully at your bottom lip drawing little droplets of blood. Kicking at him wildly you free yourself retreating a safe distance; spitting the blood in your mouth at the man’s feet. Advancing he backs you into a wall growling low,

“I will make you mine.”

-One week ago-

As Ominis wakes up on the Undercroft floor he smiles calling out.

“Good morning MC.” From where he slept Sebastian yawns and looks around.

“She isn’t here.” Brows creasing together Ominis sits up.

“That’s odd, I wonder where she went.” Stretching stiff limbs Sebastian replies,

“Probably woke up hungry and went to breakfast.” Ominis and Sebastian decide to go search for their missing companion in the Great Hall. Upon finding her usual seat empty Ominis begins to worry as Sebastian sits to eat.

“She is always disappearing, don't worry she will be back.” The freckled boy tries to comfort his friend as he loads his plate full of breakfast. Ominis shakes his head,

“I am going to go check the common room. Maybe she went to wash up.” Finding the common room empt Ominis can not shake his feeling of unease. He searches the castle pulling a grumpy Sebastian away from his breakfast while enlisting the help of Poppy, Natty, and Imeldia. Their search proving fruitless Sebastian turns hesitantly to Ominis.

“You don’t think she…” the pale boy sighs shakily.

“I fear that is the only option we are left with.” In an instant Ominis is gone.

“He left me the bloody idiot!” Sebastian curses at the ground where Ominis once stood.

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #fanfic #ominis x mc #ominis x reader #harry potter hogwarts game #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis x you #ominis fluff

72 notes · View notes

yanara126-writing · 2 months

Text

Navigating

Anon Harlock, newly minted von Valancius, was assuredly running out of patience. She needed a Navigator and since the keeper had, admittedly unsurprisingly, revealed himself to be a traitorous idiot and the old man had decided to spontaneously die, that left her with the brat. Who just wouldn't stop crying.

Read here or on Ao3 (1214 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

After a few minutes of very grating waiting, the girl had just lost her home and despite some rumours she was not entirely without a heart, the Lord Captain had enough. She crossed her arms and glared down at the younger woman.

"Enough tears, you're coming with me now."

Despite her impatience and rough tone she truly hadn't meant it as a threat, it was a simple fact that they couldn't stay. Unfortunately it seemed that even the blood and guts splattered all over the walls and floor were not enough to spur the inexperienced heir of house Orsellio into wanting to leave her defiled home. The lighting flickered ominously as the mutant girl's head snapped up to stare at the stranger who had seemingly uprooted her life. Without meaning to, Anon's hand twitched to her rifle's handle. Wide, tear stained eyes staring up at her were hardly a new experience for the hardened pirate, but they were significantly more unsettling when they were a shimmering blood red without a pupil and coming from beneath a third eye that could rip her to shreds simply by opening.

"And if I refuse? What... What are you going to do to me?" Coming from another, Anon might have taken it for an invitation to start flirting, but despite robbing quite a few ships and occasionally planets in her time, she was not in the habit of robbing cradles. There were better ways to tie important children to her person. Particularly when they had been isolated from any and all reality like the young woman before her had clearly been. The three Fs had yet to fail her. Firm, frank, and funny.

"I shall give you the honour of a prolonged session of admiring my wonderful visage to this sour backdrop. We'll both be stuck here considering my lack of a Navigator and your lack of a..." She threw a pointed look around the gore decorated room, before raising her eyebrow at the young woman before her. "Well, anything."

The navigator girl hesitated, staring up at her in confusion. Well, at least she stopped crying. Small victories. Unfortunately the victory remained small and the only person who could get the Lord Captain's fancy new ship out of the dump of a system remained on her knees, fingers buried in viscera. Hopefully she'd wash her hands before touching the stirring stick. Did Navigators use those? Maybe she should have checked in more with the old geezer in her old crew...

Ah but of course all that still necessitated that the little princess got on her feet and came along. Preferably willingly, handing a desperate captive the controls to the entire ship during the extremely sensitive moments of warp jumps did not for a safe travelling experience make. Anon von Valancius, Rogue Trader of the Koronus Expanse and Lord Captain of the Reginatrix Universi sighed with annoyance, her dark blonde hair falling over her left eyes as she briefly lowered her head.

"Oh alright fine. Abelard, where's my booklet?" The ever diligent senechal stepped up beside her, making sure not to step on any corpse bits in process.

"I have it here, Lord Captain."

As he handed over a small but impressively thick little booklet, he glanced at the young Lady Cassia, kneeling on the ground and splattered with her guardians' blood, with a sympathetic frown. Huh, a thing to note. She already knew that Abelard Werserian, despite his claims to the contrary, was not first and foremost a navy officer, but a family man. A sentiment that was seemingly not limited to merely his own offspring. With a short blink Anon filed that piece of exploitable information away in her brain for later use. First, the navigator girl had to be convinced. If she wanted to play the spoiled little princess, Anon would just have to play along for a little while. At least marginally.

With fleet fingers she quickly rifled through her booklet. The smell of ink and fresh paper mingled in the air with the stench of rapidly cooling blood.

"Let's see, where is it... Ah yes." With some theatrics the Lord Captain cleared her throat, straightened her and back and audibly knocked the heels of her boots together. "Lady Cassia, I, Anon von Valancius, Rogue Trader of the Imperium of Mankind, offer you my protection and grant you shelter aboard my vessel." The speech ended with a dramatic bow, certainly much too deep for a Rogue Trader towards a crew member, however noble they may be. Still bent down, she looked at the girl in front of her, now at her actual eye level, and raised an eyebrow. "Happy now?"

The emotions rolling over the young woman's face were certainly entertaining, ranging from appreciation over outrage to girlish glee. In the end she settled on plain confusion. "Why... Do you have that?"

Anon straightened again, grinned, smoothed out her leather coat and waved the little booklet around. "This? It's useful to keep track of all the little details of etiquette, ceremony and all that. I am still somewhat new to the job and practicality has taken precedent over decorum for now." She resisted the urge to turn away and give her treasure another loving lookover. The first thing she'd done after Theodora's untimely and extremely convenient demise had been to dig through all documents on her new writing desk. In the process of vetting everything for interesting information she'd found the little booklet abandoned in a corner of the office together with other material Theodora had apparently not found worthy of her attention. It was of smooth, pearl white paper, with the distinct smell of cotton grown in the peculiar soil of Kolarrax Six, a world deep in the Winterscale protectorate, and bound in wonderfully soft, red grox leather. A beauty and a joy to write in. Using a datapad for her notes would have been an unforgivable waste.

"I see... " The young Navigator's eyes unfocused for a moment, as if she was looking somewhere beyond this reality. For a second Anon thought she might start crying again at the sight of the corpses strewn everywhere behind them, but instead something like resolve finally seemed to wash over the bone white, unsettling features. The young woman rose to her feet in a disturbingly fluid manner, as if reality itself had shifted rather than her body. With squared shoulders and lifted chin, hands crossed behind her, she finally gave an answer.

"I, Lady Cassia of house Orsellio, accept your most gracious offer." The following bow was elegant and deep, just as was appropriate for a Navigator to a Rogue Trader. The Lord Captain grinned.

"Good job, girl." She gave the still bowed young woman a light pat on the head and turned around, confidently striding towards the shuttle bay. Her retinue quickly fell in step behind her. Including, after just a moment of hesitation, her first stepping stone to not Theodora's empire, but her very own.

#warhammer 40k rogue trader #fanfiction #writing #anon von valancius #cassia orsellio #rogue trader #Act 1 #first meetings #anon sucks a lot more than she comes across in this honestly #but i'm only just getting into writing again #gotta practice #and write about the absolutely horrendous catastrophy that is the relationship between Anon and Marzipan

10 notes · View notes

threeletterslife · 1 year

Text

28 | Legends of Darlaria

⨰ summary: You wake up in yet another unfamiliar place. This time, however, these strangers seem to recognize you. With your previous judgments and aspirations thrown out the window, you're now forced to face where your loyalties really lie. Who will you betray? And which General will you choose to stand by his side?

⨰ pairing/rating: yoongi x reader & jungkook x reader | PG-15

⨰ genre: 70% angst, 30% fluff | war!au & magic!au

⨰ warnings: profanity

⨰ wordcount: 5.0k

⨰ join the taglist! (pm/send in an ask/reply/reblog)

⨰ previous | series m.list | next

⧖⧗Circa Opal⧗⧖

It is still dark when you wake up from your sleep. When you look to the side, you realize you’d missed an interesting-looking contraption with a pendulum yesterday in your fallow state. Instinctively, you figure it’s some sort of Darlaean time-telling device. You feel quite guilty that you aren’t able to read it. For Sooht’s sake do you already miss the regular chimes of the water clock back home.

Home.

That’s what Solaria had been for you for the past three years. Yesterday still doesn’t feel real. You’ve been uprooted so violently from the haven that had kept you safe for so long, and now it feels like you’ve been tossed into a new garden with no soil, no water, no sun. It’s a nightmare, really. All of your worst fears have come true. In one single battle, you lost everything you ever knew. And worst of all, you lost Yoongi’s trust.

You should’ve listened to him. He never wanted you to go on the battles. Did he know something you didn’t? No, he couldn’t have known, could he? He told you he didn’t want you to go because he cared for you—because he couldn’t lose you. He was only trying to protect you. Turns out, he was protecting you from your own people. It kills you inside, but it’s the slow kind of pain. The one where it feels like you’re repeatedly being stabbed with a dull knife. One impact never kills you and the pain is never excruciating enough that you wish for immediate death, yet it’s a constant, mind-numbing kind of hurt. It’ll end up leaving more scars.

You tug nervously on your necklace, realizing that Yoongi might never forgive you and you’ll never get the chance to apologize. Has he already forced himself to forget about you? Has word already spread about you in Solaria? The people who’ve asked for autographs, have they already burned the paper? Your friends, your soldiers, your comrades, do they all detest you, do they all shudder when they think back about the moments you spent together?

You can’t bear the thought. So you decide to occupy your mind with something else.

With all the tossing and turning, it feels like you haven’t properly slept, and it affects your mind, making your head feel dull and heavy. You don’t know what it is, but you constantly feel on the verge of tears. Yet the tears never fall. Is it possible that you used them all up last night? Or maybe you’ve finally accepted it. You’ve finally accepted that you are indeed Darlaean and that you’ll eventually have to let go of the memories you made in Solaria. And to let go, you’ll have to acquaint yourself with your life here. Starting with the room before you.

It’s so large that even with all the time you spent moping around in it yesterday (though you spent more than half of it under the bed covers), you realize you’ve missed so much. You find a silver (and thankfully empty) birdcage, a collection of interesting-looking machines with variegated colors of spools of thread at the top, and a hoard of plain fabrics, ribbons, clasps and buttons in one of the three wardrobes. The other wardrobe contains an entire rack full of the Darlaean uniform, complete with several sets of black leather gloves. You hurriedly close it, running to the other side of your room where the escritoire sits.

With shaky legs, you sink down on the grand wooden chair, steadying your wildly beating heart. You used to be someone who would cage such an innocent animal up. You used to collect scary-looking machines and spoil yourself with so many clothes that you could’ve dressed an entire Solarian village if you were to share them. How is it that you’ve changed so much in three years? Is it really because you began with a blank slate? If any Solarian were to lose their memories and begin again in Darlae, would they believe your practices are normal?

Realizing that it’s futile to think of these questions and not know the answers, you begin to inspect your belongings on the desk. What you thought was a stack of books turns out to be a stack of leather-bounded notebooks. They seem loved and worn, the pages soft and rounded under your touch, though you shiver when your fingers first make contact with the weathered material. You open the one closest to you, only to cock your head in confusion.

Are these… spells? They must be. There are sketches of one object turning into another and many notes using extensive jargon that you cannot understand. The only thing you recognize is the word, ‘alchemy,’ in your handwriting, scrawled upon the heading of the page. Alchemy. Right! The Darlaean General had told you that you were excellent at it, whatever it is. Your notes make it look like alchemy is some form of transformation, but you can’t be too sure. Attempting to uncover some answers, you decide to open the other notebooks. Yet instead of spells, those contain sketches of ball gowns, sleek dresses and bright-colored frocks. You flip through them, inwardly admiring the different shapes and colors and designs. You recognize some of these beautiful clothes from your wardrobe. Could it be that you’ve made these sketches come to life?

You turn your head to stare at your wardrobes. Having three is quite the stretch, but maybe this was a hobby for you, a pastime. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be ostentatious, to flaunt your wealth and power. Maybe you’ve always enjoyed fashion, but you weren’t given a chance to explore it in Solaria. Maybe that’s why you always noticed what someone was wearing, maybe that’s why you took care in folding your clothes and bathing them in steam to get rid of any wrinkles. It does make sense when you think about it. You’ve always had a penchant for fashion. It’d just been underdeveloped in Solaria, where you had more things to worry about than what you donned in the morning.

As you begin to set the notebooks back in place, you hear a knock coming on your door. “I have your breakfast, Miss,” the familiar, clear voice calls. “Would you like me to come in?”

Oh, your lady-in-waiting! “Yes, of course,” you say. “Please, let yourself in.” She enters the room, wearing the same plain frock as yesterday. You wonder if she also has a closet full of the same uniform. In your lady-in-waiting’s hands is another tray table and on it is a pile of delectable-looking food. You pray to the spirits that there are no dead birds today as you rise from your desk. “Thank you,” you say. “I can take it from you. It looks heavy.”

Your lady-in-waiting looks at you in slight surprise. “O-Oh, no, Miss. That won’t be necessary. Would you like to dine on your bed? Or I can bring it over to your desk.”

“My desk is fine,” you say, awkwardly shuffling behind so she could set the food down. You feel the urge to talk to her, get to know more about her, for how can you not be close to someone who helps you in every little way? But she seems guarded in her expression and posture and you feel afraid to cross the line.

