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averykedavra · 4 years

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Valley of the Dolls 2/10

The wonderful idea of apathy!Roman goes to @caffeinated-cryptid, an amazing artist and all-around great person. Check out their @ts-unsolved au, it owns my heart! This is mostly in line with their ideas, but I took it in a slightly different direction. And my description doesn’t do justice to their amazing costume design, so take a look yourself! Also, this chapter is chock-full of my favorite headcanons. I got some of the ideas from this post and this post. You can find this fic on Ao3 here.

(Title is from Valley of the Dolls by MARINA. Chapter is based around Surrender by Malinda)

Pairings: platonic DLAMPR

Warnings: sympathetic Remus, sympathetic Janus, a ton of angst (but I’ve got a happy ending planned), blood mentions, death mentions, death threats, slightly NSFW jokes, attempted violence. Basically Remus being Remus. Set immediately after Putting Others First.

Summary: After the disastrous video and a week of spiraling, Roman becomes a Dark Side, Apathy. At first, Remus is thrilled, dragging his brother into all sorts of trouble. But Roman’s no fun anymore, the other Sides are paying a visit downstairs, and it’s becoming clear that Thomas can’t survive without Creativity by his side.

Chapter 2: Hours From Another Day

First. Previous. Next. Masterlist.

We're a bomb, ticking time away You belong to hours from another day... All we need is one disaster, one relief Hearts beat, hoping for that old belief... But that was then, and this is now And we made it through the woods somehow Willing and able to breathe.

Remus was minding his own business, welding two dildos together, when his brother fell from the ceiling and landed on the living room carpet.

Remus hopped off the couch and tossed the half-melted dildos behind him, where they burned a hole through the middle cushion. But there were enough stains and burns already that the new hole fit right in.

Roman was lying still, three inches from the coffee table with the extra tentacle leg, face-down and silent. Wait, was it Roman? He wasn’t wearing the right clothes. Black, not white. And Roman would never go this long without jumping up, waving his sword, and making declarations of undying love or great heroism or something.

Still. Remus just knew. Maybe it was intuition, or twin-tuition, or separated-from-this-guy-at-age-seven-tuition. This was Roman Creativity Sanders himself, lying on the Dark Sides’ ragged tan carpet.

Which begged the question. What in the name of Mary Shelley was he doing here?

“Ro-bro?” Remus asked. “Why’d you decide to drop in?”

Roman didn’t congratulate Remus on his pun. He didn’t respond at all. He didn’t even twitch.

“You in there?” Remus tilted his head, neck cracking. “Did you pass out? You’d better not have passed out, Jan will kill me if I bring another unconscious human into his room.”

No answer.

Remus summoned a chalkboard and dragged his nails down it. The ear-splitting screech echoed around the room.

Roman didn’t flinch.

Which was rude! Remus didn’t like being ignored. He grabbed the fused dildos and chucked them at Roman’s back. But he’d never been super great at throwing things so it flew over Roman’s shoulder and began to burn a hole in the carpet. Eh, there were lots of stains in the carpet, too. Nice things in the Downstairs didn’t tend to last very long.

“C’mon!” Remus prodded Roman with his foot. “C’mon, wake up! Say something! This is boring!” He kicked Roman’s ribs, hard, and Roman curled a little tighter, making a pained noise.

Success!

Now. If a kick got him to move, what would get him sitting up and talking? Maybe a nuclear warhead in the face? Or nipple tasers? Or branding his face with swear words! All fun options, but if Roman was in too much pain to talk, it wouldn’t do anyone any good.

Remus decided answers were more important than nipple tasers. A sad truth, but there it was.

“Get up,” Remus ordered, kicking him again. “Or I’ll electrocute your nipples.”

Usually, that statement elicited a lot of screaming. Or, in Jan’s case a ‘good for you, Remus,’ but Jan was different. So it was a surprise when Roman didn’t even look up.

Was he sleeping? Unconscious? Ignoring Remus like the little bratty baby he was? Wait, was he dead? No, he wasn’t dead, he’d moved—but what if he died right after that? Could Sides die? Remus had done a lot of real nasty stuff that would probably kill a regular boring human body twenty times over. If ripping out his own beating heart and feeding it to a dinosaur didn’t kill a Side, Remus didn’t think anything would.

But Roman still wasn’t moving. And hey, intrusive thoughts sucked. Remus couldn’t stop picturing Roman dying, his corpse decaying on the carpet, his eyeballs drying up and—

He wasn’t dead! He was breathing! He was breathing, right? He wasn’t dead, right? Remus sniffed at him and grabbed his arm, lifting it high in the air. It immediately fell back down. Alrighty, fun game! But he needed to figure stuff out. No time for games. Be a detective instead! Logan liked detective stuff, right? Remus caught him reading a Sherlock x Watson fanfic that one time. What would Logan do, and how could Remus do that better and with more butts?

Remus stuck out his tongue as he thought. He should try to gather information! Right? Like the answer to that is-Roman-breathing question. He’d completely forgotten about that. Sometimes Remus really didn’t like how his mind worked, all slippery and fluid and changeable. Like a greased pig on caffeine. How slick was a greased pig anyway? Were some animals faster when greased? What about humans? What about a few specific body parts—

Breathing. B-R-E-A-T-H-I-N-G. Focus, focus, focus. Remus had a mystery to solve and he didn’t have time for this.

How did someone check for breathing? Remus held his hand in front of Roman’s face. Was that breath? He hoped it was. He barely got to see his bro and it would be a real shame if Ro-Bro’s visit was cut short by cardiac arrest. If Roman died before Remus got to kill him, Remus would murder him.

Wait, heartbeat! That’s something Remus should check, right? Remus immediately reached for Roman’s chest to extract his heart. Nope. Wait a sec. They were both Creativity. Injuries hurt when the other did them.

Although it might get Roman to move—

Before Remus could decide whether to jumpstart Roman’s brain with a defibrillator-style shock to the system, Roman shifted again. It was tiny, but there.

Okay. Definitely alive. Cool. Cool cool cool. Was he asleep? Wouldn’t the impact have woken him up? And he was sleeping face-down, which sounded fun and suffocating but not the sort of thing Roman was usually into. Remus couldn’t see if his eyes were open. They’d better not be, or Roman was just ignoring Remus and making his life harder on purpose.

Remus lodged his foot under Roman’s chest and flipped him over.

Huh.

That was new.

Roman wasn’t wearing his usual prince costume. Well, he was? Sort of. But the white parts were all black, and the sash might have been darker as well or maybe it was just Remus’ imagination. Maybe it was because the red didn’t gleam and the gold didn’t shine. Roman was always easy to spot, like a strangely plumed peacock. Remus was the same, dousing his outfit in sparkles and ruffles. Maybe it was tasteless in Remus’ case, or ostentatious in Roman’s, but it made sure they were always the center of attention. Now, the colors were dull and seemed out-of-place on Roman’s outfit. They didn’t have any life to them, like veins with the blood drained out, only a shell left behind.

This was Roman, right? He’d never be caught dead in that outfit. It looked like Jan and Virgil had dressed him on a dare. But no. It was Roman’s face. Although his skin was pale and he looked a little thinner than usual and dark purple makeup dripped down his face. Like tears.

And was a lock of hair in front darker than the rest? Remus absently reached up and fingered his own white patch. He’d dyed it as a teenager and kept it around. It reminded him of Cruella de Vil, of raccoons. Roman talked about dying his hair sometimes, but usually something colorful. Red, or purple, or full rainbow. Never just darker brown.

Very emo indeed, Remus decided. Maybe this was a prank from Virgil? Virgil wasn’t really the prank type.

Then Remus noticed something really weird. Roman was wearing a crown.

When they were little, back when they were the same person, they wore a crown. After they split, for a while, they’d wear cardboard crowns and paper wreaths. But as they grew older, Roman and Remus decided against the crowns. For Remus, they brought back bad memories and stories he didn’t want to revisit. For Roman, the crowns always ended up falling off. Roman was full of restless energy—maybe it was a twin thing—and any hat or headgear was bound to wobble around and tumble to the floor. Remus was the same way. He tried wearing a dear skull to dinner and it fell into Virgil’s soup. Virgil was not impressed.

But now, Roman had a crown. A small golden crown perched on his head. Like it was glued to his scalp. Like Roman wanted a crown so bad he made it stay put, or he knew he wouldn’t move around enough to make it come off.

Something was definitely wrong.

Remus reared up to give Roman another kick, because he was getting answers. Then he noticed Roman’s eyes were open.

“You dork!” Remus yelled. “You’ve been awake this whole time? Why are you here if you’re just gonna ignore me?”

Roman’s eyes shifted over to him. He didn’t speak.

“Are you giving me the Silent Treatment?” Remus stuck out his bottom lip. “Rude! You visit just to act like I don’t exist? I thought princes have manners!”

Roman swallowed and whispered “Not visiting.”

“He speaks!” Remus paused. “Wait, what d’ya mean? You’re here, aren’t you?” He groaned. “Oh, is this another hallucination? I knew I shouldn’t have eaten those carrots—”

Roman shook his head slightly.

“What are you saying?” Remus stomped his foot. “If you don’t start talking sense, I’ll bash your skull in!” Remus summoned his mace and swung it from his hand, leering at Roman. “I’m gonna.”

Roman looked away.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Remus said, poking Roman hard in the leg with his mace.

That leg should have bled, thick and strong. Roman should have screamed like a girl and clutched the wound as the skin split and veins separated. Remus should have Sides at his door, patching Roman up and giving Remus dirty looks that weren’t the fun kind of dirty. Roman should be back the next day, sword in hand, and it would be Remus’ turn to bleed out, JanJan lecturing him as he tightened the bandages, asking why they couldn’t just leave each other alone.

That’s what should have happened.

But the mace stuck in Roman’s leg. No blood bubbled up around the points. Remus pulled it out with a squelching noise.

There was no damage.

“What?” Remus said aloud, prodding the area. Not a scratch. Even Roman’s clothes were intact. He’d sharpened that mace this morning, why wasn’t it—

A new outfit. A new crown. Makeup running down his face. The usual just-the-brothers-can-maim-each-other-rule no longer applying.

Remus dropped his mace. It clattered on the ground.

“No.”

Roman met his eyes and nodded.

“No, no, no.” Remus shook his head hysterically. “No! Nope! Not dealing with this!”

Roman exhaled and turned away again. Remus stared at him with wide eyes. This was a prank. A joke. It had to be! Sides didn’t just change, that wasn’t how this worked. Virgil switched, but Virgil was different. Roman was the fan favorite, the pretty boy, the good twin, everything Remus would never be.

“Jan?” Remus called, eyes trained on his brother. “Roman just fell into the living room and I think he might be a Dark Side now?”

He waited for Jan to respond. The Mindscape was quiet.

“JanJan?” Remus yelled at the top of his lungs.

No answer.

“Guess you’re not here,” Remus muttered bitterly. “Again.”

Great. He was alone in the Downstairs with a half-way comatose twin brother in a weird new outfit, that he couldn’t even stab!

“What happened to you?” Remus asked, not expecting an answer. “Did someone say something? I know the last video was a mess, but I thought y’all would figure it out. That’s what you do, right? Kiss and make up like in My Little Pony?” Remus blew a giant raspberry at Roman’s face. “I had things to do today and you completely messed up my schedule, so thanks a lot.”

Roman didn’t apologize. That tracked.

“You know what?” Remus asked, pacing back and forth. “You know what?”

He reached down and grabbed Roman’s face, squishing his cheeks and puckering his lips. “What?” he asked in a falsetto.

“I’m so glad you asked!” Remus released Roman’s face and stood up again. “I’m going to pay Upstairs a visit and see if I can pawn you off. You’re gonna be someone else’s problem, dearest brother-of-mine.”

Roman did not protest. Remus grabbed his mace off the floor and, swinging it joyfully, headed down the hall. His feet squelched on the carpet—it never really recovered from that cloud of blood, did it? The staircase was past the doors, a rickety set of spiral stairs perfect for pushing people down. Jan did that to Virgil once. It was hilarious.

Remus passed his own door first, a green slimy slab of putrid, hardened pus. ‘CREATIVITY’ was scratched into it with, Remus recalled, a double-bladed knife. The next door was Jan’s, made of dark burnished wood, a golden plaque proclaiming ‘DECEIT: Please Enter.’ The third door had no doorknob or keyhole, and the only marks were four long scratches down the front, like something had clawed it.

Remus deliberately ignored the blank, dirty patch of wallpaper where a fourth door used to be.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.

Remus whirled, mace at the ready. At first he didn’t see anything. It was just a stretch of ugly wallpaper with some unidentifiable stains and graffiti that yelled ‘EAT THE RICH’ in bold letters.

But one of the stains, a dark one in the center of the wall, was steadily growing wider. No, it wasn’t really a stain—it was a rip, a tear. The wallpaper peeled away, revealing—a door handle?

What?

Remus creeped forward, hand still on his mace. Despite himself, hope bloomed in his stomach. The door was a familiar shade of black. It was impossible, but—was Virgil coming back? No. He wouldn’t. Would he? Could he? And if he wasn’t, why as a door appearing on the wall?

Maybe it was a storage closet or something. Who summoned it, Jan? Ugh, if Jan was here and had just ignored Remus, he’d have a bed full of shaving cream tonight.

The door was getting larger, stretching until it reached over Remus’ head. The wallpaper folded around the corners of the door and was scored away along the edges. The gold doorknob rattled and clicked, a new keyhole right below it. Remus reached out and tried to turn the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

The whole door was black. On closer inspection, it wasn’t the same black as Virgil’s door. Virgil’s was iridescent and almost purple. This black was just matte black. Virgil’s door was paint on wood. This was—Remus touched the surface carefully—almost glassy in texture. Cool and smooth.

Then, under his fingers, red scribbled across the surface, looping around and tucking back into itself. A red square settled around the doorknob, a red stripe slashed across the door like a sash, and on that sash, black cursive etched out a name.

APATHY.

In little golden letters beneath, ROMAN SANDERS.

In even littler letters, DO NOT ENTER.

Remus pressed his fingers to his mouth, reading the words again. Apathy. Roman Sanders, do not enter. Apathy. Roman Sanders. Apathy, Roman. Roman.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in Remus’ throat. He stumbled to the opposite wall and slid down it, staring at the door. He blinked hard. It didn’t disappear. He ripped his eyeballs out, dusted them off, and popped them back in. The door was still there.

Apathy Roman.

“You little…” Remus laughed. “You little b*tch!”

He didn’t even mind that Thomas’ mind censored swears. He swore anyway. He swore and laughed until he was gasping for breath. He said every swear word he knew and some he was pretty sure he’d just made up. He laughed until his eyes watered. Was he complaining or celebrating? Remus didn’t know.

He didn’t know a lot of things. How did this happen? Was it permanent? Would Roman stay for a day, a month, a year, forever? Remus glanced toward the living room. Roman hadn’t moved from the floor. Well.

“Hey, turd!” Remus called. “You’ve got a room here, did you know that?”

Roman didn’t respond.

“Seriously? Don’t tell me you died while I was over here.” Remus walked back down the hall and poked Roman in the chest. “Get up. The door won’t open for me and I’m really curious what it looks like inside.”

Roman looked blankly up at Remus. Remus leered back. When that got no reaction, he tore off his nose and let blood drip down his face. Still nothing! Was Remus losing his touch or was Roman just that apathetic?

Apathy. Apathetic. Oh. Yeah, that made sense.

“Okay, I get it,” Remus said. “Your new gig is being a grumpy formless blob. Cool. Fine. But I’ve got business to do in the living room and you can’t just lie there forever. Get your tuchas moving and come check out your new digs.”

Roman looked away again.

“You’ve taken a vow of silence or something?” Remus flexed his fingers. “That’s irritating, I can’t read minds like Jan. Tell you what. Blink if you’re gonna get up and walk with me to your room, don’t blink if I’m gonna have to drag you down the hallway like a dead body.”

Roman didn’t blink. Either he wanted to be dragged or couldn’t be bothered to move his eyelids. Good enough for Remus. He grabbed Roman’s ankles and tugged him down the hall.