Your lady-in-waiting sets up your silverware and pours you a crystal glass of deep purple liquid. Then, she turns to you, with a folded piece of parchment paper in her hands. “From the General, Miss.”

Your eyes widen. From the Darlaean General? What did he have to tell you that he couldn’t say to your face? Curiously, you take the note from your lady-in-waiting, opening it slowly. His handwriting is small and neat with a slight slant to the left, and he uses it to scrawl:

The memory potion is on the way. It won’t take more than two more days. The best thing you can do for yourself now is to stay within your chambers until you can remember who you are. It’ll keep you from becoming overwhelmed. I understand it might be tedious to be locked in, so if you wish, I could join you for dinner tonight. I’d have your favorites prepared either way.

You fold the note again, setting it down on your desk, mind already whirling with decisions.

“The General asked me to tell you that he’d like to dine with you this evening,” your lady-in-waiting says. “He also informed me that you’d like to stay in your room for a few more days to recuperate.” Is that pity in her eyes again? Does she think you were tortured in Solaria? What exactly did the Darlaean General tell her? “Would you like to dine with him? He says he will respect whatever decision you make.”

It’s not a hard choice, interestingly enough. Refusing would be rude after all of the help he’s given you (considering that he hates the Solarians). So of course you aren’t going to say no. The only thing, of course, is how the actual dinner would go. What would you talk about? Would it be awkward? Why does he want to dine with you when he acts as if he despises you?—always so curt with his words and never having a single expression on his face. Despite everything, does he still care about you? In that case, you’re curious.

“I’ll dine with him,” you say.

“I’ll relay that back to the General,” your lady-in-waiting replies. “He dines at 6 o’clock sharp, Miss. Would you like me to help you get ready for it at 4?”

“Help me get ready?” you repeat in shock.

“Yes, Miss,” your lady-in-waiting says. “I’d bathe you, you’d pick out your gown, and I’d do your hair and help you dress—just like I used to.”

You try your best to keep a neutral look on your face, to not look shocked at all. “No, I’ll be fine, thank you,” you say with a polite smile. But inside, you are in a frenzy. Why would any uninjured adult need help with these simple, daily tasks? Were you so pampered and spoiled that you didn’t know how to bathe yourself? Or did you know how but liked having someone else do it as a display of your power? It feels so wrong and uncomfortable that it takes you quite a while to realize your lady-in-waiting is still in your chambers.

You look at her curiously. Does she have something more to say?

“Miss, I cannot leave without your dismissal,” your lady-in-waiting gently reminds you.

You can feel your face heat up in embarrassment. “O-Oh. I’m so sorry.” There’s that look of pity again. “Y-You’re, um, you’re dismissed.” It takes all of you to utter those words, and even when you do, you can’t look her in the face—as if she’s the one dismissing you and not the other way around.

“Yes, Miss,” your lady-in-waiting says, ducking her head. She quickly leaves the room, shutting the door so quietly that if you hadn’t seen her do it, you would’ve doubted that she ever left.

Immediately, the tension from your shoulders relaxes as you sink further into your chair. A prospective dinner with the Darlaean General, a rather pitiful encounter with your lady-in-waiting… Your head spins with thoughts that you can’t even unscramble yourself. So, you turn to your breakfast for solace.

There are no dead birds today. Instead, you feast on fresh fruit, some more of the sweet pastries and a slice of strawberry cake with generous layers of sweet, cloud-like cream. The mulberry liquid in your glass turns out to be grape juice, which you use to wash down the contents of your grand breakfast.

Your stomach still seems to be adjusting to the richness of Darlaean food. One toilet room trip later and you’re back on the desk, having cleared the tray away like last time. Your hand grazes across the black ink bottles and the numerous quills sporting their soft plumes. All of the quills look quite new except for a rather old, hideous-looking gray one that stands out compared to its finer-looking companions. You wonder for a split second why you would’ve kept such an ugly thing. It surely went against the overall aesthetic. Perhaps it has sentimental value. Or you were so busy with your General duties that you forgot to throw it away.

Your hand continues to graze the items on your desk, stopping at a large book shelved in the corner. It’s made of deep purple leather and seems to be bound with a silver string. As if enchanted by its beauty, you pull it out of the shelf and read the title, Tales of the Blackwoods.

Your face brightens. Even the cover of it reminds you of the tales you read about Solaria; it reminds you of Nayoon’s book. Before you know it, you’re flipping the pages, eager to escape to a mythical land and settling on the very first story.

Guseul’s Hill, says the fancy, looped print. What a curious title. You can’t recall the last time you read a tale; even in Solaria, things became too busy for you to find time to read. So, you bring the book closer to you, instinctively lighting two of the nearby candles with a flick of your finger, then turning your attention to the pages.

Once upon a spell, a nymph tossed away the seed of an enchanted peach she ate and wandered off into a stream to swim with her friends. As time passed, the little seed grew into a vast, towering forest where mythical and woodland creatures alike sought sanctuary in it. They say the woods grew to protect the mysterious mountain that had one day sprouted from the ground. No one knew what was on that mountain, but it had to be important enough for everything in the dense forest to want to protect it.

There were rumors that the mountain carried the cure to anything—heartbreak, mild illnesses, lethal injuries. They said that you could find what your heart most desired there—from wealth, to love, to happiness. But time and time again, when brave explorers trekked across the woods to reach the mountain in hopes of finding whatever they desired most—not many living to tell the tale—they came back empty-handed.

As years passed and this story began collecting dust, becoming nothing more than a tale passed down by the word of mouth—a myth—a beautiful civilization began to grow nearby. Those people built themselves a home from barren land, creating 12 crucial cities and naming the dark forest behind them, the Blackwoods.

After a few lost wanderers, not many dared to explore the Blackwoods, for they knew it was dangerous and deadly. Only the most desperate dared to venture inside, hoping to finally find what they needed on the great mountain. After a while, the people began avoiding the Blackwoods and even the most desperate began seeking other methods. It was time to place the story on the highest shelf, where nobody could risk their lives to live out a legend again.

But there was one last straggler who was the most desperate of them all.

To Guseul, Haneul meant the whole world—she was Guseul’s sky, land and sea, her love and hope and happiness. When Guseul was drowning, when she had nowhere else to go, Haneul was the one who had reached out her hand. Haneul was the one who showed her unconditional kindness. Through Haneul, Guseul learned the sheer potential of love. And so when Haneul fell ill, Guseul went to great lengths to find a cure. She sought out the same methods that the desperate people have always sought out, but they were all futile. Haneul was dying and there was nothing in the 12 cities that could save her.

But when there is desperation, there is always a desperate solution. Guseul brushed off the dust on the myth of the mountain in the Blackwoods. It was her only hope. If the mountain could give her anything she desired, then Haneul’s cure was just one adventure away.

So, leaving Haneul to a trusted friend, Guseul went off on the search for the mountain, knowing that she might not make it back alive. She prepared herself, though, with a few knives and daggers and a pack filled with food and water.

Heroically, Guseul fought off the monsters, the spirits and the dangerous entities in the woods. She killed wild rabbits and once slayed a wild boar, skinning her kills and roasting them over a fire for her suppers. She became skilled in creating traps and shelters from nature around her. Before she knew it, she was stronger and tougher than she’d ever been. And after a while, the woods began to accommodate her presence, clearing pathways for her to walk and leading her to hidden orchards with ripe fruits.

Finally, after weeks and weeks of living in the Blackwoods, Guseul reached the foot of the mysterious mountain. An eerie fog settled in, obscuring her view from anything an arm’s reach away. Still, Guseul continued on, beginning the uphill hike of the rather rocky, dirt-covered mountain. Her feet slipped against the loose dirt and pebbles, but every time she fell, she dusted herself off and got up again. For days, she walked up alongside the mountain, circled around it several times, even reached the peak at one point, but alas, no matter where she searched, all that was there were stones and soil and gray fog.

Guseul felt her heart crumble inside her as she collapsed at the peak of the mountain. At one point, she believed that the enchanted mountain would sprout a magical root that could cure Haneul’s illness, but the soil hardly looked fertile and there were far too many rocks and fog for plants to grow. This had been Haneul’s last hope. There was no point anymore. The myth was only a myth. Guseul should have let the story collect dust.

With a heavy heart, she realized that she has no choice but to turn back. She must give up on the search for a cure and hope she made it back in time to be with Haneul when she passed. But one step down the mountain and her foot suddenly slipped. A scream ripped from her throat as she began to tumble down the slope, trying to grasp at anything to stop her dangerous descent, but it was no use. She squeezed her eyes shut. Goodbye Haneul, she thought. I’m sorry.

But then she felt a soft impact on her body that stopped her fall. Maybe I’m dead, she thought. Do dead people feel pain?

However, when Guseul slowly blinked her eyes open, she realized that she was on a soft bed of crumbly dirt. She looked up, only to find that she’d fallen into a cave. Strange, she thought. I don’t remember ever seeing an opening.

But once Guseul stood, she realized that she had stumbled upon something fascinating. In every corner of the cave were sparkling jewels. They came in variegated colors and shapes and sizes and seemed to be growing straight from the magical cave. A small, sparkling turquoise-colored jewel called her name. She held it in her hands and immediately felt something electric coursing through her blood. It was at that moment that Guseul realized she had found what her heart had desired. She climbed out of the cave and headed back towards her city, where her love was waiting, not knowing that that day, she’d become a legend herself: the first Darlaean.

You stare at the last words on the page, fingers running over the print. What a beautiful tale. You’d annotated it, too, though you don’t know when. You’ve underlined sentences, written your immediate reactions on the sides, circled touching phrases… And to see yourself now thinking the same thoughts you’d had before, having the same handwriting as you do now… Well, you’re not sure what you feel. Is it a sense of understanding? That possibly after beginning with a blank slate you’re still fundamentally the same person? Or is it a sense of guilt? Do you feel guilty that you feel as moved by a Darlaean tale of origin as the Solarian stories? You have to close the book, knowing that it was beginning to elicit not-so-great thoughts.

You watch the candles flicker, the wax dripping then quickly hardening on the sides. You hadn’t even realized how naturally you’d reached forward to light them with your fire wielding. Even after knowing that you’re of Darlaean blood, you still feel Solarian. Will this change when you recall your past? If the time comes for you to choose to betray Solaria, will you do it?

It’s still hard to believe that you’ve left everyone on the other side of the war. That the people you grew to love and cherish are really your enemies. But Guseul didn’t give up on her love. So is it really right for you to let go? Should you fight it? Hang on? But how? He’s your sworn enemy. He’s killed thousands of your people! And you helped him do it!

Oh, the agony.

You hunch over in your chair, your chest threatening to combust. How in the hell did it get to this point? Why? Why did you wake up on the other side of the war, wearing the enemy’s clothes? Why were your memories wiped? None of it makes sense. None of it should’ve happened.

But if it hadn’t, then… Yoongi. Would he still have been the faceless Solarian General who you were trying to destroy? You would’ve never known the sadness he went through, the strength he had to keep himself upright after everything that had happened to him… He would’ve just been the enemy—nothing more and most certainly something less. You wonder what he used to think of you, back when neither of you knew each other by face nor name. You wonder what he would feel if he knew he was harboring the former Darlaean General in his army. You’d said unspeakable things to him, and he, to you. Hundreds of images flash in your mind: you leaning on him while sobbing, him crying while you rest your hand on his arm, him fastening your necklace on, you telling him how you feel, him confirming how he feels for you, his hands on yours when he was first teaching you how to wield fire…

For Sooht’s sake, you’re supposed to hate him, despise him. But why can’t you? Why are you still thinking about him?

“Because you always find a way to overthink.”

“Doyun!” you say, gasping. “You scared me! Are my thoughts that loud?”

Your friend appears before you, shaking her head and sighing. “I can hear them across nations,” she says. “You seem to be holding up a little better.”

“Better?” you laugh. “At least I’m not sobbing my eyes out anymore. I believe I’ve dried my tear ducts for the time being.”

“It’s a start,” Doyun replies with a gentle smile.

“I thought about your question,” you say. “Who do you think deserves to win?”

“I reckon you’re going to say you don’t know,” Doyun says. When she notices your shocked expression, she snorts. “Surprised? I didn’t ask the question for you to be able to answer right away, you know. It wouldn’t be fair to, since you know so little about Darlae. But don’t you think that when you do have that information, you’d be able to decide?”

“But Doyun, even if I were able to decide who I think deserves to win the war, what would I do about it? I’m just one person and the war is… well, it’s a damn war.”

She just shakes her head and smiles. “Sometimes, the answers come when you’re not looking for them.”

This time, it’s your turn to shake your head. “That was vague, Doyun, and you know it.”

She just shrugs. “So you’re having dinner with the Darlaean General.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I suppose I am.”

“It seems as if he doesn’t want to burden you, but he still cares,” Doyun says. “Why else would he ask?”

“I guess it’s a possibility,” you say. “But Doyun, what if he just wants to pull information out of me about Solaria?”

“Also a possibility,” she says. “But who knows? What if his love for you comes before his love for his nation?”

“Love for me?” you laugh.

Doyun shakes her head. “I’m dead serious, Y/N. That man risked thousands of lives to send a monocode message to search for you for three consecutive years. He knows you used the codes against Darlae, too. Yet he still protects you by keeping your memory loss a secret!”

“But I might not be the same person he loves!” you say, suddenly feeling a little panicked. “Scratch that, I’m not the same person at all! That man is a Solarian-hater to his core, Doyun. For Sooht’s sake, he calls us tree huggers, fire lickers, helluvians—”

“Us?” Doyun says, cocking her head. “Last time I checked, I’m dead and you’re Darlaean, Y/N. But I understand what you’re saying,” she says after seeing the displeased look on your face. “You’re scared that you’ll somehow disappoint him. Because even though he’s still virtually a stranger to you, you know you loved him in the past.”