It was slow going. Roman was heavy and he kept getting stuck on the carpet. Remus tried his best to make conversation. He was used to talking to people who ignored him, so it was pretty easy. It was like that scene in Inside Out, he thought vaguely. Huh, that was weird. Usually his similes were more X-rated.

Wait.

If Roman wasn’t Creativity anymore—did that mean Remus was—

Remus stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, his brother in one hand and his mace in the other.

Was he the only Creativity now?

Was he like Him?

No. No, he wasn’t. He’d know. He could tell if something was different. Remus hadn’t changed. He was still demented and disgusting and delectable.

But wasn’t that worse?

Thomas…Thomas didn’t have Roman anymore. No flights of fancy or unicorn horns. Just asphyxiation and zombies and everything in between. Creativity was no longer balanced in a yin-yang black-white good-evil situation. It was all Remus.

He’d always wanted more control. More attention. To really have a say in Tommy’s decisions, to not be shunted aside and sidelined because his ideas were too ‘mature.’ He’d always wanted to knock Roman down a peg, kick him a few rungs down the social ladder.

Just...not like this.

He didn’t want Roman to fall off entirely. He didn’t want Roman to leave the stage. He didn’t want Roman gone.

Remus couldn’t—he couldn’t be the only Creativity. He was no good! Everyone said so! They’d probably blame him for Roman’s fall even though, for once, it wasn’t his fault, and Virgil would hate him and Jan would finally leave and—

There was a light tap on his leg. Remus jerked out of his thoughts, glancing down at Roman. Roman’s eyes were a little wider than normal. He looked worried.

“Okay?” Roman asked quietly.

Are you okay?

“Of course,” Remus said, waggling his eyebrows and ignoring the pang in his chest. “Let’s go.” He grabbed Roman’s arm and swung him around his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Without the friction from the floor, Remus was at Roman’s door in seconds. He reached out and jiggled the handle. Still locked.

“You’re gonna have to open this,” Remus told Roman, twisting his head around to look at him.

Roman sighed quietly. His finger twitched, and the door swung open. Remus barged in and tossed Roman on the bed. It had black and grey sheets with a red quilt and was the only thing in the room. The walls and floor were bare plaster. It looked like a prison cell.

“Jeez,” Remus complained, “not very stylish, bro. Would it kill you to add some color?”

Roman was already curled up on the bed, not bothering to cover himself with sheets. He stared at the wall.

“Fine, I’ll decorate.” Remus snapped his fingers and added a large mirror with claw feet, a few grotesque paintings on the walls, and a knitted carpet the color of dried blood.

“Perfect.” Remus glanced at the still motionless figure on the bed. “Look, I’m gonna call in some backup, okay? Don’t die while I’m gone.”

Roman closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep immediately. Remus watched him for a second before bolting out of the room. The door banged on the wall as he threw it open.

“Jan!”

Why wasn’t he here?

Remus stomped down the hallway toward Jan’s door. If JanJan wasn’t here, he’d just break into his room and make Jan pay attention.

As he passed the handle-less door, he paused. The food flap was locked but Remus knew the combination, he could—

No. He wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Instead, Remus kicked the snaky boy’s door open. Ha, joke’s on JanJan for letting Remus come in whenever. A snake hissed at him from its terrarium. Remus hissed back.

It would be pretty much impossible for Jan to ignore this. All Sides knew if someone else was in their room. Remus usually resented that. It made pranking harder. But today it came in handy.

“Oh, JanJan!” Remus stepped toward the bookshelf. “Sure would be a shame if all these lovely volumes were dumped into a vat of motor oil and set on fire!”

No angry snake appeared. Remus kicked over a end table and tossed some slime on the bed.

“Seriously, Jan,” Remus continued, releasing some crickets in the closet. “I’d get in here if I were you!”

There was a loud clang outside. Footsteps. Remus ran to the door and saw Jan, capelet flying behind him and face flushed, running down the stairs.

“There you are!” Remus complained. “Took you long enough.”

“I—” Jan stumbled to a stop in front of him, bending over and panting. “There—Remus—”

“What’s up, Double Dee?” Remus glanced at the open door behind him. “Um, I’d be careful going inside if I were you—”

“Remus,” Jan repeated, finally catching his breath. He straightened. There was panic in his eyes. “Remus, we—we have a situation.”

“Yeah, no sh*t, Sherlock!” Remus snapped. “While you were off playing nice Upstairs, that situation fell into our living room.”

“What?” Jan’s mouth dropped open. “Roman—what?”

Remus grimaced. “You’d better come see this.”

Next. Masterlist.

General taglist:

@the17thmeatball

@most-likely-fandom

@csi-baker-street-babes

@caffeinated-cryptid

Valley of the Dolls taglist:

@cluttered-wonder

@wouldnt-you-like-that

@gotta-love-alejandra

@mihaela-tbg

@tombombadi1

@kaefish

@not-enough-sketchbooks

@marshmallow-fluffy

@confusedhost

@ghostlygalactics

@a-salty-alto

@youthquake-in-the-making

@itriedandimtired

@aromantic-karamatsu

@fear-is-nameless

@somehow-i-got-an-account

Ask to be included or removed!

116 notes · View notes

the-omni-princess · 5 years

Text

Frozen Heart [Chapter 10]

Author: @the-omni-princess

Summary: After the war against Hydra, King Bucky comes home to take what has been promised to him since he was young, you. But he is not the same person as the young boy that you grew up with. Can she break through his tough shell and bring back the young man she once fell in love with? Or will she be forced to marry the monster everyone thinks he’s become?

Word Count: 3.8K

Pairing: King!Bucky x Fem!Reader (Royalty Au!)

Warnings: A sex mention, Minor illnesses, Surprises!, Language, Violence, Blood

A/N:

Time for it to get funnnn

[Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

----

As October ended and November began, change frequently occurred in the palace. The furs in your as well as Bucky's chamber got thicker, the candles and firewood got thicker, the trees all looked barren, the only living looking plants were in your new greenhouse. Finished just in time for winter, you walked along the pathway, picking out a new spot for the peonies in your hand, Aurora walking beside you. Your own wolf was still too young to wander the castle with you, but her training was coming along wonderfully. Ever since you and Bucky became one, he had become a bit more protective, if that was even possible. Now, he was in a meeting without you, one of the few nowadays you didn't participate in.

You sat on the ground in the greenhouse, tugging your long sleeves up to plant the flowers. Aurora curled up beside you, the wolf pup had become just as possessive as Bucky, always curled up to one of you, and recently had joined you two curled up in bed at times.

"I thought I might find you here," a familiar voice rang out, you didn't glance back, already well knowing who it was. Aurora whined softly, jumping up to say hello to him.

"It's either here or the library, or one of our beds," you shot back, "not many options with the cold setting in."

Bucky came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you. You happily laid back into his chest, smiling as he spoke. "And here I thought you enjoyed meetings with me," he pressed a kiss to your hair, burying himself into you.

"I do, but I hate meetings involving the diplomats from Hydra's Kingdom. Even defeated they are slimy, uncaring about their starving people." You closed your eyes, leaning your head against his shoulder. "And I can never forgive those monsters for hurting you," you murmured softly.

"I don't enjoy those meetings either, My Love, but sadly they are necessary. Gladly, they are leaving early as the snows are rolling in. We believe a snow storm is coming tonight." Aurora curled up beside the two of you, and you ran a hand through her fur. "Your first snow," he added, excitement in his voice.

"My first snow," you closed your eyes in content. "Gods, I'm going to be freezing!"

He chuckled behind you, tightening his hold on you. "I'll keep you warm," he spoke against your neck, goosebumps raising as his breath fanned across your skin, much to his amusement.

"You did promise to keep me warm when I first moved here, I do suppose you've done a good job so far," you teased with a playful grin.

"I'd promise the world for you if you wanted it, My Queen," he kissed your ear, all his kisses chaste and playful. "Speaking of, My Queen, your coronation has to follow Northern traditions, but is there any part of Southern Coronation Traditions you wish to have?" You shrugged faintly against him.

You and your Ladies in Waiting were in charge of planning the wedding, a perfect union between North and South, both rituals relatively similar. Both used handfasting, but the elements in each differed slightly. Silver in the North, Gold in the South. Diamond rings in the North, Pearl rings in the South. These differences also followed in coronations, only they shifted to crowns and robes.

"I don't mind a fully Northern Coronation, My Love. I'll be Queen of the North, not Queen of the South. It may be where I'm from, and it'll always be a part of me, but it isn't where I'll be for the rest of my life." You reminded lightly. You turned slightly, burying your face in his neck. "The wedding, however, is completely half and half," you smiled against his skin, pleased with yourself as he shuddered. "Nat's idea of course. Two becoming one. Two people, two kingdoms, one soul." you pulled away enough to see the smile on his face, his eyes crinkled, sending warmth through your body.

"That sounds wonderful," he gave you a cheeky grin before adding, "My Queen."

You giggled, smiling up at him. "Soon I will be," you kissed his nose, watching his face scrunch up.

"A month and a half, that's all I have to wait for, and you'll be mine forever!" He sounded giddy, tugging you close as you two laughed.

"We've waited since we were children, a month shall go by fast, the past few have." You ran a hand through his hair, watching as he melted against your touch.

"They go by faster with you here. Our whole lives, then forever." He murmured, eyes closing as he relaxed.

"Forever is an awfully long time, Bucket. You sure you're up for the commitment?"

He gave you a goofy smile in response. "Forever is never enough when I'm with you."

You scoffed, "Stop being all romantic, it's making me feel things!" You gently nudged him, unable to hide the smile on your face.

"Good!" He beamed, showering you in kisses as he tightened his grip on you.

As the day passed, the two of you walked towards Bucky's Chambers hand in hand, Aurora at your heels. You sneaked a glance behind you, noticing neither of the personal guards were men you knew, and you knew almost all of them. Something felt wrong, a light in the castle seemed to dim. Bucky noticed your turned mood, and your subtle glances taking in the new guards as the wind started to howl outside. Deciding to speak about it later, in private, he didn’t ask.

The two of you sat outside on your star gazing balcony. The storm was starting, snow slowly falling to the ground. You were tightly wrapped in furs and blankets, toasty warm as your nose started to get cold. You ignored it, grinning as you caught the ice on your tongue excitedly.

"It's so pretty!" You grinned at Bucky, pointing at the snow on the mountains which was growing.

He smiled warmly at you, letting you enjoy the cold and different season. He eventually tugged you inside before you could freeze over, "alright, Princess. No more cold for you, you'll get frostbite." He fused over you, pulling more furs and warm clothes on you until you were covered in layers, sitting on his bed.

"Something is going on," you said suddenly pulling blankets off of you, surprising Bucky as he got into bed beside you, Aurora jumping into the bed, laying her head on his stomach.

"What do you mean, My Love?" He gave you a confused look, his eyebrows scrunched up adorably.

"New guards here, and Steve said he also has new guards he's never seen before, and the Hydra diplomats suddenly are very friendly, and the scouts on the edge of the kingdom spotting movement. They are planning something." You concluded.

He sighed softly with a nod, "I've noticed most of that as well. Until they make a move we can't do anything. Their officials may be terrible people, but a war would affect their people, a people starved and already war raged, they’re still recovering."

You leaned your head against his shoulder. "Has anyone told you how amazing you are?" You asked softly.

Despite these people being the ones that hurt him, he didn't want to rage war on its people. "Maybe someone has," he teased, smiling against your hair, taking in the smell of your lavender shampoo.

"Hope it's not any other girl," you joked back, nuzzling into him.

He chuckled, "Even if it was, you're the only one for me," he spoke seriously, tugging you closer.

You let your eyes close, happy to bask in his warmth as well as his and Aurora's attention.

The next morning you awoke with an upset stomach. Knots twisting and stabbing into your guts like a knife stabbing into you. You rolled out of the bed, pulling yourself out of warm arms, rushing towards the bathroom. "Doll?" A sleepy Bucky managed to say as you ran off. Two confused yips sounded behind you as you retched in the toilet. Aurora happened to stride over first, whining as she walked over, lying beside you and burying her muzzle supportively in your side. Bucky showed up a split second later, kneeling beside you as he held your hair out of your face, rubbing your back.

Once your stomach managed to empty itself, you sat back on your heels, leaning against Bucky. "Gods, I must have a stomach bug or something," you mumbled, lazily burying yourself in his arms. "I feel gross though, but tired."

"It's still early, we can go to the healers in a little while. You're still sleepy, aren't you?" He kissed your head as you nodded, standing and picking you up in his arms. You hummed in acknowledgement, letting your eyes close as he tucked you back into the warm bed. He pulled a blanket over you, Aurora jumping into bed after you, Bucky holding you close as you fell asleep again in his arms.

An hour later you woke to Bucky nudging you gently. "My Love, wake up, we should go to the doctors," he was concerned, you weren't one to get sick easy and you looked pale and flush. You groaned, eventually awake enough to get dressed and following Bucky to the royal clinic.

You sat there, Bucky fussing over you as Dr. Bruce Banner and Dr. Helen Cho circled you. Wanda eventually joined the party, much to Natasha's amusement. All three fused over you. Bruce and Helen had both known you since your arrival months ago and had taken a liking to you, the prior being a former soldier, and Wanda had known you most of your life. Soon all three, plus Bucky fussing, plus Sam and Natasha at the door, it all overwhelmed you.

"Please, can all of you calm down for just a minute!" You snapped, all eyes turning towards you as they froze in place. "It’s probably just stress, as I've taken more responsibilities and planning the wedding and worrying about the coronation and the changing seasons, I'm sure I'm fine!" You sighed softly, burying your face in your hands. "Please, I feel smothered by you all." You mumbled. Bucky frowned, chancing placing his hand on your shoulder. You melted against his touch, sudden hot tears ran down your cheeks. "Why can't I control any of these emotions?" You whispered absentmindedly.

Unbeknownst to you, Natasha and Wanda shared a look. They both knew everything about you and Bucky's relationship, including that you two had sex about three weeks ago. Natasha shooed the gathering maids from the door, shutting it and sitting beside you, taking your hand. Wanda whispered something to Dr. Cho, who quickly ran some tests on the blood and urine they collected from you.

You sniffled, looking up towards Nat as her weight dipped the bed you were in. "Wanda and I think we know what's wrong," Nat said slowly a few minutes later, looking towards Helen who had walked in with a new paper. Helen nodded, Bruce going pale as he read the results paper. You sat up a bit, hands laced with Bucky's who looked just as confused.

"The mood swings, the morning sickness, the fact that you haven't had your period yet," that made you go pale. You completely forgot you were two weeks late, too caught up in Royal duties. All the symptoms, the sudden giddiness Natasha and Wanda had.

"Am I...?" You whispered, the true nature of it setting in.

Helen spoke up, "According to Urine and blood tests, yes. We'll let you two have a moment," Nat nodded quickly, dragging Bruce and Sam out the door, Helen and Wanda following as they closed the door.

You and Bucky sat in silence for a moment, letting the fact settle in both of your minds. "You're pregnant," he managed to say in a soft voice, though you didn't hear any malice like you might have feared, only awe and a hint of confusion.

"I'm pregnant." You repeated. Deciding to look up at him, you could see the goofy smile starting to lift his features. "I'm going to be a mother... You're going to be a father..." The shock was still there, but both of you started smiling at each other.

"I'm going to be a father," he repeated. He launched forward, showering your face in kisses, sending you into a fit of giggles. "You're going to carry out child, our baby, you're going to be a mother, I'm going to be a father, oh gods can I handle being a father?" He rambled, getting serious.

You gently cupped his face in your hands, kissing him tenderly, stopping his rambles. You pressed your forehead against his, grinning as your lips ghosted across each other. "You'll be a wonderful father. Caring, protective, strong, loving. We'll learn how to be parents together," you kissed him again and again, holding each other close, deciding that the future mattered, but for right now you two would stay in the moment, together.

As the week went on, you and Bucky kept the big news to a small few. Clearly Sam, Natasha, Wanda, and a few people in the clinic knew. The maids figured it out when you didn't get your period, already having started their own rumors. The first person you and Bucky told together was Steve, via video chat. He looked ready to slap Bucky for getting you pregnant, cry that he was going to be an Uncle, and proud that his best friend and little sister were living their happily ever after. Your parents knew as well, and your mother was already flooding you with advice that wouldn’t come in handy for months. Other than that, the rest of the whispers and rumors in court were hushed and behind your backs.