“I think you’re right,” you say. “I am afraid that I’ll disappoint him. The stakes are high, Doyun. At any moment he can realize that I’m not the person he used to care for and expose me to the king. Who knows what will happen then?”

“Tread carefully,” Doyun says. “But maybe not too carefully. Those in power have a knack for smelling fear.”

Though you cannot read the clock, you do know how to estimate the time based on the positioning of the sun and the colors of the sky. If you’re to have dinner with the Darlaean General at 6 o’clock sharp, then that gives you roughly an hour to get ready—if you’ve accurately guessed the time, that is. But you think you’re pretty close. Your lady-in-waiting had come in when the sun was the highest—noon—to deliver your lunch and that was roughly five hours ago. You can tell from the shadows of the sun setting in the distance.

Back at noon, your lady-in-waiting had offered one more time to assist you in getting ready, but you had rejected her offer once more. So now, the responsibility rests upon your shoulders; you don’t understand how it could be any other way.

Doyun had told you earlier to tread carefully, so you decide to behave as what comes naturally. First, you take a luxurious bath in the marble bathtub of the toilet room because it calls to you. Dowsing yourself in the fragrant soaps and oils that you pick out almost instinctively, you stretch out your legs and relax in the water that heated itself without your fire wielding. Then, you sit at your extensive vanity, staring at the many, many cosmetic products before deciding to leave your face bare in fear of enhancing the wrong features on your face. Rummaging through the cabinets, you find a lotion that smells like white sage and willow, so you lather it onto your body and leave your hair down to dry. It feels natural to do so.

Of course, nothing about this getting-ready process is natural to you. It was strange from the moment you stepped into the tub and realized that you had tens of fragrances to choose from to dowse yourself in. In Solaria, nothing was fragrant—that was the point of washing, to get rid of smells. But the aroma of the toilet room and the softness of your own skin makes you think that you want this process to become natural to you. You have never felt so clean.

Immediately, you feel guilty for thinking that. Then, you feel even more guilty for feeling guilt that you admittedly enjoy an aspect of Darlae that Solaria did not have. The cyclical guilt never stops, so you ditch those thoughts and open the wardrobe that carries all of your gowns.

You realize then that even amongst the various colors of your clothes, nothing is ever red. That’s fine. Behave naturally. What is natural to you after red? Well, judging from the looks of your chambers, that would have to be purple.

There is a lavender-colored gown with sage green ribbons and lace that decorate it. Although it is most definitely the fanciest thing you’ve ever considered wearing, it is also the plainest frock in your wardrobe. You immediately reach for it and hold it up to yourself. It looks roughly your size, so you slip out of your frilly nightgown and tug the silky material onto your body. It feels a little loose on your skin, maybe because you haven’t closed the back yet or because you lost weight in Solaria.

You’ve been purposefully avoiding the full-length mirror next to the wardrobes, but you reckon it’s finally time to look into it to see if you look presentable. Still, you refuse to gaze above your neckline in the mirror. Other than the loose sleeves and waist, you surprisingly look fine. The dress suits you, though it feels a little weird to be putting something so beautiful on your body. You suddenly feel a strange urge to twirl around in it.

But before you can actually do that, there is a knock on the door. “Y/N?”

Your eyes widen, your startled face staring back at you in the mirror. It scares you for a split second—the way you look. Is this what other people see? Your own face looks so foreign to you. You look… sweet. But maybe it’s the pretty gown. Or maybe it’s the sweet aroma of your lotion. You look away quickly, then take a long, deep breath, staring at the closed door of your chambers.

“Come in.”

⨰ previous | series m.list | next

⨰ a/n: had the worst week of my life :) currently very stressed so apologies if this chapter contains more errors than usual! (i didn't have much time to edit.) i have many chapters pre-written though, so i'll still be updating consistently <3 have a great day/night/evening—whenever you're reading this!

please consider telling me your thoughts with a comment, an ask or a reblog :) i love hearing readers' impressions/rambles/predictions! if you want to join the taglist, send in a private message, ask, reply to this post or reblog with your request!

63 notes · View notes

stargazer-dreamer · 1 year

Text

It’s on the Tip of My Tongue Chapter 1

character: yami sukehiro

content warnings: misunderstandings

reader: gender neutral; ring magic user

chapter list: 1 [you are here], 2

notes: also on ao3. 2k word count. pre-relationship (but we’re getting somewhere). part of the stoprewind verse

Your room, when presented to you, was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. It took you a considerable while to feather and air it out—but you just couldn’t find the time to roll up your sleeves and get down to the dirt and grime of it all. Between that, imprinting locations with Finral, reviewing all your past and future responsibilities, and preparing for the transfer into the Black Bulls, you found little time to settle into your new home within the base.

You didn’t even get the chance to mingle with any of its other members, much less the captain himself. He talked real big, but you’ve hardly seen a glimpse of him all week. This frustrated you—he wandered in, in the middle of your day-to-day operations, uprooted your entire lifestyle, demanded you work under him specifically, yet he has not greeted you once. If he was going to be this sort of captain, he would have to earn your respect.

You, however, were finding a quick friend in the spatial mage—going from location to location got boring fairly quickly and, as polite as he was, he seemed to drop the act when Yami wasn’t looking.

“He works me to death! You know how hard it is managing funds while having to pay out property damages every other day, in between having to joyride him around the country? I have to do paperwork on the road!” Finral stepped through his own portal and waited patiently on the other side for you. “It’s the worst, really.”

There must have been a change to your expression, since he seemed to backtrack a little bit. “But it’s not so bad! Really! Now that you’re here, I’ll have more time to work through it!” He scratched at the back of the neck as his gaze traveled. A tilt of the head—like he was debating on saying his next words. “And he seemed pretty sincere when he said you’d only be doing the transportation thing. He usually leaves me to my own devices until he’s ready to head back or move locations, so you’ll probably get a lot of downtime…!”

He smiled at you, good-naturedly. “Lucky you.”

This did not help improve your quickly souring impression on the captain. You spared a moment to mark the area before moving on to the next. It turns out, Finral had well-over a hundred different locations he had imprinted upon, not including the local area—and the captain wanted you to retain all of them! The nerve!

Hardly ever having left your hometown, the sudden increase to your mental magic map took a little while to get used to; and with it rapidly expanding every day, it was a bit overwhelming, to say the least. Finral must have realized this early on, dividing up his list into digestible sections throughout the week—but the two of you were far from done yet. First came the important locations, then the common ones, next were the useful areas, followed by the more niche places…

Despite Yami’s command of all of Finral’s impressions, the two of you found no need to share his more personal locations, such as his family home and room back at the base. Those were for Finral specifically, and there was no need to hand over such keys.

As a seasoned spatial mage, his senses were naturally more adept at managing a mental map of the world; for you, it was far from the case. After going at it for a few hours, you found that you developed headaches that could only be mended with proper rest or mana-regaining methods, such as specialized drinks or medicine Finral would graciously provide. It was more of a nuisance than anything else—all you wanted to do was finish this first task, but you couldn’t handle the load.

That’s something you admired about Finral; he was a pretty capable mage.

The day finally arrived when the documents were properly filed; Captain Yami Sukehiro stood you in front of the rest of the squadron and introduced you properly—as properly as it seemed he could manage, at least—followed by a multitude of questions from everyone in the room.

Instead of navigating through the sea of voices yourself, the captain made short work of it for you. “No fighting, no hazing, no eating; you just ate, no looking at pictures, no one can hear you, no shopping—we’re busy.”

“We are?” you asked before he handed you, rather unceremoniously, the infamous black robe.

“Yes,” he replied, short, before addressing the squad once more. “This is my new ride, so I won’t be sharing. Finral’s still here, if you need quick transport.” You sputtered at his choice of words—his ride? Sharing?

“Oh! So you use spatial magic too?“ A starry-eyed boy inched closer. “That’s so cool! Can I see?”

“Oh, no,” you shook your head, but at his continued interest, showed him the band encircling one of your fingers anyway. Haunted by the memory of your shoddy escape the week prior, you started wearing multiple rings on both hands, in addition to keeping one tucked away in your grimoire pouch, just in case. “While I do use a form of spatial magic, I’m actually—”

“What did I just say?” You didn’t need to turn around to know who was towering behind you, the mana in the air stirring like crazy.

Despite that, the boy carried on, unfazed. “But sir! The use of any teleportation magic must take an incredible amount of control—”

“Which is why I need you to bugger off, so my ride can be in top condition for me. C’mon,” with a glance in your direction, he gestured with a jerk of the head and walked towards the front door.

Stepping outside in the dancing shadow of the trees, you were struck at the difference in lighting, how striking he really was. Out in the morning sunshine, you forgot the words you held for him for over a week. The blue morning glow of the waking sun didn’t do him justice, if this is what he truly looked like, underneath the new warm hue. The thin undershirt he wore did little to hide anything—especially since he chose to wear nothing over said shirt—skin all but bared to the world, in all it’s severe beauty.

He was a warrior alright and had the scars to match, crisscrossing his skin in rough patches; down his arms, across his shoulders, and up higher, to the one bisecting his brow, and the one set at the corner of his mouth.

To keep from staring at his lips, your eyes lowered to his jaw, and focused in on the stubble, down his neck, evolving into the hair leading to the peek of his toned chest underneath it all.

Suddenly, you felt the need for a cold drink. You spun a band circled around a finger. “Um,” you began. “Captain Yami Sukehiro?”

“Just Yami’s fine,” he said, and went to light a cigarette.

“Captain Yami,” you said instead, resulting in a click of his tongue and quirk of his brow. Actually just Yami, I guess. You’d work on it. For now, you were trying to remember what it was that you had been meaning to say to him.

He led you out here with some type of purpose. You stopped fretting with the robe in your hands. You had to speak your mind, first and foremost.

“Yami,” you met his eyes. Steel. Like his blade, you did not know how much power it hid. But you were not afraid. “You said you wanted me for my magic. You may be my captain now, but I do not intend to be taken advantage of. I will not be overworked.”

His reply was instantaneous. It was different than before, when he walked out of the alleyway; instead of his entire being, this laugh came from the chest—throwing his head back with the force of it. Your eyes widened, before it clicked. Before, you felt as if he was laughing at you—now, it was something different entirely.

He smiled at you, big and proud, and declared—“I like you.” Warmth welled up inside as a weight seemed to lift itself off of you; like the smoke rising from his lips. He lifted a hand and before you knew it, he was ruffling the hair atop your head. “I don’t give jobs to people who can’t handle it.” You blinked. “Don’t sweat it—you’re my ride. Simple as that.”

So what Finral told you was true. You were so lost in that thought, you didn’t notice Yami’s hand go to smooth out your hair, running down, until it stilled, cupping the side of your face. You felt warmth once more, but not from the inside. “What—what are you—”

“Getting to know one another, like I said we would.” Before you could piece together what he meant, he pinched at your cheek.

“Ack!”

“You’re too serious,” he said, like a statement. “You’ve been running around all week. Every time I tried to find you, you were off doing some other thing. When you were here, you were either off with Finral or busy in your room. When was I supposed to be with you?”

It sounded distinctly like a pout. You stood there, rubbing at your cheek, staring at him. Yami Sukehiro, with a plume of smoke surrounding him, trying to wave it away. Like a distraction. He shifted his feet. Put his hands in his pockets. Removed one to scratch at the back of his neck.

He clicked his tongue. The robe you had resumed fretting with was snatched from you, and before you could even process it, Yami’s hands were at your front, doing up the button and straightening up the hood around your shoulders. “You’re a Black Bull,” his eyes were downcast, focusing on his work. And then, quieter: “I said I wanted you.”

You remembered the alleyway, and the sun eclipsing him; his touch, and the way he held your hand. “Oh,” was all you could manage. The transfer was busy work. He must have not realized that. And when he gestured to your still fretting hands, all you could do was stare harder.

“You have more this time,” his hands went back into his pockets. “That’s good, for you.”

The subject change nearly gave you whiplash, despite the pause between. “Um, thanks?”

“Yeah. Anyways, mark this one too.”

It was a simple band. Black, with no embellishments; and when he tilted it in the light, it seemed to swallow the sunshine whole. Dark and—when you got a closer look—incredibly inviting. As you held it in your hand, you noticed it was lightweight. Sturdy, with a smooth finish. Whichever material it was made of felt powerful where it sat. Indestructible. It would not shatter so easily.

It was only after you marked it did you realize you’ve never imprinted upon a ring that didn’t belong to a family member.

After you were done, he slipped it on—left hand, ring finger. His non-dominate hand. A good choice, for his fighting style; he wouldn’t have to worry about changing the way he handled the grip of his sword. It would be out of the way, but at the ready if he needed it.

“There,” he said, with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You tried not to stare. “Had it made. Figured I’d need one for myself—your hands are puny.”

You sputtered. “Not everyone is as big as you!”

He carried on as if you didn’t say anything. “Thought maybe, if you gave me one of yours, I could wear it on a chain or something. But that seemed like a hassle, so this was what I got instead.”

He held his hand up to the light. One of the things Yami was known for was his magic attribute—it seemed fitting that he would choose an accessory that physically matched the aesthetic; though, you never would have guessed he cared about that sort of thing. A black hole, it claimed space for itself; tugging you in and pulling you within his reach. His hand was warm, when your fingers intertwined.

“It’s beautiful,” you told him. The compliment, however, got drowned out by another, more pressing noise.

“Attaboy, Captain!” someone cheered from an open window. Then, from someone at the front door—“I’m happy you found the perfect ring!”

You turned to see what seemed like the entire base crowded around each other in windows and the entranceway, making no effort to hide themselves as they watched the two of you.

“That’s the man’s way!” The man with the mohawk pumped his fist in the air. “Straightforward!”

The witch held up a bottle, “Let’s celebrate!”

The short one next to her nodded enthusiastically, “We’ll have a feast!”

The man with the hair covering his eye looked surprised. “So this is what they meant when they said Yami was after someone…”

It appeared, where you stood, that there had been a major misunderstanding. Rumors are already spreading in the workplace—on your first day, nonetheless! Involving your boss. Your mother had warned you to stay out of Black Bull scandals; but there you were, in front of the entire squadron, probably ruining Yami’s reputation even more. You dreaded the headlines already—the immigrant Magic Knight captain, abusing his position of authority. Alternatively: the rookie mage, a golddigger.

In your horror, you spotted Finral in the back. Meeting your eyes, he gave you a thumbs up.

“What are you bums doing standing around for?!” Yami charged forth. “Go find some work, all of you!”

Scrambling out of sight, the group dispersed rapidly. Based on the shielded grins and fading laughter, you did not think that reaction cleared up anything at all. What a start to the day.

#yami sukehiro #black clover #black clover fic #black clover fanfic #black clover fanfiction #yami sukehiro x reader #yami sukehiro x you #yami sukehiro x y/n #black clover imagine #black clover imagines #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #stoprewind #finral is your best friend and i will not hear otherwise i love finral lmao #ive had most of this written shortly after part 1 but only now had the motivation to finish <3 #as a side note: before nacht i always assumed finral was yamis co-captain of sorts #so i guess this would date the fic at least before the elf reincarnation arc #but like...this cannot be placed within the timeline theres no way lol

122 notes · View notes

delimeful · 2 years

Text

taking the fall (5)

warnings: mentions of starvation/hunger, fear, food

Virgil sat blankly at the edge of the folded up washcloth, watching as the human in front of him wandered back and forth in the kitchen, attending several different simmering pots and cutting boards with ease, as though he had two more sets of arms.

He hadn’t been restrained or put under a cup or anything, probably because his leg was demonstrably bad off enough to prevent any realistic escape attempts. Janus had glanced over several times between cooking anyhow, which Virgil hated immensely.

Each check-in was met with the most loathsome glare Virgil could muster while still looking like a half-drowned raccoon. Even so, he couldn’t help but huddle down further every time the human’s gaze flicked over to him.

Being a wild borrower came with certain tidbits of knowledge. One of them was this: If a human spotted you, you were screwed. Outside, there weren’t any convenient walls to escape to, only the easily-uprooted nooks and crannies amidst the trees and brush.

When hunting a curiosity down, humans were far more willing to destroy nature than their own homes.

All that to say, the primal hindbrain that had kept him alive many a time in the wilderness was now floundering, shrieking, and leaving him on the brink of shutting down entirely.

He didn’t even know why he was out here. The human had said something about food, but that didn’t make any sense. The guy was definitely satisfied with the answer Virgil had given, a pleased curl to his mouth lingering even now, but he’d also had to pry even that much out of Virgil through a combination of bartering and distraction. Janus had to know that Virgil wouldn’t agree to another deal like that, not even if it was for medical aid.

He had given away all he was going to give— in truth, it was all the real information he had; he didn’t know where the others lived. Roman had come to him, not the other way around— and there was no point in keeping him around any longer.

Virgil checked that the door to the room with the snake terrariums was closed for a fourth time, a shiver working its way through him.

“There we are.”

The words were accompanied with a subtle clink of ceramic, and when Virgil whipped his head back around with a start, it was to the human setting a plate only a few inches from him.

He huddled down further, mimicking the low hiss of an agitated tarantula and only getting another one of those amused looks in response.

“The hunger strike ends now,” Janus told him with a mocking sort of firmness, and then paused to glance between him and the dish for a moment. “Hm.”

Virgil glanced in the same direction and actually noted what was on the plate this time.

It was some kind of pasta, he was pretty sure. The shapes were pretty distinct, though he’d only ever seen them in their hard, shell-like form. Some inside borrowers used the larger kinds as temporary bowls or containers, or as building materials for areas that weren’t liable to become damp.

They got soggy when exposed to liquid, a flaw which meant that Virgil had never traded for any. Nut shells were far more abundant and effective.

Apparently, though, the sogginess was by design, because the folded shapes in front of him didn’t seem rigid at all. They were saturated with a thick sauce, and the plate was dotted with colorful bits of what he thought were probably vegetables.

They also smelled really good. If this was a new method of psychological torment on Janus’s end, bringing him just close enough to food for him to remember how hungry he was, well… it was going to suck.

“I suppose that won’t work, will it,” Janus mused.

He lifted the dish back up an inch, and even though Virgil had been expecting it, tried to prepare for it, he couldn’t help the way his body twitched forwards just slightly.

Stupid. What did he even think he was going to do? Play tug of war with a human?

He bit down on his tongue to stem any potential noises of protest that wanted to escape, furious with himself, but Janus’s keen gaze had already caught on him.

“Hm.” He set the dish back down the few inches he’d lifted it, expression edged with thoughtfulness, and Virgil braced himself for another deal, a game, something that the human thought he could use to wrest more details from him.

Instead, Janus turned on his heel and returned to his former position to rifle through the cabinets, leaving Virgil unattended and the food directly within his reach.

Oh, that was a trap if he’d ever seen one. The moment he reached out for a morsel, the human would whip around and execute some sort of gleeful retribution.

Virgil stared at the plate miserably, wishing it was further away so he could at least use the pain of moving as a mental deterrent. At this distance, he could just reach out and… No, no, he wasn’t falling for it.

He glanced at Janus, who had shifted from the upper cabinets and now appeared to be sticking his head and both arms in one of the lower ones, accompanied by the sound of objects shifting around obnoxiously.

The pasta was obviously out of the question; it would take him too much time to figure out how to eat it, let alone actually finish a piece.

But the vegetable bits…

Almost without his conscious input, his hand swiped out and snatched one of the smaller green pieces, his eyes switching to lock on Janus the moment he had it in hand.

Still in the clear.

Knowing that could change any moment, he wasted no time in shoving the vegetable in his mouth as quickly as possible, his heart racing.

“Here it is,” Janus said triumphantly, withdrawing from the cabinet with something in his hand.

Too soon! Virgil froze in place, ice slipping down his spine.

The human turned back to Virgil, and paused.

—

Janus had to work to keep his face neutral, his lip twitching.

Even as small as he was, there was no way to miss the way his guest’s cheeks were pouched out, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a squirrel.

The pale-faced stare of guilt he was receiving was significantly less funny. He had told Virgil the food was intended for him in passing, but it seemed the message had been lost somewhere between panic attacks and interrogations.

Well. When he put it like that, perhaps he should’ve seen this coming.

Janus debated trying to convince the little guy that he had no intention of punishing the ‘theft’, recalled just how suspicious Virgil had been of Janus offering basic first aid, and decided it was better to just pretend he hadn’t noticed.

“Many thanks for your patience,” he announced with only the slightest trace of sarcasm, and set his findings down on the table with a flourish.

A soy sauce dish and a few toothpicks weren’t the customary tools for fine dining, but they were the best he had on hand.

Virgil stared between them and Janus with enough apprehension that one would think he’d brought a tray of neurosurgery tools over instead.

Resisting the urge to sigh— if he'd known Virgil was so twitchy upon first meeting him, he might not have been so heavy-handed with the ominous threatening behavior— Janus used his own spoon to scoop up a generous serving of the pasta and poured it into the sauce dish, stabbing a toothpick through the thicker part of a noodle before sliding the dish over to his guest.

“Go slow, or you’ll throw up,” he told Virgil, though frankly he had no idea if that rule held true for tiny people. Perhaps they had developed evolutionary advantages against starving, since they relied on scavenging?

Janus pondered on the matter for a long moment, casting his gaze elsewhere and ignoring the frantic chewing of his captive.

Of course, once Virgil had finished his pilfered appetizer, he proceeded to eye the dish as though it was a coiled-up rattlesnake, rather than an entirely benevolent gesture on Janus's part. It was pasta, it wasn't going to bite him.

Now that he thought about it, Virgil likely wasn't familiar with farfalle pasta. Janus couldn’t imagine these little people had enough scavenged scraps to put together a miniature electrical stove, after all. Particularly not if Virgil wasn’t even from this apartment, as he claimed.

...Unless they were lighting tiny fires in the apartment walls?

Janus shook his head, dragging his attention back on track. It seemed unlikely Virgil would verbalize the source of his confusion, having faded back into that silent reticence the moment they walked into the kitchen. Janus wasn’t willing to guess either, not when it could be misconstrued as another interrogation.

“Eat,” he told him, settling on a simple instruction, “or feel free to waste away on my counter, it’s not like I care.”

Deciding to follow his own advice, he then picked up the plate and moved over to the counter before taking a bite. Thus, he proved it wasn’t poisoned or drugged, and gave Virgil enough space to eat without feeling loomed over.

Janus sighed. It had been considerably easier to play the villain. Now, every action had to be thought over from three different angles before execution, or he’d accidentally drive the little creature's soul right out of his body from stress. It was almost like chess, except he was attempting not to corner his opponent.

It took enough time that he wondered if Virgil wasn’t running his own complex mental calculations, but eventually he saw a tiny hand reach forwards and grasp the toothpick, figuring out how to use it as a makeshift kabob stick with characteristic resourcefulness.

Virgil kept an eye on Janus the entire time, as if expecting the rug to be yanked out from under him at any moment, and Janus was careful to pretend like he wasn’t paying him a lick of attention.

That didn't mean he wasn't still watching, though. If he'd thought the stuffed-cheeks look from before was amusing, the expression Virgil made upon biting into the pasta was hilarious.

Janus allowed his lips to curl up into a more-smug-than-usual expression. His cooking was one of his finest skills, one he didn’t get to show off frequently, and it was clearly blowing the mind of his guest.

Virgil ate quickly enough that Janus hoped his earlier estimation was correct, not wanting to deal with vomit or the potential damage refeeding syndrome could do to that tiny digestive system.

Predictably, he didn’t manage to make a dent in his serving, though if Janus measured it to scale, it was still a rather shocking amount of food to pack away, especially on a shrunken stomach. Another survival adaptation?

“Finished?” he asked when Virgil’s movements slowed, and frowned at the way his tiny spine stiffened with panic.

He had eaten plenty. Why would he be so concerned about the meal ending—?

Ah.

“I’ll leave the remainder of it with you for the evening,” he said casually. “I wouldn’t want to wake in the middle of the night to find that you wasted away without my delightful cooking.”

There it was, a distinct relaxing of shoulders.

Lips thinning, Janus abruptly decided he didn’t particularly want to reflect on his captive’s food insecurity issues and how the past three days may have just worsened them.

Instead, he reached down and curled his hand around Virgil, keeping his grip significantly gentler than he’d bothered with before. Only because he didn’t want to risk jostling the little creature into nausea, of course.

Virgil curled up into a tense little ball regardless, the sight making something in the pit of Janus’s stomach squeeze oddly, but didn’t bother protesting. Thankfully, he no longer had anything sharp to try and stab Janus with.

Picking the dish up with his other hand, Janus returned to the old terrarium, settling the dish down first and then the tiny form down next to it.

After a moment’s hesitation, he dragged the bundle of plastic greenery closer so that it shielded his guest from view unless one was standing right next to the tank. And then draped his handkerchief on the tank bottom within reach, for good measure.

Virgil was watching him with a strange expression, and Janus cleared his throat shortly before withdrawing and turning away without another word.

If he was going to be cooking more frequently, he should go check the fridge to see how stocked it was. And perhaps see what non-perishables he could leave in the enclosure long-term. If he got creative, a makeshift bed for better rest could probably be arranged as well.

All in the self-interest of keeping his unwilling informant alive, of course.

#sanders sides fic #ts janus #ts virgil #ttf #taking the fall #writing #my writing #g/t #borrowers

128 notes · View notes

kendsleyauthor · 1 year

Note

Prompt 11 for Ben and Lee please!! These two are some of my favorite characters of yours and I’d love to see what you come up with!

Dreamless

Shot in the Dark (Dark Future AU)

~1800 words

Warning: Emotional distress, mentions of dehumanization

Summary: Fairies have been revealed to the world. Ben and Lee have taken up residence in Delilah's home to avoid the ensuing chaos. Unable to rest, Ben's temper flares while Lee's concern grows.

For those of y'all who were wondering what Ben and Lee are up to in this AU! :')

@marydublinauthor 🌸

Ben hadn’t slept in five days.

Lee let it slide at first. It was understandable, given Ben’s history with anxiety. Yes, they were perfectly safe indoors, but the world outside was burning. There was no ignoring that.

Obviously, every news broadcast blared nonstop about the complete upheaval of humanity’s understanding of the world. That didn’t make things any easier. Lee made it a point to keep the TV switched off for Ben’s sake. But Ben took to stealing Lee and Delilah’s phones when he could, scrolling endlessly through articles about what was going on.

Entire fairy villages were being uprooted for mass capture. Nomads and escapees were being caught by civilians, who were handsomely rewarded. Iron was in high demand. Chances were, every sane human was walking around with some form of iron protection.

But worst of al, Sylvia’s face was in just about every article.

There was nothing they could do for her. Nothing.

“Hey.” Lee approached the living room window Ben had perched at that evening.

Ben whirled around like Lee might be an intruder sneaking up on him. When he wasn’t worrying himself sick with the news, he was peering outside as though they were about to be under siege. But Delilah’s house, spacious and enchanted, was a fortress against what was happening out there.

“What is it?” Ben said, a note of terror in his voice like was about to receive bad news.

“Relax. I just… Have you ever tried getting some sleep?” Lee took a knee by the window, peering at him worriedly.

The dark circles under Ben’s eyes were beginning to look like bruises. His clothes were rumpled, hair disheveled. Yet, his gaze was overly alert. All he could manage in response to Lee’s question was a half-shrug.