You continued to work, though as the week ended, Bucky had started to sleep over in your Chambers. Something in his chamber smelled off, setting your new maternity sense to ring alarms. You couldn't sleep in his bed, a fact you absolutely hated.

Saying goodnight to yet another new guard you didn't recognize, you closed the chamber doors, Aurora jumping into your bed and curling up. You sat beside her after changing into pajamas, ready to bury yourself into the thick furs Bucky added to your bed while another snow storm roared outside. Aurora whined softly beside you, ears perked up and looking around the room in distress.

"What is it Aura?" You whispered, standing and now on defense. Bucky had a late meeting that night and wouldn't join you for at least an hour or two. You had nothing to defend yourself, glancing around the room you noticed nothing sharp you could use to help you with whatever set off Aurora. That was odd, you had a knife letter opener that was absent from your desk. Something that also suddenly occurred to you was that neither Sam, Natasha, Wanda, or Scott was on duty tonight. That never happened in the months since you've moved to the North. A fact that occurred to you too late. You were defenseless, alone, and surrounded by potential enemies.

Aurora growled beside you, haunches raised and glancing in multiple directions. Fuck, multiple hostiles. The wolf pup stood in front of you protectively, as you thought back to something Natasha used to teach you. Pretend you're smaller and more defenseless than you really are.

As two men appeared from opposite shadows in your room, you appeared to look meek, small. They came closer, still just out of reach of you, or Aurora without leaving the protective circle you and the wolf made. "Look at that, the little princess is all alone." One man cooed. His accent sent a shiver down your spine, you recognized him as a Hydra diplomat from the court.

That's when you got a good look at the other man, and you felt your heart drop. General Brock Rumlow, one of the very men Bucky fought against was standing in your bedroom. "Hello Princess, terribly sorry for the late notice, but you're coming with us. I know all about your fight against the assassin we sent to kill your brother, so don't try anything."

You dropped the meek act and snarled at the man, matching growls with the wolf in front of you. "Now why would I just go with you?"

He laughed, a sick feeling filling you. "Because right now, your little fiancé is next to one of my men. One mistake and my men will slit his throat," you felt your face pale. They could threaten you, but they were threatening Bucky. You felt the strong face you had on crack.

"Don't you dare fucking touch him," you growled, Aurora responding with a bark towards the man. You hoped it was loud enough to alert someone to help you, yet the man in front of you laughed.

"That won't help doggie, all the men outside are mine. You know how easy it was to become your personal guard? Manipulate time schedules, find lab results." Your hands were shaking now, and you felt the bile rise in your throat. "So, Princess, follow me, and call the dog off." You glanced down at Aurora, who was tense, but you then remembered she knew all the secret passageways of the castle and was trained to find yours and Bucky's scent. You whistled lowly, Aurora whining. You repeated it, and Aurora slinked away, rushing towards Bucky. That would set him off, Aurora was known to always curl up into you when you slept and would only part ways when Bucky called her. He should be able to notice something's wrong. You hoped and prayed to every god you knew that he did.

You followed Rumlow, the vile man getting too close for comfort as you walked in the halls. He had a sense of arrogance about him, and most hallways were empty, no one able to see you as Brock pushed a dagger into back to dig at your spine, leading you towards the back entrance.

He pushed open the door, the cold rushed in, making you cold to the bone before you even stepped out. He grabbed you by the arm, his grip burned into your skin. He ran his fingers down your throat, and you growled lowly, close to punching the man. The thought of Bucky getting hurt because of the action made you still. No matter how much he hurt you, you wouldn't let him hurt Bucky. His fingers grazed the golden chain of your necklace, and hooked underneath them, "Now this is cute. You practically have a dog collar on, like the bitch you are," he singsonged into your ear. He ripped the necklace off, and you gasped as the clasp snapped against your skin, breaking. He tossed it to the ground, before shoving you forward into the snow. "Let's go, Princess. It's a decent walk till we get back to your new home." You shivered, now on your hands and knees in the snow, your pajamas not helping you at all. You stood on shaky legs, holding your head up high as you bit your tongue, refusing to give this abhorrent man anything to use against you.

You heard barking in the distance, Aurora finding you, and Bucky right behind. He had blood dripping down his cheek, but on second look, it didn't seem to be his own. Sam and Natasha were beside him, Sam had bruises blooming all over his face, and what looked like a broken nose. Brock pulled you in front of him, the dagger held against your throat. You stilled, weighing your options. Bucky looked feral, the same icy look from months ago when he first walked into your life again was back. The warmth seeped out of him, you were in danger, as was the baby, hisbaby.

"Let her go, Rumlow," he snarled, Aurora at his feet, ready to pounce.

"No can do, she's ours now, Your Majesty," he spit back out. He pressed the dagger closer into your neck, making a small trickle of blood appear. You whined softly, Bucky's eyes shooting to you, pained. As Brock pulled you back onto the terrace, you could see more Hydra gaurds hiding behind the doors. It was a trap all along to take more than one royal. Not on your watch they wouldn't.

Your eyes locked into Bucky, knowing he could see you. You mouthed, 'I love you,' before pushing your elbow back. You knocked Brock back, he grunted, not expecting you to fight back. You shot forward, grabbing onto the doors and locking them, knowing the mechanism would need a reboot to open during the emergency alert Bucky had placed on the castle. This was both your saving grace, and your living nightmare. You were trapped, burying yourself in snow, surrounded by Hydra agents, a steel and glass door between you and your family. But that also meant it was that door between Hydra and Bucky, something you could live with. A realization hit you suddenly. You would, without a doubt, die to protect this man. No matter the cost.

To say Rumlow was pissed off at you was an understatement. You saw his reflection in the glass, noticing the mirrored moves between him and Bucky. They both rushed forward towards you, Bucky having a glass barrier between you. Rumlow grabbed onto you, hitting you in the side of the head with the blunt edge of the knife. "You'll regret that, Princess." He snarled into your ear. The last thing you saw as black dots blurred your vision was Bucky falling to his knees on the other side of the glass, as they took you away from him. His own personal Nightmare.

Frozen Heart Tags:

@jsmith509 / @lumar014 / @littlemissporter / @kaylaphantomhive

@damnbuckyishot / @aveatquevale- / @booksbeforebois

@marvelgirl7 / @minetticatinwonderland

Bucky Tags:

@cassandras-musings / @darkness-doughter / @novaddictx / @thedancingnerdmermaid

For a tag, just reply/comment, if I don’t see it, just message me. Tell me what you think! Literally any comment makes me happy! Like, comment, reblog, interact <3

#Bucky Barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #Frozen Heart #My writing #bucky barns imagine #bucky series #king!bucky #princess!reader #arranged marriage AU #childhood friends to lovers #royalty au

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gold-from-straw · 5 years

Text

Spectres - ch7

Loki brings everyone back to his cavern, and Tony starts trying to heal Barnes... until they're interrupted.

THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of you who’ve supported this story, it’s completely insane and I’ve had SO MUCH fun writing it! Special thanks to @salamanderink who prompted it in the first place over a year ago oops!

Read from the beginning on AO3 if you like!

Tony was getting used to travelling by Spectre teleportation. He only had to gulp air three or four times before he was able to take in the scene around him.

And what a scene it was. Loki’s cavern seemed larger, Tony thought as he looked around. Hela started dancing, shooting Spectral power at the roof so garlands of light hung themselves and cast a warm white glow. Jormungandr shifted into his human form as the last kid slipped off his back into Peter’s arms. “Injuries over here,” Jor called. “I can heal you.”

Loki nodded to him, the pride clear in his eyes. He lay Barnes on a table that rose out of the ground at his gesture. “I think,” he said, cocking his head to look at Barnes’ face, contorted in pain. “That you should heal him. He has had too much Spectral interference.”

Tony nodded, and took a deep breath. “Healing’s not much my thing,” he admitted.

Loki smiled softly, his bone mask turning to mist and floating away. “I have faith.”

Tony looked down to hide his smile, and cast a diagnostic spell over him. “OK, so he’s got a bunch of broken ribs, a - jeez, a skull fracture, bruised kidneys and a fuck-ton of scars.” He breathed deeply again and rubbed his hands together.

“Can I help?” asked Hela from right by his elbow.

Tony startled so hard he nearly yelped. “Holy sh- uh, yeah, OK, kid.” He glanced at Loki. “You can’t use your magic, but you can fetch and carry, yeah?” She nodded, a wide grin spreading over her sweet little face. Really, the moving wounds weren’t that creepy, not when you knew what a cutie she was.

Tony laid out herbs and stones from his pockets, chatting constantly to her to keep himself calm and on target, telling her all about the associations and powers of all the ingredients. “Oh, here’s a piece of gold, huh, forgot I had that. That’s for riches, obviously. Then linden root, for strength. And that’s pansy petals, they’re for premonition, but I don’t really like the way they feel, it’s not quite right, you know?” Hela smiled up at him and nodded. He grinned and patted her head. “Yeah, of course you know. Anyway, I’ll work out what to do with them some day, but we definitely don’t need them for this.” He took another deep breath. “Right, pass me the weeping moss, the willowbark and the bloodstone.”

She passed him two tupperware pots and a small earthenware jar and he set about mixing a pinch of this, a dash of that, following the tug in his fingers that took him to the next right thing.

“What about this?” she asked, holding out a slim root.

He spared her a quick glance, still mixing the reagents, golden sparks flying up as his mortar struck. “What about that?”

“Linden root,” she said. “You said it was good for strength and bones are the strong parts of a human, are they not? We do need to fix the bones, right?”

He blinked down at her, a slow grin spreading over his face. “Hey, Pete! You’ve got competition for apprentice duties!”

Peter grinned and used his Spectral powers to thunk Tony in the back of the head. Tony flipped him the bird and took the linden root. “I think this is just what we’ll need,” he said to Hela, who grinned so hard her eyes almost closed.

The linden root started hissing as soon as Tony crushed it, and white smoke poured from the mixture. Tony held it over Barnes’ face, blowing gently so the smoke coated him, clinging to his skin in certain places, sliding off him in others. He started moving slowly downwards, rationing the potion so it could cover his whole body.

The first warning that something was wrong was Loki suddenly going rigid and turning, his bone mask appearing and his feather cloak rising into fierce wings. And then the room was full of roaring, raging Spectre.

“Leave him alone!” the very air screamed.

Tony dropped his mortar and pestle, hunching down and covering his ears, the terror vibrating in his very bones. He heard children all around him wailing in terror, but it was little Hela’s whimper that penetrated the fog of fear.

He forced himself up to stand, heart pounding, hands shaking. A great eagle Spectre slashed at Loki, whose raven form shrieked and whirled around him. Feathers filled the air, and as one of the ravens screamed and fell, turning to dust, Tony felt the fury fill him.

“Enough!” he roared, hurling a force bomb onto the floor between them. The powder inside the delicate glass vial blew everywhere, forcing all the Spectres nearby into their human form. Loki tumbled to the side, clutching at his arm, and Tony raced over to him, propping him up. “Are you OK?” he asked, voice low. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do, are you--”

“I’m fine,” he said, voice strained. “It was the best…” he trailed off, frowning. “Is that not…”

Tony turned and stared at the furious human-form Spectre, crouching on the floor. “Steve Rogers?” he gaped.

“Give him back,” Rogers snarled, his face nothing like the wholesome, blue-eyed human form he showed to the public. “What are you doing to him? Give him back!”

Tony blinked, then looked at Romanov. “What?”

“Why have you got Barnes?” she asked, her eyes darting around the room, always gathering data.

“Uh, because we found him? He was… well, he was kinda acting as a jailer for these kids. We got into a fight, but Loki pulled all Hydra’s soul away from him so he’s got his own mind back, at least, and then I was using linden root which was Hela’s idea really, but it was a good one, and--”

“Stark,” Romanov said, frowning. “Shut up. Wait. You found him?”

“Where was he?” Rogers demanded, standing straight, surging forwards, stopping as Loki rose, snarling in front of him.

“Steve?” croaked a voice. Tony turned to see Barnes pushing himself up.

“Hey, no, wait, I haven’t finished healing you, I--” But Hela stood behind, waving, the mortar and pestle in her hands. “Huh,” Tony said. “That… that actually shouldn’t work without a Monk…”

“Bucky?” Rogers said, and Tony’s head whipped back, because that… he’d never heard Rogers sound so small, so lost. His mouth was hanging open, his entire soul visibly pulled towards Barnes.

Barnes climbed, wincing, off the table, and Rogers rushed towards him, catching him as he stumbled, his hands cupping his face like he was looking at a religious relic. “You’re here,” Rogers said, barely audible. “You’re really here, Buck… everyone thought you were gone, but I wouldn’t… I couldn’t believe it, I would have felt it… the world… life wouldn’t have been worth living.”

“Wait,” said Tony, gaping. “You know Barnes? Like… the Howling Bucky Barnes?”

Rogers didn’t even look at him, but as Tony watched he shifted into another form, a muscular blonde man, vast shoulders and a blue and red suit. “You’re Captain America?” Tony squeaked. “You didn’t… but you’re a Spectre! Captain America was a Monk, he and Barnes, they were The monks!”

“That’s what everyone had to believe,” Barnes said, his eyes still fixed on Rogers, his hand clinging to Rogers’ hip. “There was a war on, people wouldn’t have accepted a Spectre in their ranks.”

“The world’s different now, Buck,” Rogers said, stroking Barnes’ hair back from his face. “Spectres, Monks and baseline humans, we all live and work together… there’s still a bit of bad blood with the Monks but… we can…” he gulped. “We can be together, if you… if you still--”

“Oh god, Steve,” Barnes said, pressing closer, tears leaking from his eyes as they fluttered shut. “I was trapped in my own head, watching my body do all these terrible things, I never dreamed… I never even hoped I’d find you again.” He whimpered and pulled back. “I’ve done terrible things, Steve, I’ve… you won’t want me, not like--”

But Rogers held his face in both hands and kissed him. Barnes melted into the kiss, pressing closer, wrapping his arm tightly around Rogers’ back and clenching his fingers into the fabric over his back.

“Well,” said a voice in Tony’s ear, and he looked up to see Loki smiling down at him. “Perhaps we are not quite so strange. A Monk and a Spectre together?”

Tony looked around at the abandoned human children being comforted by the young Spectres. At the Spectre child poking around Tony’s Monk equipment. At the young Monk, his soul fused with that of a Spectre, learning the Spectral healing methods, and teaching some Monk methods to anyone who’d listen. He looked at the Spectre standing at his own shoulder and leaned up to kiss him.

“What about the Hydra?” he asked, leaning against Loki’s chest as the kiss broke.

Loki wrapped his arms around his back. “You cannot kill it,” he said. “It is a mindless decomposer, as long as there are those who allow their souls to die in their own living bodies, it will thrive. There is still work to do, though. The Hydra would not think to capture children, to fuse humans with its own soul.”

“Yeah, honestly that sounds a human thing to do,” Tony admitted. “Trying to get Spectral powers without the work that goes into becoming a Monk.”

“There have always been those who worship power, in all its forms,” Loki nodded.

Tony sighed and leaned into Loki, watching Barnes and Rogers reunite, Romanoff joining Jormungandr and Peter, Teddy hover by Billy as he stretched his healed ills. “We’ll fight, then,” Tony said. “But for now, we’ve got a lot of kids to look after.”

Loki looked at him, his head cocked to one side. Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t look like that. It’s your fault. You called them my children. ‘What becomes of the children, Monk?’” he said, mimicking Loki’s voice.

Loki grinned, bent down and kissed him again. Tony smiled into the kiss, and felt his heart glow.