“I get it, but staying awake isn’t the solution here,” Lee said as gently as possible. “No one knows you’re here, Benny. No one’s coming for us. Let yourself get some rest. You’re safe.”

Ben turned back to the window. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Come on, you can sense the barriers Delilah put around the property, right? You can see for yourself that there’s nothing to be afraid of here.”

“I said I’m fine, Lee,” Ben snapped.

Lee drew in a calming breath. He had the unsettling urge to simply grab Ben and escort him to the nearest bed or pillow, but that wouldn’t go over well. Still, he couldn’t keep the bit out of his tone.

“Don’t lie. I can see you’re not fine.” Lee huffed when Ben ignored him. “Honestly, it’s insulting that you think you can bullshit me.”

“Insulting?” Ben scoffed and spared a glance over his shoulder. His eyes never held such venom for Lee. “Right. I am so sorry for hurting your feelings. My kind is being captured and tortured while I sit here doing nothing, so I’m sorry if I’m a little on edge.”

“And what would you do instead, huh? Go out there and fight off every iron-wielding maniac yourself?”

“I don’t know.” Ben dropped his face into his hand and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. Just leave me alone.”

Lee rested a hand on the window sill and inched it toward Ben. “Go to bed. I’ll leave you alone if you just get some sleep, alright?”

Sleep-deprived and focused on his surveillance, Ben didn’t notice the hand until it was closing around him. His wings flared viciously, tickling Lee’s palm. His grip was loose enough for Ben to duck underneath and sidestep.

“Stop it!” Ben looked between Lee’s face and hand warily.

“Torturing yourself isn’t going to bring some cosmic justice! What, you think punishing yourself is gonna make you feel okay about not being caged up yourself?”

Ben snapped into flight instantly, zipping an inch from Lee’s face. “Two years!” He shoved at the bridge of Lee’s nose. “Two years I was locked away in that safe! And what’s happening out there is so much worse! Of course I can’t sleep! Every time I close my eyes, I’m there!”

Lee took a step back and raised both hands placatingly. “Okay. Okay, I get it, Benny. Just breathe.”

“You don’t get it! Stop saying that!” Ben trembled from head to toe, breaths quick and labored. “How can you expect me to relax? I’m in danger just by existing—now more than ever! If I get caught, you’re in trouble for hiding me! And if they find out Delilah’s a witch, they’ll take her too—”

“No one’s getting taken from here.” Delilah appeared under the living room archway. She looked between the two of them raised eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re fighting. What do you hope that’ll accomplish?”

Lee glanced at Ben, who still hovered near but wouldn’t look at him anymore. He had the sick feeling that Ben had contemplated leaving on his own to fend for himself. Asking him about it would only set off another argument. Five days without sleep left no room for rationality.

Delilah cut through the heavy silence and nodded toward the kitchen. “Come. We all need a drink.”

When she disappeared back through the archway, Ben looked ready to return to the window instead. Lee raised a hand to block his path, but he knew better than to make another grab. Ben sighed, turning to face him.

“One drink,” Lee said. “At least give yourself a break if you’re so hellbent on staying up.”

“Fine,” Ben muttered, flying past Lee to get it over with.

The kitchen, like every other room in the house, had no shortage of space. Delilah leaned against the pristine island in the middle, gesturing to the wine she had placed on the counter for them. Ben and Lee’s drinks were already poured. She had managed to fill the tiny wineglass without spilling a single drop.

“Any word from the covens?” Lee asked, taking his glass and standing at the opposite side of the island.

Ben perched on the counter and grabbed his own, downing half his wine in a single pull.

“Not all of them. But the ones who answered ar fine,” Delilah said. “Witch hunts aren’t he priority right now. Not yet. We’re harder to identify, obviously.”

Her gaze was fixed on Ben. There was something odd in her expression, like she was waiting for something to happen. Lee didn’t have time to analyze it before a tiny cough came from the counter.

Ben wavered and dropped his glass. He blinked hard and looked around, confusion taking hold of his distracted features.

“Benny?” Lee set his glas aside and stepped toward him.

Ben turned his wide eyes to Delilah. “What… What did you do? What was in that?”

“I’m sorry.” Delilah dipped her chin and stared at the spotless tiled floor. Her hair fell like a dark curtain in front of her face. “You needed it, Ben. It’s for the best.”

“What are you talking about?” Lee demanded.

Whatever it was, Ben clearly didn’t agree. He flew past Lee in a rage, making a beeline for her. “You had no right! You hear me? No right! Why are humans rounding up fairies like we’re the dangerous ones? Witches go around poisoning people when it’s convenient for them!”

Delilah’s eyes snapped up to him and brimmed with hurt. “If I could make it so witches were exposed instead of fairies… I’d do it in a heartbeat. But that wasn’t poison, and you know it.”

The effects took hold fast. Ben’s flight shuttered, and he was seconds from falling out of the air. Delilah took a quick step forward, thrusting her hands out to catch him before Lee could close the distance.

“It’s okay,” she said gently, raising Ben in her cupped hands. “You’ll feel much better when you wake up. You’ll see.”

“I-I don’t—” Ben gasped and tried to sit up, but he sank to his side in the pit of her palms. “I don’t want to sleep.” He looked up at Lee pleadingly as he approached, like there was anything he could do to stop this.

“Relax, Ben,” Delilah whispered. There was a note of apology in her voice, but no regret. “Relax.”

He shot her one last look of contempt before he fully went limp.

“What did you do?” Lee asked quietly, unsure whether to berate her or kiss her.

Ben was finally asleep, but the final, terrified look on his face was hard to forget. Every time I close my eyes, I’m there. Would he be plagued with visions about being trapped in Faiber’s safe?

Delilah sighed, tenderly pushing Ben’s hair off his forehead. “I used to give my sister this same potion for her panic attacks. It worked wonders when she couldn’t bring herself to relax. It’ll keep him asleep until he gets the rest he needs.”

Lee chuckled humorlessly. “He’ll sleep for a week, then. What if he has nightmares the whole time?”

“No. No nightmares, no dreams. Just rest.” She looked down at Ben and swallowed hard. We’ll probably be back at square one with him hating me when he wakes up, but… hopefully, he’ll be a little more sensible where you’re concerned.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Lee said. “He knows what you’re doing for us letting us stay here while all hell breaks loose. You heard how he was snapping at me just now. He’s not himself. Who can blame him?”

Although she didn’t look convinced, she nodded. “I’ll find him a place to sleep.”

“No. Give him here. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“You’re sure? There are plenty of spare beds. And let’s be honest, you haven’t exactly gotten much sleep yourself.”

“He may be out of it a while, but I don’t want to risk him walking up alone. He’ll panic, and the potion will be pointless. Let him wake up knowing he’s safe.”

He held out his hands, staying perfectly still while Delilah gingerly shuffled Ben’s sleeping form onto his palms.

Lee inspected him silently on the way back to the living room. It seemed unnatural for Ben to look so relaxed after the events of the past few days—even the past few minutes. His panicked breaths had become perfectly even. It certainly wasn’t what Ben wanted, but it was what he needed.

With a murmured apology, Lee slowly transferred Ben into his front shirt pocket.

One hand pressed softly over the little weight of his friend, Lee went to the window and gazed at the elegant, sloping streets and houses in the distance.

Now that he wasn’t worrying over Ben’s psyche, the weight of the world seemed to crash onto his shoulders. Any one of these neighbors would sell them out if they spotted Ben. And realistically, how long could they stay within these walls? Sooner or later, something would happen. He’d be an idiot to think they were untouchable amidst the chaos.

He hugged Ben a little closer through the pocket and clenched his jaw.

How the hell was he going to protect him?

50 notes · View notes

tjerra14 · 9 months

Note

what if ikrie joins the gaia gang at the base since it seems like it’d be considered a werak

sylens cannot be the only banuk they ever meet lol

Anon, I absolutely love the way you think and let me tell you, there's nothing more than I want from the third game than this. Sylens, for all intents and purposes, might look like a Banuk, but even the Banuk doubt he was ever truly one of them, and even if he was, he seems to like thinking himself outside of and above all tribes, so arguing he's the Banuk representative at base is wobbly at best. Let's face it: when they made their game about Aloy learning the importance of friendship and gathering her team for the current and coming challenges from all the tribes, Guerrilla kind of forgot that the Carja and Banuk exist, too. (And then got rid of the Nora, but that's something for a different time, so I won't get into it.) Where Ikrie joining the gang is concerned, there's a few scenarios I've spent entirely too much time thinking about that come to mind. We know that back in Frozen Wilds, she'd lost everything she held dear, and had her life completely uprooted, realising that what she thought would be her path could never be. When you talk to her at the hunting grounds, she says that she's in no hurry to return to Ban-Ur yet, and it's not too unlikely she might ultimately decide that she won't return at all. So, where would she go from there? She seems like a restless character, much like Aloy, so the hunting grounds won't be her final stop, and even though she considers starting some of her own, I feel she might not want to tether herself to one spot right away. (Plus I feel Lauvuk would have an encouraging thing or two to say about her leaving and seeing the world and asking that girl out.)

So I feel we have:

Ikrie staying in the Cut for a while after she last sees Aloy, eventually meeting Gildun, either while visiting Song's Edge, or just stumbling across him on the road, possibly finding him in a bit of a pickle once again; and after talking to him decides to accompany him west on his delves, for protection and company. Since we know Gildun passed through the later-collapsed tunnel, which would put them into Aloy's general vicinity, she could either go and seek her out, or we keep with the game's events and they meet up while Ikrie is trying to get Gildun out of another door incident ("By the Blue Light, you turn away for five seconds and he gets himself trapped again! ....I think I broke that button over in the next room.") After some catching up and Focus-acquiring Ikrie decides to join forces with Aloy again--fate's a long climb on a high cliff for people like her and Aloy, and what higher cliff and better challenge to rise to than facing Nemesis?, and returns to Base with her. (For bonus Banuk points insert Inatut in Gildun's protection squad here. I feel he would really hit it off with Erend, and eventually join the Vanguard. Vanguard Inatut rights!)

Another option would be her arriving late to the Battle at the Spire with Starbucks. News travel quickly in the Cut, even in remote areas, and a hunting ground is a hub for travellers seeking some training and maybe some rest before or afterwards. So Ikrie hears the rumours, and the stories, and learns that Aloy needs help saving the world. Both Aratak and Inatut have already left, and while she might not be able to catch up with them, she hurries to Meridian. When she arrives, the battle is over, the world is (for now) saved, everyone is celebrating, and Aloy, who she came to help, is nowhere to be seen because she already ran away (once again). Since there's nothing for her in Meridian, but she still intends to help Aloy, she joins Varl on his quest to seek her out, maybe following up on a different rumour than he does right before Forbidden West starts so they meet up a little later than that. (This one also comes with a side of Vanguard Inatut. I may be rather passionate about that one.)

Of course, there's also the shippy option fitting the timeline I have for them in my head, but ignores canon a little (or a lot): Aloy straight up asks Ikrie to accompany her to the West, the two of them set out in pursuit of the rumour that there might be an intact copy of GAIA somewhere in the wilderness of No Man's Land; the Embassy happens, Aloy runs off again and Ikrie is left to follow in her tracks, eventually finding her all messed up in Stone's Echo after her narrow escape from Latopolis. While Aloy is resting and healing, Talanah, Milu, and Varl catch up to them, and ultimately the events of Dying Lands take place, so that they all find the Base together.

Long story short, Ikrie as a Gaia gang member yes please. Imagine all the fun she'd have getting into all sorts of ridiculous challenges with Kotallo, too. The Sunwings at the top of the base would never know peace again.

#thank you so much for this ask!!!#to no one's surprise i have many feelings about ikrie at the base #like. fw kinda made it a point that all tribes need to come together to save the world from (once again) extinction #funny how two of them straight up got excluded #and a third somewhat deleted #and well. of all the banuk that we DO know #ikrie is probably the best fit #she has every reason and opportunity to leave the cut and ban-ur behind #aloy has helped her before so she will want to pay her back #and since she currently has no real plans for her future #why not do that instead?#hzd #hfw #asks

9 notes · View notes

duxhess-kryzewan · 2 years

Note

Oh my gosh I love your writing so much! Could you do Satine telling obi wan she's pregnant in an au where he stayed and they got married?

- Unexpectedly-

Most things in Satine's life had come without warning.

The outbreak of the Mandalorian Civil war had uprooted her life so suddenly some day she still feels like she hasn't quite found her footing yet. One day she was simply another member of Mandalorian nobility, and it seemed like the next she was given an entire planet to lead.

Obi-Wan came without warning too.

They had fought from the moment they were introduced. Every day it felt as though there was something new to argue about. Part of her couldn't stand him, with his proclivity for combat and sarcastic remarks. It drove her crazy most days. And yet, she found that the other part of her had fallen hopelessly in love with him.

The realization vexed her completely, because it was not the time for her to fall in love. Her planet was at war, her people dying, and she knew the ways of the Jedi. Attachments were forbidden. There is no emotion, there is peace. A vow that her Jedi protector was dedicated too.

She likes to think it was the same for him. That one day he realized beneath all the jabs was something more complex than either of them would have ever predicted, and perhaps learning he had loved her too was the most unexpected thing of it all.

The night before they were set to part had been spent curled into his side, holding onto him as if her life depended on it. The universe was far too large and Satine knew they were far too small in comparison to it all. Crossing paths again once they parted held all but an impossible possibility.

"You could stay," She whispered that night, "I would never fault you for leaving. But if remaining here is something you would want...just know that maybe I want that too."

She would never outright tell him to walk away. It was the only life he had ever known, and she had a planet to begin rebuilding. She wanted it to be his choice in the end, no matter how badly she didn't want to let him go.

Watching him board his ship and head towards Coruscant felt like a piece of her died.

A week later he showed up her doorstep and had been by her side since.

"I would like to stay," He told her, "Should her grace still allow it."

They had married later that year, and she was saved by him all over again.

It had been seven years since then. Rebuilding her planet had been - and continues to be - a daunting task. Despite how much the New Mandalorian movement has flourished there was still so much to be done. Having taken a Jetii for a husband certainly hadn't helped matter much in the beginning.

But Obi-Wan was nothing if not charming, and the publics opinion of him had swayed greatly in their favor over the years. He was just as dedicate to serving the people as she was, and they had agreed their duties now lay with protecting their people.

He had been on Concordia for the past two days, having traveled for the funeral of a prominent clan leader. The death was too sudden for a rearrangement of her schedule, and so Obi-Wan had taken it upon himself to go in her place, despite her reassurances that he didn't have too.

"It'll be three days," He told her the morning of his departure, "You'll hardly even notice my absence."

"Of course I will," She told him softly, "In case you've foolishly forgotten, I am never not thinking of you."

Because even when she was knee deep in duty, he was always somewhere in the back of her mind.

It was fitting that when she learned of her pregnancy he was a world away. Another moment added to the long list of things hitting her when she least expects it.

She paces nervously around the balcony connected to their room. He had commed that morning to let her know he would be back by sundown, and the hours of waiting felt like an eternity. They had never discussed children. The galaxy was teetering on the brink of another war and Mandalore still needed so much of them.

There were times however when she looked upon her husband and wondered what a child of theirs would look like. If they would have his hair or her eyes. Would they be witty like him? Idealistic like her? Stubborn like the both of them?

For his part, Obi-Wan had never brought up the idea of children. For all Satine knew he could be completely opposed to the idea entirely. Surely being raised in the order meant there was no room for daydreaming of such things. She fears that all the years of being taught to avoid attachment pushed the thought of children out of his mind completely.

Her hand coils around the balconies railing in an attempt to steady herself. It all felt like too much.

“Satine?”

The dread of the unknown had overtaken her thoughts entirely, so much so that she hadn’t even heard him approach.

“Obi-Wan.” She breathes out, nearly falling over entirely.

He stood at the balcony’s entryway, arms crossed over his chest and a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Should I come back at a better time?” He teases, “You seem rather distracted. Perhaps I-“

She doesn’t think; all sense of propriety had fled her the moment she heard his voice and she practically flings herself into his arms. For a moment the fear and anxiety that had held her mind hostage melted away. Even after all this time there is no one she feels safer with that him. He would always be her Jedi Protector first, husband second.

“Hush.” She commands gently.

Obi-Wan does as he’s told.

This pregnancy, too, was just another thing that came without warning.

She burrows her head in the crook of his neck and inhales deeply. Two days felt like a lifetime when they hadn’t spent a night apart in years and, force, did she miss him.

“Dearest?” Obi-Wan questions lightly.

There are too many things she needs to tell him, yet she feels as though the words are stuck in her throat.

“Satine, you’re trembling.”

She hadn’t even noticed. Had she been doing that all evening?

“I-“ She pauses long enough to uncoiled herself from him, “I’m alright.”

He kisses her then, soundly and softly and she worries her knees will give out all together.

“You’re not.” He says when they part, clearly unconvinced by her words, “Let’s go inside.”

Their fingers stayed interlocked as they make their way through the door and Satine feels another wave of anxiety wash over her.

“Satine,” He prompts, taking her other hand in his, “I know when something is troubling you.”

Her gaze drops to their conjoined hands and briefly her eyes gloss over her abdomen. There was no indication to her pregnancy yet, but she could already feel

When she looks back up to her husband she finds his own gaze trained on her. There was such concern in his eyes; such love.

“I’m pregnant.”

She had intended to deliver the news with a bit more eloquence, but the moment she saw the look in his eyes the words came tumbling out before she could stop herself.

She sees the moment it finally dawns on him what she said; how his eyes shift from concerned to something more akin to shock, how his lips part in the most minuscule of gasps.

His prolonged silence scares her.

“Obi-Wan…” Her bottom lip trembles as she talks, the urge to cry overwhelming her senses, “Say something.”

He blinks, almost startled, before finally his eyes land on their conjoined hands. She knows what he’s really looking at though; the flat valley of her abdomen that would soon grow into something more.

“Ben,” she prompts, almost begging at this point, “Please.”

His hands let go of her own and find their way to her waist.

“Pregnant…”

He smiles.

“Obi-Wan?”

In an instant she’s being pulled into his arms as he practically lifts her off the ground, pressing a series of kisses to wherever his lips could reach.

“You’re pregnant.” The laugh that follows is filled with pure joy and that’s all it takes for Satine to finally let the tears come.

“I’m pregnant.” She affirms, cupping his face in her hands.

He kisses her again before setting her down.

“Are you okay?” He runs his hands gently up and down her sides, “You had me worried, the way you were trembling earlier. I thought something was wrong.”

She pauses, having been so caught up in the moment that she completely forgot about her fears from before.

“I’m fine,” She assures, “The doctor assured me everything is good.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, “Thank force.”

“You’re okay with this, then? Truly?”

He shakes his head, clearly a bit baffled by the question.

“I am elated, Satine.” He assures, "Euphoric. Deliriously happy. Surely you hadn't thought I wouldn't be?"

“Children was never something we discussed,” Satine says, “And with a galactic war looming on the horizon, our duties here, I had worried perhaps you would have found the news ill-timed.”

She had been foolish to think he would have been anything other than happy.

"Having this - having you - at times feels much like a dream, one so far from the order I once served and what I thought I could have." He moves one of his hands hesitantly over her abdomen, "Satine, I could be be nothing but overjoyed at the prospect of having a child with you."

Somedays she wishes life had been a bit kinder to her. No planet torn to pieces by war, no throne to inherit while her world was in shambles, no spending days on end running from bounty hunters with an infuriating Jedi padawan and his master.

But then, had life not hit her without warning any of those times, she never would have found Obi-Wan.

"I'm terrified," She admits quietly, before smiling, "But I am overjoyed all the same.”

Both of them are grinning widely, and just before he pulls her in for another kiss she thinks to herself that there would never be a child more loved in the Galaxy.

#obitine #obi wan x satine #obitine fanfiction #obitine fanfic #obitine prompt #obitine au #obitine fluff #a answers asks

79 notes · View notes

fruit-of-infidelity · 1 year

Text

♱ DIABOLIK LOVERS: Haunted Dark Bridal ー Sakamaki Reiji | Ecstasy 7½ ♱

⌜ Scene: Flashback ー Richter's Bedroom ⌟

ー The door flies open. ー

Cordelia: That woman…!!

This all must have been her idea! She must have planned this from the beginning!

Richter: Beloved, take a seat… What ever is the matter?

Cordelia: That Beatrix!!

Richter: My brother’s second wife?

Cordelia: Don’t make me repeat myself; Didn’t you hear the announcement?

There is to be a ball thrown to celebrate her pregnancy.

All after I refused Karl myself. This must be her attempt to get under my skin, and… and to uproot me from my place by his side!!

Richter: Pregnancy? That woman, with Karl’s…?

Cordelia: How dare she give him his firstborn!!

Richter: …Come now, doesn’t it work out well? For us both? You said so yourself, you have always disliked the idea of children, no?

With Karlheinz’ focusing on Beatrix temporarily, the two of us areーー

Cordelia: ーーOf course! This was his idea!

Ooh, how very clever…

Well, I’ll show him! If he is going to get just anyone pregnant to try to stir something in me, I’ll only have to play along!

Richter: …Come now, allow me to ease your worries. Shall I run us a bath?

ー She embraces him. ー

Cordelia: No. That’s not at all what I want…

The only way to ease me right now, is to show me all your love, Richter. Do not even think of holding back… You’ll do that for me, won’t you?

Richter: Of course… Anything to ease you.

Cordelia: Fufu, good. He’ll be utterly furious when he finds out~

ー The flashback ends to Yui’s bedroom. ー

Yui: ( So, that is why Ryuuto-san is the odd one out… )

You should be grateful, you know.

If it wasn’t for my decision that night, with Richter, Beatrix would not have had that second opportunity to carry Karl’s children.

( If Karlheinz hadn’t tried to pressure Cordelia into having the triplets… )

( Reiji-san wouldn’t have existed… )

Fufu, exactly.

And, the only reason I was brought back, was because of him, too. In a way, my little mistake worked out well for the both of us.

Isn’t a “thank you”, in order?

Richter: Are you talking to that girl, once again?

Yui: Yes, that’s right.

What perfect timing it was for you to drop by. Have you anything to tell me about Reiji, or is that person still sulking after what I said?

Richter: The latter; He has cooped himself up in his laboratory.

Yui: ( He has? Then… )

━─┉┈◈ Selection ◈┈┉─━

　　❈ He really is worried ( ♥ )

Yui: ( He really thinks I’m… gone? )

( Please… can’t he see through your lies? )

You have an awful lot to learn about men…

They’re easily persuaded by the right words and body-language, from us women.

Just by planting a few seeds of doubt in his mind, he was obviously going to work himself up, overthinking it all, fufu.

　　❈ I hope he's alright...

Yui: ( Poor Reiji-san… )

( I really hope he is alright. What you said… it seemed to throw him off. )

Nfu, how thick can you be? That was the entire point.

Riling these men up, keeping them wrapped around your finger as they tear each other, and themselves, apart…

It’s such a thrill~! Perhaps you can learn a thing or two from me.

━━─┉┈┈◈◉◈┈┈┉─━━

Richter: … …

Yui: ( By the looks of it… Reiji-san’s uncle has been on the receiving end of that too. )

Richter? Mm, you wouldn’t be wrong.

But see, he couldn’t care less, so long as I give him my love.

Richter: What was that, beloved?

Yui: Aah, you’re still here?

It’s nothing… I was just thinking about dismissing you for now.

If you hear Reiji stir from his room, do let me know, won’t you? Otherwise, I only want to hear from you again when I call for you.

Richter: As you wish.

ー Richter takes his leave. ー

Yui: ( That is “if” he stirs. )

He will. As stubborn as he might seem, I think I’ve broken him in.

Like I said, you have an awful lot to learn about men…

So, while you take the back seat in what is now my body, try to keep an open mind.

✥ TO BE CONTINUED ✥

─────── ≪ °♛° ≫ ───────

← [ ✥ Ecstasy 07 ✥ ]⎥[ ✥ Ecstasy 08 ✥ ] →

#Diabolik Lovers #dialovers #reiji sakamaki #sakamaki reiji #sakamaki reiji route #reiji sakamaki route #reiji route #haunted dark bridal #haunted dark bridal mini chapters #hdbreijiecstasy #reiji hdb route

13 notes · View notes

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 4 months

Text

Pahkah the Wise - a Malevolent fic

The rumors were bound to catch up eventually.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

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

Rumors are funny things. They are contagious; they mutate, rapidly and without prediction. Also, they’re nearly impossible to uproot once they’ve taken hold.

There’s another funny thing about rumors, however; sociologically, they tend to stay in their lane.

A rumor among servants, for example, rarely reaches the ears of kingly folk; whereas a rumor among royalty will rarely trickle down to those beneath.

Which is how the entire lower half of Hastur’s palace went insane with the news, while the entirety of court (including the subject of said rumor) had absolutely no idea.

And how the rumor spread: Pahkah the Wise, the Saint with the Golden Tongue, was alive… and in Carcosa.

Hastur’s new laws for employment were strict, and even though he was well aware that would make it harder to find help, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t risking his family again.

Weird, though, just how many… hm. Underqualified applicants was not at all the right verbiage; Carcosa was wealthy, and generous (if you didn’t mind a little madness), and while its denizens weren’t always sane, they were always happy and cared for, because Hastur wanted it that way. Regardless, he tended to attract a certain level of ambition and ability.

Over the last month, ninety percent of new applicants had not even had any particular skills to bring to the table. They came, they interviewed, they left when bid; but his staff managers swore that they were showing up as if with the singular goal of just… looking around.

So Hastur began attending interviews.

Not that they knew it was him, of course. But he dare not risk some kind of problem, some outside threat, so he wore a guise and joined in.

It was true: people were looking around, trying to see who knew what. Families; mothers with children; people who were not combatants, and who did not show any kind of fear or nervousness that would accompany assassins.

Something weird was going on here.

So, he improved his guise (read: added a deeper hood), and followed some of them home.

“I saw him, I swear I did,” they were saying to each in the first group out of Carcosa, evidently not upset by being turned down for whatever position they’d requested.

“I didn’t,” said one with a sigh, “and I looked. ”

The conversation was the same in the next group. And the next; and everyone seemed to have some personal story about this him that left Hastur baffled.

Some guy who’d been wandering around… blessing people, or something?

Healing the sick, rescuing the falsely accused, rebuilding houses… the tales were all over the place, and he couldn’t form one coherent story from them.

What was going on? Who? Whom did they all want to see?

“Pahkhah,” said a teenage girl with a sigh.

“Pakhah the wise,” agreed her friend, and they giggled.

Hastur stopped walking, trapped in the bizarre and incredibly rare net of being confused.

Parker was in his room, sweaty from his latest round of pull-ups, leaning on the balcony and watching the city. “Really no slums?”

Really, said Sunny. The King in Yellow would never allow it.

“So… what’s he do, eat the poor people?” Parker teased.

(The wise? Thought Hastur, listening in bafflement.)

No! No, of course not! Sunny said. No, they are given work. There are always things to do.

“Huh,” said Parker, clearly unconvinced. “You know, I heard some places, they grind up poor people for food.”

That’s disgusting, said Sunny with relish.

Parker chuckled. “Still. I have trouble believing this. Even America has lots of poor, and it’s supposed to be the land of opportunity.”