That’s it!! It’s all finished ;_; Thank you so much to everyone who supported this <3 Tagging everyone who interacted with the last chapter! @theonewhowandered01, @redramzi, @the-smoke-machine, @zanydragonshepherddean, @glitternotgold73, @kit-kat57, @aformingsiren, @kalimav6, @letitdevour, @averageotaku, @dracusfyre, @frost-iron, @mxvampirepunk <3

#My writing #Spectres #frostiron #loki #tony stark #stucky #steve x bucky #irondad and spiderson #peter parker #magic AU #loki's kids #Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers

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fxlconsnest · 5 years

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gimme the good good Sam/Riley feelings (thanks for those btw)

send me a ship and i’ll tell you || ( sel. ) accepting

who hogs the duvetriley which is always a damn surprise when you take into consideration how he grew up in the middle of bum fuck nowhere georgia, where it gets dutch brick oven sweltering fucking hot, so hot you could breath in humid hot air. still doesn’t stop sam from waking up to rils, sprawled out over his chest, duvet tangled on his side. good thing sam runs hot.

who texts/rings to check how their day is goingriley, who blows up sam’s damn phone every other god damn minute when they’re apart, wants to know every banal thing that happened. but when they’re back together it’s sam tears his clothes apart, pressing up against riley’s skin like he’s trying to convince himself he’s here, that this is real. ( they spend so much time in the sky, like on the ground is suffocatingly, stiflingly small. they cope together. then without warning, sam copes. alone. )

who’s the most creative when it comes to giftssam knits and sews and DIYs like the best of them, which is always ceaselessly amusing to riley.

who gets up first in the morningriley could very well put the grinch to shame with how grouchy he is before midday. coffee sweetens him, and that’s how they spend their mornings, Riley’s head leaned on sam/s shoulder as they watch the light come in through the windows, paints them both in that soft gold light.

who suggests new things in bedit’s not a “hey sam let’s try new things” it’s more of riley pinning him down on the floor or sam hoisting him up without warning, riley wrapping his legs around his waist so they’re flush together, mouth hot at his neck. they can’t ever seem to shake loose that edge of desperation, like at any moment, this could all fall apart.

who fusses over the other when they’re sicksam, and riley hates ( loves ) that fusses. that sam checks his temperature every hour on the hour, cooks his food down to scratch, leaves sticky notes all over their place to remind him to take your fucking meds or so help me god riley.

who gets jealous easiestneither. you don’t hold down the line for each other out their, have each other’s backs and have time for petty things like jealously. they know what they are to each other with sheer-fire surety.

who has the most embarrassing taste in musicit’s the one time sam’s ever seriously considered leaving him, when he wakes up cotton mouthed and head ringing heavy, was the one time riley rigged up the speakers to blast dolly parton screeching about some dumb bitch named jolene.“ i’m leaving you. ” sam, rolling over, pressing the pillow over to his ear, and riley just presses himself up against him, that laugh echoing down under sam’s skin.“ you love me too much, sammy and you know it. ”( and, damn him, he’s right. )

who takes the longest to get ready“ sam stop fucking preening let’s go already you’re getting laid tonight. ”“ you can leave this house looking like whodunit what-for if that is your prerogative, but i was raised with a modicum of self respect, thank you. ”

who is the most tidy and organisedit’s like living with an overly tidy ghost, sam’s hardly set a cup down on the counter and riley’s already magicked it away. it’d be funny except it’s like this: in the moments where war doesn’t touch their lives riley washes dishes like trying to wash blood out from under his fingernails. sometimes he’ll wake up to it, the water splashing in the sink, steam pooled on the mirror and he’s scrubbing his hands raw, bloodied, and sam has to to draw his hands out from under the water, put his own between them. “ doesn’t ever feel like i’ll ever been clean, sammy. ”

who gets most excited about the holidaysriley moonlights as santa claus and sam takes about am million pictures, and sam strings up mistletoe up in corners just to have an excuse to pull riley toward by his belt loops and kiss him sweet. they push each other down down as they go skating and drink

who is the big spoon/little spoonsometimes it’s riley pressed against sam’s back and sam curled small. sometimes it’s sam carding his hands through the thickets of his hair. it depends on how the chips fall. who’s demons rear their heads on any given day.

who gets most competitive when playing games and/or sportssam, and it’s riley’s favorite thing in the world, to rile him up, but the victory of success still doesn’t beat the after party: “ i let you beat me. ” sam, kissing that spot on his throat that makes him shiver.“ likely fucking story. shut up and let me claim my prize. ”

who starts the most argumentsriley, he’s a good guy…. with a short fuse and sam’s never stood for any kind of bullshit not a day in his life, and isn’t gonna start now. riley raises his voice high and sam snaps back, low and hard and frustrated. it’s not always easy, for them to say the things they mean, but no matter what, no matter who storms out angry. they always come home.

who suggests that they buy a petthey talk about it all the time, what happens next, because there is a next after this, when you find love like this you hold it tight with both your hands. after they get out, they’re gonna get a dog, a big one, one sam can take out running. they’re gonna get rings, riley’s mapped out where he’s going to build their house, out someplace they can see the sky, the stars.

how they spend time together as a couplethey take leave always, always make one at least one road trip, riley ripping through road at speeds that are illegal but it’s fine. there’s something calming to them both about the swathes of wheat and corn as far as the eye out can see, just green below and blue up on high, windows all rolled down wind ripping in their faces. they hike, hold hands up in the mountains where no one sees but the trees and the breeze. sam watches for the birds and riley rolls up his ankles, skips rocks on the river and catch trout with his hands.

who made the first moveboth. it’s how it should always be, like to trees growing towards each other who’s roots are bound together under down where you can’t see, riley and sam crash together that night after their first test run under their wings. it’s this: lips, teeth, tongue, heat, licking the grit of the desert from their windswept faces under the weight of a million stars, shrouded in darkness.

who brings flowers homesam. he like he way riley brightens up. how he trims the stems careful, sets them in clay jars.

who is the best cookgeorgia boy that he is, riley can make a damn good peach cobbler, sweet as can be that melts warm on your mouth, but that’s just about it. the kitchen is sam’s domain thank you very much but he learned early on that if he didn’t keep those clever quick hands of riley’s busy they’d be all over sam like they ain’t nobody gotta eat round here. so sam cooks, riley chops, and one of them is always served up for dessert, later.

#displacedwidow #hadnothinghadhim #( riley. )#( airmail. )#we could've had it all !!!!!#this turned into a novel but who's surprised #highkey one of my favorite relationships for sam #up until he has the audacity to die #if I have to suffer with these feelings everyone else must as well thank u

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vide0-nasties · 6 years

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A Punishing Few

Pairings: Julian/Asra, Asra/MC, Julian/MC

Content Warnings: Blood imagery, imbalanced relationship dynamics, unhealthy and poorly defined relationship boundaries, vague dream sex, vague dream voyeurism

Word Count: 3992

Author’s Note: My apprentice, Eustacia, is heavily featured in this bad boy, but she doesn’t actually show up until the end. This is also a much, much bleaker fic than ‘I Do Not Love You.’

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It’s the cruel part of Asra that makes the incomparable comparisons. It’s this cruel part of him that says Ilya’s mouth doesn’t taste like Eustacia’s, and that’s why he doesn’t kiss him nearly as much.

Ilya’s mouth is coffee, leather, paper pulp. The dust taste of libraries, tombs, and colleges the doctor never went to.

Eustacia’s was metallic—gold and blood ghosts. Fresh-turned earth and the clean, fat rain that feeds it. The prickling high note of seawater, lingering in his sinuses, stinging his eyes if they were anything but closed.

If Asra shuts off his senses—shuts his eyes, blocks his ears, numbs his hands, and blots out Ilya’s—he can almost taste her. Coffee isn’t so different from metal, nor leather from wet land.

A slantways rhyme—forcing two things together because they’re close enough.

They’re both possessed of greedy hands.

Eustacia was grabby and tactile. She lived off physical contact and faded if that need—and it was a need—was neglected. Asra loved being touched by her. She touched him in the way a pantheon deity might touch a mortal with whom they’d fallen in love: with never-ending surprise and delight.

Constant and experimental exploration, trying their damnedest to find a breaking point, and then pushing the littlest bit further. Not enough to damage, just enough to sate their ageless curiosity.

Ilya touches him nervously, a curator holding an ancient and priceless artifact or holy text that might crumble into ash out of pure spite. Wide-eyed marvel and disbelief—out of the entire world, I get to touch? is the question his hands ask with every landing.

Ilya is the mortal that has fallen in love with a pantheon deity. Asra, knowing how it feels to love this entity that faces down eternities, tries to be gentle and forthright in return.