Sunny was grim. It is. But for the wealthy.

“And this really isn’t America,” said Parker to himself. “I wanna believe you, partner. I’m just having a lot of trouble picturing it.”

Sunny sighed. In time, we’ll be allowed to leave. When we are, I’ll show you my city; you will see how a proper ruler cares for his people with your own eyes.

“Deal,” said Parker, and that’s where Hastur got the idea.

Not that he’d ever admit that part. It was his idea, obviously, along with his plan. He was just going to have to be careful about how it all played out.

Faroe described her latest kata with wild enthusiasm, gesturing even though Arthur couldn’t see. Hastur was delighted to watch, to listen; she wouldn’t be childlike forever (and indeed had already shed much unselfaware delight), and these moments were precious to him.

“So then Dis let me grab her shoulder, like this,” demonstrated Faroe while Nibbles twisted as if in invisible grip, “and I finally learned how to use my weight to pull her over.”

Nibbles dramatically fell with a clatter.

Faroe giggled.

A lot of things are heavier than you are, John pointed out.

“Yes, and I’m learning spells to make up for that,” Faroe sniffed. “From gauging their weight to making them lighter so I can still throw them.”

“Would you learn to make yourself heavier?” Arthur said.

Oh, the face she made! “Yes, but it’s so much more complicated,” she said. “because then I have to consider the weight of my own muscles, my bones, whether my tendons can hold as I move. It’s a lot more fun to ruin their own weight.”

“Not to mention,” rumbled Hastur, “some beings cannot adapt to a change in weight or pressure. There are quite a few who will simply explode.”

Faroe looked so devilishly eager that he wanted to grab her up and cuddle her like the baby she once was, but he let her keep her dignity.

“Explode?” she repeated.

“You’ll need defensive spells,” said Hastur. “Bone fragments, venom sacs, burning blood… all of that.”

Faroe was ready to go right now. She licked her lips. “May I be excused?”

“If you show up for astronomy on time.”

Cue the pouty look.

“I might wanna learn that from Dis, too,” said Parker, ignoring the blushing side-eye Faroe gave him.

Hmph, said John. You people don’t know how good you have it.

Arthur’s brow knit. “Meaning?”

John hesitated. I… I don’t remember.

“I wasn’t allowed anything like that in the beginning,” said Arthur, giving John the out. “Not even a razor for my face.”

“Yeah. Noticed that,” said Parker.

Arthur colored like Faroe had. “I forgot you’d been in my room.”

“We lived together for years,” said Parker dryly. “Only thing that surprised me was the mirrors. I thought there were a lot out here.”

Faroe wriggled impatiently.

“You’re excused,” said Hastur, and she beamed, leaped onto him for a hug, and then scampered away, Nibbles on her heels.

Larson watched her go. His expression was a million miles distant.

Hastur did a quick scan; nothing there seemed aggressive, just regretful. Well, that was fine.

Parker the Wise had moved to teasing. “Gotta see that ass from all angles, huh?”

Arthur was red as a beet. “Don’t be stupid.”

Yes! said John, not helping.

Parker laughed.

Sunny laughed.

Arthur managed an embarrassed laugh. “I guess it was important at the time.”

It still is! The mirrors stay!

“It would only cause questions for me to remove them now,” Hastur rumbled.

Ha!

Parker shook his head, smirking. “Got it bad, English.”

Arthur looked lost. “What?”

“Nothin’. I’m off to run in circles for a while,” Parker said, only half sarcastic.

And there was his opening. “I suppose this is a difficulty for you,” said Hastur as though just now thinking of it. “Accustomed as you were to roaming the Dreamlands freely, to find yourself so bound—regardless of how luxurious the area—must be grating.”

Everyone stared at him (or in his direction).

“Come again?” said Parker.

“Arthur. John. You are excused. Preparation for the next rite and your dual birthdays take precedent.”

“All right,” said Arthur, suspiciously. “Good luck?” he said to Parker.

“I need luck?” said Parker, nervously.

Arthur just smiled and left.

What’s happened? John whispered badly.

“He’s up to something, but it’s not about us,” Arthur whispered back more successfully, but betrayed by the acoustics of this place.

Parker’s eyebrows were high. “Okay,” he said evenly.

Great OneYour highness, what… we haven’t done anything wrong, said Sunny, likely as a prelude to promising to bear whatever punishment in Parker’s place.

“I know. In fact, you’ve pleased me,” said Hastur, calm. “I would like to give you a reward.”

Parker did not relax. “I’m listening.”

“I’m going to let you tour my city—with a chaperone, of course.”

They both stared.

Parker’s mouth worked with Sunny’s shock. “Really?” said Sunny. Sorry, Parker.

“It’s fine,” said Parker, frowning, and tapped his fingers on the table.

Larson looked shocked. Unfortunate, but sending him away would have made him more suspicious. Hastur understood that slimy little man too well.

“Why?” said Parker suddenly.

“Why?” said Hastur mildly.

“I get the reward idea,” said Parker, still frowning. “But it’s only been months since the poison, and everybody’s still paranoid. So I’m thinking you got another horse in this race. Least you can do is tell us why.”

Larson looked ready to faint at this casual push-back. Amusing.

Please be careful, Sunny whispered.

“I am, pal. Ain’t doing disrespect. I’m offering to play his game, is all, since I’m gonna be a piece on the board, you feel me?”

Pahkah the Wise, indeed. “That is one of my reasons, yes. You have something of a reputation.” Which Hastur did not know beyond guesses—but by acting like he did, knew he’d get more information. “I need someone not intimately involved with my city and my palace to see what there is to see… and perhaps report anything that seems out of order.”

“I could do that,” said Larson, eager, hurt. “We could cover twice as much ground.”

Ugh. “True,” said Hastur, mentally deciding next time to just risk the paranoia and send him away. “But you, too, would have to be chaperoned.”

Larson nodded. “With pleasure, your lordship.”

Parker looked unconvinced. “I ain’t a stool pigeon.”

“Nor do I expect you to be. I hardly need a report on every minor infraction or potential stupidity. I’m looking for threats to my family. That is something I believe you would want to stop, as well.”

Finally, Parker’s tension eased. “Yeah. I don’t want him—uh, them—in danger, either.”

Great One, we would do better without a chaperone, said Sunny as boldly as he ever had in his life. We’re very good at blending in.

“It would be for your protection, as well,” said Hastur. “That is non-negotiable.”

“This time,” said Parker, ignoring Larson’s shocked look.

“This time,” agreed Hastur, “depending on how you do.”

“Done. What’s the timeline?”

“The rest of the day for you both, assuming you don’t have somewhere else to be.”

I'll clear our calendar, Sunny said.

Larson hesitated. “I’ll… speak to the Librarian.”

“Good,” said Hastur, who didn’t mean it. “Prepare yourselves. Your chaperones will come to your door when it is time.”

Larson muttered, “Fuck,” and all but ran to see if he was free this afternoon.

Parker took his time.

We get to go to Carcosa! blurted Sunny, unable to keep it in.

“Sure do,” said Parker. “Funny, that we were just talkin’ about that. Hopefully it’s just coincidence, right?”

I… I’m sure it must be.

“Well. Gonna do it, either way. Wonder what spurred this on.”

Rumors and visitors, was what. Hastur was all-in now. Maybe he was being absurd. Maybe this was stress, looking for an outlet.

No. This was entirely prudent, and he would get to the bottom of what was going on in his very palace.

Hastur went to perfect his new guise.

Parker wore his usual clothes for slinking around the palace—commoner trousers, a simple cloak with a hood, ordinary boots. Super practical, incredibly comfortable, loose enough to allow him movement, but just flimsy enough that if someone tried to grab and hold him by that clothing, he could tear free.

His lessons over eight months on the run had stuck fast.

I hope whoever he assigns to us is reasonable, said Sunny, who was so excited about showing Parker his Carcosa that he was having trouble staying serious.

“As long as we speak the same language, we should be able to get something done,” said Parker, who knew why Sunny felt that way.

Neither of them said, Because when you join the King, it will be too late for you to show me YOUR Carcosa.

Neither of them acknowledged this chance to grab with both hands before these five plus years (so short) ran out.

Both thought maybe they should say it. Neither wanted to ruin the other’s good day.

It would be fine.

The knock on the door was expected, but still made Parker jump.

Oh, said Sunny. Oh… whoever it is has power. We will be safe.

“Assuming whoever it is doesn’t tell everybody in the whole damn place where we are by being all powerful,” Parker muttered, and opened the door.

A tall, four-armed being stood there. He wore a low wrap around his hips, sandals, and weapons—two swords and two knives at his sides. Leather crossed his ebony chest (Parker did a double-take—four arms required a different musculature there, that was for darn sure), and a cloak currently thrust back to act as a cape.

The face was hidden behind a veil, but there were definitely more than two eyes staring them down. If there was hair, it hid under the veil’s hood.

Parker gawked for a moment. “Well, fuck,” he said. “Hi.”

The being nodded.

“Good, you understand me,” said Parker, and swallowed. “Uh. Sunny’s gonna say where we go.” It wasn’t a question.

The being nodded.

“Okay, here we go!” Parker said, voice cracking, and hurried down the hall at speed, pulling his hood up, aiming for the cargo bay below as an exit.

Are you all right? Sunny whispered.

“He’s hot?” whispered Parker. “I did not give permission for him to be hot.”

Sunny laughed heartily. Oh, is he spreadable, Parker? he rumbled, just on the edge of sensual.

“No, but he makes me feel like I’d be,” Parker muttered.

Sunny laughed again.

Gods, it felt good to be in the sunlight properly, not under whatever shielding the palace had. Parker knew it was supposed to be invisible, but he could absolutely sense it, anyway.

This was the real deal, out in the open, under a blue and cloudy sky. Perfection. “Where to, partner?” he said.

Given where we are, I think it makes most sense to start down by the docks of Lake Hali, and then work our way back up toward the palace.

“Works for me. Lead on.”

Parker had worried (reasonably) that this guard would put a bullseye on them, but the guy was very good at stealth; the moment they were out of the palace, he was just a tall being in a cloak, next to Parker in a cloak, on a street full of similarly dressed people. Even the four arms weren’t weird, and the cloak hid his weapons.

Parker couldn’t decide if he wanted to see those weapons used or not. Obviously, no one wanted trouble, but at the same time… yow.

There, said Sunny. To our left. Do you see that glorious dock? The one with the serpents on the pylons.

“Fancy,” said Parker, studying it. “Fuck, are those real jewels in the eyes of those things?”

Oh, yes, purred Sunny. And they can drive anyone mad who looks upon them.

“Uh,” said Parker.

You have me, Sunny said. They won’t affect you.

“Still,” Parker murmured. “Why would he want that?”

“In order to ensure only those the King has welcomed can use that dock,” said their guard in a delicious basso profundo that just seemed unfair. Although there was something about the delivery–

Only guests of the King may use that entry. It leads straight to the palace, you see? All the other docks let out into areas with more… zig-zag roads. That’s on purpose.

“I get it,” Parker said. “Slow any onslaught.”

Also, the King is a god of madness, said Sunny happily. Many consider removing the restraints of sanity an honor and a joy, like a gift delivered personally to them from the King himself.

Parker shook his head. “Sure. Well. Can’t say it’s any weirder than the Freemasons or any other shit I ran into back in the day. Where to next?”

Sunny directed. Right. Between those barrels. I want to show you the public markets.

This wasn’t so bad, Parker thought. There wasn’t even really a need to sneak, now that he thought about it—and the temptation to have wind in his hair and sun on his face was just too much. He threw his hood back and breathed deeply.

Oh, Parker… it’s so beautiful. I can smell the spices!

So could he, and they moved along the stalls, checking out goods, pretending a tall, scary, sexy guy wasn’t following them around.

“He still back there?” Parker muttered.

Oh, yes, hummed Sunny. Perhaps you should proposition him.

Parker snorted. “Pal, I don’t think he falls into the category we discussed.”

Parker, Sunny sighed in the tone of we’ve had this conversation before. You don’t need to deny yourself, you know. You are mine, and always will be; I know this, as do you, but when I am the King I will have many partners. I thought we agreed that human American sexuality doesn’t really apply to us.

“Yeah, we did,” said Parker. “It doesn’t apply to me and never fucking has. You know I’m not saying no. I’m saying I don’t know nothing about this guy, and I have definitely never seen those abs before, but at the same time, I swear I know him.”

Sunny paused. So do I. But I can’t figure out why.

“Hm,” Parker said, and made a quick right to see if he could duck out of this guy’s sight.

It was a crowded street. Loads of people wore what he did, and it was easy to move between them and slip away.

What are you doing? Sunny hissed.

“Seeing what he does when he panics,” said Parker, standing in the dark shadow of a stall, hidden and still.

“Amusing,” rumbled their guard from right the fuck beside them, and Parker jumped.

Fuck! said Sunny.

The guard laughed. It was low, entertained, and more than a little evil. “Did you think the Lord of Interstellar Spaces would assign someone to you whom you could… how do the humans put it… ‘ditch?’”

“Well, we had to see, didn’t we?” said Parker, who was damned sure he knew who this was, no matter how impossible. “Won’t apologize.”

“One is not expected to.” The being bowed, all four arms out, grace personified.

Sunny swallowed using Parker’s throat.

Parker stepped back out into the crowd again, but he was smirking. “Spreadable?”

I’d make him spreadable, Sunny said, when I have my body.

“Uh, bud… maybe not,” muttered Parker. “Pretty sure that ain’t gonna happen.”

Why not? Sunny said, sounding almost hurt.

“Feel him out. Didn’t you know that laugh? Because I sure as fuck did.”

A pause. Impossible.

“Improbable, but that ain’t the same.”

The Lord of Carcosa has no time to follow us around like a nursemaid.

“Maybe he’s bored.”

Or, more likely, this is part of a bigger scheme.

“Good point.” Parker frowned. “But we’re not into anything. What scheme could—oh, shit.” Parker ducked into another shadow.

Down the path from the palace came Larson, pale and scowling, in the company of three things that looked like hairless gorillas with eyes blinking everywhere. The odd group swept right past the hiding place, aiming for a stall selling bread, where they stood for a moment (clearing out customers due to hairless gorilla stares), until Larson miserably bought one small loaf, and then back they went to the palace.

Parker lost it. He didn’t lose it loud, but he curled down in the shadow, laughing into his elbow.

They… what? said Sunny. What just…

“Well, that sure as fuck confirms Hastur doesn’t like the guy, doesn’t it?” Parker said, and laughed some more.

This time, Sunny joined him, though it was high and nervous, breath coming fast in the spaces between. Oh, he’s going to be… to be angry, Parker, he…

“Can’t do shit. It’ll be fine, partner. Breathe with me. It’s gonna be fine.”

Sunny sucked in a breath, the sound like a soft gasp. He’s going to feel deprived!

“He’s still not getting you back, and can’t attack us, and real clearly doesn’t have Hastur’s ear.”

Maybe… maybe you’re right… maybe…

“We’re okay. You’re okay. It’s gonna be alright,” said Parker, rubbing his jaw. “Hey. That bread did look pretty good. You want some?”

We… we don’t have any money. I don’t even know where Larson got his. M-maybe he had it on him when the Outer God brought him by, or—

“Well, we can solve that, can’t we?” Parker turned and looked the guard right in the face. “So. Got any spare change?”

The rumble was amused. “You wish for funds?”

“Please. We wanna buy something to eat.”

The guard flourished. Made some fancy, pretty hand movements. And held out his second hand on his left side to reveal three shining gold Carcosan coins. “Don’t spend them all in one place,” he said, clearly amused with himself.

Show-off.

Parker took the coins. “Thanks,” he said, and headed for the stall. “Bread?”

Y-yes, said Sunny, quietly. You’re right. It’s him.

“Yeah?”

Yeah. He… I took the time to look. And it’s an excellent guise, and I doubt anyone else will see it, but I know… I know myself.

“Man, what a day,” said Parker, and turned to the baker. “Hey, there! That smells great. What kind is this?”

And he grew aware of being watched.

It was a woman, according to his peripheral view. Short; scrawny. Staring right at them.

Parker smiled at the explanation of baked-with-rosemary, asked shyly if the gold coin could be broken (it could), and received a steaming hot bun as big as his face.

And without warning, he turned.

The woman gasped and ran.

That… the fuck, was that Cill?

“Sure as fuck it was!” said Parker, and gave chase though he couldn’t say why.

Why are we chasing her?

“Because what the fuck?” said Parker, which apparently forestalled questions.

Cill wasn’t hard to catch. She was still underfed, though her clothes were less worn; her hair had grown out a little, and Parker caught up before they even reached the corner stall.

That was also because she had her son by her side, and even half-carried, the little guy could only go so fast.

She banged into an empty wooden booth, half-tucked her son behind her, and whirled to face them with the wide-eyed look of an animal caught in a trap. “Don’t hurt us!” she whispered.

“Why would we…” said Parker. “Look, not gonna hurt you. Calm down. Just—what the fuck? What are you doing here?”

She stared.

“Cill, right?” said Parker, adopting his calm-the-spooked-witness voice.

“You remember?” she said, and sounded deeply afraid.

“Yeah. Hey. It’s okay. See? Not touching you. I just… was real shocked to see you, you know? And then you took off like a bat outta hell.”

She stared. “A bat…”

Parker dropped the expression. “Are you okay? Hey, kid. Good to see you again.”

The little boy stared, too.

Parker had a pretty good idea what might knock them out of paralysis. He wasn’t nearly as graceful as the guard (who was who knew where right now, lurking, probably), but he produced one of the coins with a flourish. “Ta-da.”

The boy gasped and snatched it.

“No!” Cill said.

“It’s okay. Hey. Look. I didn’t blame you then, did I? Still don’t. Bad guys suck. Are you okay?” said Parker evenly.

She nodded, swallowing. “I’d heard… I’d heard you were here, alive, and I thought…”

He waited. Silence always worked wonders.

Cill pulled her son right up against her. “I thought… if you were alive, we could be forgiven.”

Nothing to forgive, is what Parker wanted to say, but in a rare moment, Sunny took over.

“You are forgiven, good mother, suffering servant.” He said, voice bass and noble and kind. “No sin is laid upon your head. Resume your fight, care for your child, and do so without fear, for we are unharmed and gracious.”

Damn, thought Parker.

That was very clearly what Cill had wanted to hear. Her sobbing wasn’t loud, but her tears were bright, and her cheeks very red.

“Mom,” whispered the kid. “Mom!”

She picked him up. “Thank you.”

“What’d you hear?” said Parker. “Might help us out to know.”

“That the Saint had come to Carcosa. That the King in Yellow must have saved him. I… I had to see.” She ducked her head. “Thank you.”

Parker licked his lips. “You can hang around, you know. It’s a good place. Last I heard, there aren’t even any slums. You could get work. Give your kid a chance for something better.”

Her eyes were almost as big as her son’s.

“Good luck, okay?” said Parker, who had no idea how to end this thing, and turned to go.

“Thank you,” she said, then got louder. “Thank you! The Saint lives! The Saint lives!”

Yeah, he wasn’t waiting for that to play out, and pulled his disappearing act again, hood up, diving between stalls.

She’s all right, said Sunny, low. Fuck. I’d worried. I’d… I’d worried.

“Anything Larson touches tends to go belly-up,” said Parker. “So yeah. I had, too. You better be right about no slums.”

I am, said Sunny, just a touch huffy.

And that “guard” suddenly blocked their path as if he’d materialized there.

Parker ran into him (it was a very nice chest) and bounced back, automatically in a fighting stance until his brain caught up with him. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Nothing a Saint can’t handle, I’m sure,” said the guard, “judging by what I’ve heard lately at the gates.”

The… the gates? said Sunny, fearful.

Parker narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s been happening at the gates?”

The guard managed to look smug, even with his face covered. “Enjoy your outing, Mister Yang.”

“Really?” said Parker, dry.

My—

Parker touched his lips. “Later. Let’s play the game, yeah?”

Y-yeah, said Sunny, and only as they turned away whispered, What’s the game?

“Fuck if I know,” said Parker. “Show me the rest of your city. He wants to play guard, then he’s gonna be on his feet all damn day.”

Sunny couldn’t help it. His laugh was anxious, and unsteady, and real, and reminded Parker of nothing so much as when they’d gone leaping over rooftops, and he’d said—

I will our luck to hold! Sunny cried, and Parker laughed with him.

They didn’t cover all of Carcosa, of course; it would have been too big even if they hadn’t been interrupted—and they were constantly interrupted.

By noon, Cill must have sent out some sort of missive, because people were actively looking for Parker in the city.

Parker refused to go back yet. He had no idea if they’d have another chance at this, didn’t know if they’d get free (though he had plans for that beautiful lake), didn’t know if Sunny would get this opportunity again.

And hey. Mister “I’m Not Hastur” wasn’t saying boo, so as far as Parker was concerned, they were golden.

Ha. Golden. He told Sunny the joke.

We are golden, Sunny purred, evidently finding that sultrier than intended.

Well, that figured. The one time Parker put on some of the provided yellow clothing, Sunny wove poetry about it for the rest of the day.

This god sure did have a thing with that color. “Lake safe?” he said.

Parts of it!

Definite plans for later.

The change from the coin kept them going all day. They had hand pies, and special breads, and got to sniff neat spices, and chew on a weed that the smiling owner swore tasted like “earth candy” (it did not), and some damn good ale, and made their way back up to the palace while avoiding anyone’s gaze and honestly having a great time.

Parker felt like he’d been cooped up for a year.

Parker felt like they were on a date.

He’d never been on a date. Officially, anyway. Not like this.

“Hey,” he said. “You know how you’re always thrilled when you get a first of mine?”

Oh, yes, Sunny purred.

“Well, you got one today.” The palace loomed at the top of the hill, the gold turned turned rosy by the setting suns, the black gleaming like oncoming night. “I think we’re officially on a date. Like to Coney Island. And that’d be my first.”

Sunny sucked in a quick breath through their teeth. I… Really? But there’s… Really? His voice was full of… It wasn’t quite pure wonder, but it wasn’t quite grief either. …Well. I want to do this again, you know.

“Really. I mean… I’ve done meetups, and shit like that. Hung out sometimes. Real casual like, so nobody could get hurt. But I saw folks on dates. They looked fun.” His volume dipped. “Another one of those things I thought I’d never get to do. So you did it again.”

Sunny was quiet for a moment. And I didn’t even get you flowers, he said.

“You wanna get me flowers?” Parker couldn’t help his goofy grin.

And he’d forgotten about Not!Hastur over there, but the guard moved into view and gestured.

Flowers. A whole fucking aisle of booths with flowers, all the way back down to the lake.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Parker, and headed that way to let Sunny choose some flowers.

Somehow, despite not having a body, Sunny was nearly shaking with excitement. How elaborate can I go? Just a few? Or can I get whatever I want?

“Whatever you want with the money we got left.”

YES! Sunny crowed. Alright, alright, if I was going to surprise you… Alright. I want to start with violets and morning glories; then a few heliotrope interspersed for devotion. It’s not a proper bouquet without some red roses, of course, but only… three. Yes, to help accent the flowers I want in the center; a gladiolus, for you. A daffodil, for me.

Parker laughed. “Wait, wait… there’s meaning?”

Yes! Apparently it was very big to use flowers for coded messages in the last century—well, Earth’s last century. I read up on it. I didn’t realize I would get to use it. Do you want me to explain?

Parker was stunned. “We had… handkerchiefs, and… yeah. I do. Tell me everything.”

This… This is even better. It means you can help, then. Alright, so… Morning glories represent affection, and both heliotrope and violets represent devotion; hence why I have them surrounding the core of the bouquet. Red roses mean ‘I love you,’ as you probably could guess since they’re most frequently used in romantic bouquets. A gladiolus represents strength, integrity, victory; hence why I chose it for you. A daffodil is sent to one you hold an unparalleled love for, and… well, it’s yellow, so I thought it fit. He let out a low, shy laugh. As for the rest of it… If they have some bunches of flowering thyme, that would do lovely for greenery. It represents courage and strength.

Parker was silent for a long moment, staring at the bouquet. “You’re… kinda announcing it, huh?” He swallowed. “Wow.” Thicker: “Wow.” He wiped his eyes.

Yes, Parker. I want to. I know that is… a large step for you, but if you’d prefer I can pick something more subtle. Something just for us.

“No, I’m just… I’m really never going back. Even after you’re gone—“ he stopped. Hadn’t meant to go there. Still, he pushed on. “Even after, I’m never going back. I could never… be happy like this there. So. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Sunny was quiet for a long moment. You deserve this, Parker. I… I want to give all of this to you, and more, and… I will. I’ll keep doing it, as long as we’re together. He let out that low, soothing rumble; the rumble that said something had stuck in his craw but he absolutely was not going to talk about it. I love you, after all. Where do you want to put it?

“By the bed so it’s the last thing I see at night and the first thing in the morning,” Parker said without hesitation.

And you say you’re not a romantic, Sunny teased.

The “guard” did not push them. Parker decided, though, that it was best not to risk hanging around in the dark when people who could see magic might catch a golden spark in his mouth.

Though to be fair, the way he held the flowers all the way to the palace probably would have hidden that, anyway.

Well, there was plenty wrong with those two—at least, if Arthur and John were the model.

Hastur wasn’t so sure they should be the model.

He pondered, before heading to his next appointment, if maybe he needed to rework this part of the plan. Sunny was just more…

Mature? Wise? No, that wasn’t it.

Sunny reminded him of himself sometimes. Not all the romantic nonsense, but his ability to think in details, and to plan. To be, in the moment, lordly—up to and including royal forgiveness.

But to bring them in now would force some very awkward conversations, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.

Sunny was better for the role he’d planned for John, but still so fragile. Well; what if he could be moved past that fragility?

What if this “Saint” thing lent credence to Carcosa after time was up, for Faroe’s sake?

She’d have to be told about the Saint thing. Well, she already worshiped the ground he walked on, so that couldn’t make things worse.

His plan hadn’t had room for Sunny and Parker at all. Maybe it should.

Maybe they’d be glad to know there would be no rejoining… or maybe Sunny would regress and decide he was worthless.

Hastur sighed. The mechanics of this mess alone would be enough to keep him occupied, but he still had to return to the Underworld and make up for leaving so abruptly in the middle of negotiations.

Maybe the ghouls knowing Parker was here could help. Maybe.

Hastur paused on his way out of the palace, listening to Arthur and John argue in the piano room over what key felt more “orange.” Dear hell, they weren’t ready for anything.

Maybe he should just lock all four of them in a closet for a week.

“It’s clearly D major!” Arthur snapped.

No. B flat.

“You’re just... deaf! And wrong! That’s far too warm and mellow. A deep ochre, at best.”

A week would clearly not be enough.

He checked Faroe (sound asleep, half on top of her wooden goat guardian), and finally left. It would be a long night.

He’d find a solution by morning. He would. He had to. One step, he already knew: this Saint thing was definitely going to play a big part.

Far be it from him not to use juicy gossip that walked right in his front door.

----------

Notes:

I can't believe Trin gave me a reason to use Victorian flower language in-fic -Kraiva You'd better believe I did. -Trin

#malevolent au #malevolent podcast #malevolent #malevolent fic #surrogate series #surrogate fic #parker yang #peter parker yang #sunny | yellow #yellow malevolent #hastur malevolent #kiy malevolent

2 notes · View notes