This will not last forever.

Do not count on sustaining yourself with these table scraps the rest of your days.

Someday, the hand that you adore is going to stop feeding you and return to the feast.

Asra’s warnings are heard, but unheeded. Ilya is not a bad man. He’s a very good man. But he is a fool, his hope a barb that he sticks himself with, ending up sick.

Please, Ilya, please. Asra doesn’t want to break his heart, because it’s a soft and wounded thing that doesn’t know how to stop bleeding, and never thought to learn how, but Asra waits on—

If he completes the thought—waiting on something better—he won’t be able to stand himself, or look at Ilya, for at least the rest of the day.

Ilya stands over his desk, and Asra feels hateful while bitterly missing a ghost. The picture is all wrong, but the rhyme is slantways and Asra is the one frustrated at the way it doesn’t fit together.

The hair is not dark enough, nor are the eyes. The nails are too short, bitten, on ten fingers instead of twelve. The hips are too thin, the curve of haunch and shank hardly a curve at all. The tip of the nose aims for the floor, and the bridge is too curved.

Asra presses his eyes closed, and rubs the heels of his hands into them.

Ilya cannot help it. He doesn’t deserve this silent scorn. He doesn’t even know of Asra’s commitment to the ghost that haunts him.

They’re both beautiful, and the fault lies with Asra, because he can’t stop thinking that Ilya isn’t beautiful in the right ways. He rises to his feet, intent on soothing his own mind and silently apologizing to the oblivious doctor.

When Ilya jolts into Asra’s hand as it skates up the gullet of his spine between his shoulders, Asra’s relieved that it’s warmth and fondness curling in his stomach and not resentment. “You look tense, Ilya. Standing on these floors is going to ruin your back.”

“Well, I’m not, ah, it’s not as if I’m standing in—it’s not like I’m standing in one place. I’m moving, and I set. Sometimes.” He looks distracted and slightly confused, blinking forcefully.

He was really, really thinking, and Asra pulled him from it, throwing him to an in-between place to scrape together his bearings. He can’t help his humming laugh, thinking of Ilya being so immersed in his work, he could’ve very well been alone in the middle of a barren desert and never noticed.

Recognition sweeps over Ilya, and a grin pulls at his mouth—

Almost right, not perfect. Too rounded, sloping. Teeth are too straight, too small, no gold canines. No dimples—

“Besides, you know how I am—think better when I’m on the move. Pacing ruts in the floor, wearing out carpets. If I didn’t wear boots, my legs would probably end in ankles,” he laughs, raking the bright hair out of his brighter eyes. “Wouldn’t that be a shit-show? I could probably land a cushy living at a medical college, though…maybe get my doctorate, all the bells and whistles.”

“Take a break?” Asra asks, kneading his fingers into the muscles at the base of Ilya’s skull, feeling the way they’re bound up like a clenched fist. “Get some lunch, rub your neck. I could crack it. It’ll feel like you have a brand new one after.”

In time, he’ll learn to keep these gestures and offerings off the table, once he understands how well it feeds Ilya’s sad, starved little heart and stokes the furnace of his hope.

Right now, he wants to feel Eustacia, even if it’s only through applying something she’d taught him on someone else, trying to imagine her hands untying the knots in his muscle and unlocking his seized skeleton.

Asra has dreams where he and Eustacia stand in the meadowlands with mud up to their knees, catching falling stars with their bare hands. She catches nine and strings them together in a crown, settling it on his curls.

They don’t burn at all.

Gladly, she eats a fallen star right out of his hands, making her eyes and mouth glow like moonlight when she throws her head back to laugh.

He reaches for her, she reaches back, and when their mouths meet, the light inside her lights him up, too.

Asra has dreams of warm smothering. He knows these are Ilya.

Ilya comes to his door wearing gin blossoms and swaying. A bottle of dark liquor sloshes in his unsteady hands, spilling on the carpet, beads rolling down the back of his hands. It reeks and creates an enormous, blooming smell that will be inescapable for days.

“Hyyello, muh dearrr,” he slurs, slouching against the doorjamb to meet Asra’s height. Asra’s not sure whether the move was intentional, but he is sure that his irritation is growing into something larger and meaner.

Something that bears sharper claws and bigger teeth.

Something that resembles Eustacia.

“What are you doing, Ilya?” he hisses.

“M’just…heh, heee, just here to pay my favorite magician a houzze call. Is there something wrong with that? Would you tell me so, Asra?” His name comes out a sliver-sharp hiss, two snake syllables forced between the teeth. Ilya gives the bottle a jiggle, thankfully not spilling anymore. “Had some left, aaand I thought of you. Y’know what they say—sharing’s for friends. Or…caring. Or something. Hm.”

You’re drunk, Asra starts to say, but the words never leave his mouth.

Ilya crashes into him, an arm around his shoulders, trying to cradle his head. His face is hot, his mouth is hot, and so are the tears he immediately starts to cry.

Anger surges up Asra’s throat like vomit, scorching him from the bottom of his lungs to the tip of his tongue. His hands curl into Ilya’s shirt, forceful enough to make the threads holding his seams together groan, and his mind screams with indignation, a wild and threatened animal.

A searing chant: Eustacia-would-never-Eustacia-would-never-Eustacia-would-never—

Eustacia WOULD.

The realization booms through his body, almost blows out the sides of his skull.

Eustacia would never have kissed him like this, with some half-planned sentiments swimming around the bottom of a bottle drained for courage, but she would’ve loved him like this, and she did.

She loved him like digging fingers into a bruise or a cut.

She loved him like it was a curse was put on her by a cruel witch as a newborn: to fall a little in love with most everyone she met, and then fall harder for a punishing few.

The only difference between Eustacia and Ilya is that Asra loved Eustacia back. He was the first person in her life to have ever loved her back, and he had to fight tooth and nail for her to understand that he did.

He loved her with everything in him.

He does not love Ilya.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Ilya simpers, words melting and fusing together because of his drunkenness, trying to pull Asra closer. “Tell me—tell me what I can do. I’ll change, I’ll change for you. However you want, you need. I’ll be what you want me—”

“Ilya,” Asra snaps against his mouth, pulling back and catching his eyes. “You. Are. Drunk. You need to sleep.”

After more tears and a halfhearted, one-line argument, Ilya allows himself to be led to Asra’s bed, passing out immediately. He sleeps and sleeps, and, in the morning, wakes up with apologizes in his mouth. He sends flowers.

Asra gives them back in the library that afternoon, silencing Ilya’s embarrassment with a quietly raised hand. It has been far overdue, long misunderstood, and he intends to rectify this mistake. “I’ve misled you, Ilya, and I’m sorry for that. I wasn’t clear enough about my limits.”

At one time, Eustacia had laughed and called him heartless. She had traced the nail of her little finger in the shape of a heart over his chest, and asked how that crater felt.

Watching Ilya’s face fall, hearing the echo of the hairline fractures disfiguring his heart, the crater in Asra’s chest feels nothing except hollow.

Asra has dreams that he is in a place that Eustacia can’t follow. Not yet.

In her hands, she holds a golden compass that has never pointed north. On her head, she wears a crown of nine stars sewn together. Her palms are split open, and they bleed all over the palace’s marble floors, and where the blood drops, sigils begin to blaze.

Be careful, Asra tries to plea, Eustacia, I need you to be careful. I can’t find you, but I’m looking, I’ve never stopped trying to find you.

Ilya walks beside her, and he notices none of it. He only looks at her like she is the answer to every question he’s had in his entire life.

“If I show you a weird and wonderful thing,” she says, and Asra’s stricken by her deep, rolling accent cutting him to the quick, “would you hold it for me?”

“Until my hands fell apart, yes, I would. Forever and ever, just because you asked so nicely,” Ilya laughs, and he smiles when she holds up the compass for his eyes.

The needle spins so fast it’s only a blur, jerking to a stop only to spin the other direction. It can’t decide a direction, a place to stop, until it does.

I don’t touch the compass anymore, Asra tries to confess, I can’t stand the way it won’t find you. It hurts. I can’t think when I think about you.

It points at Ilya, and then it moves again.

She drops it, blood-slick in his hands, and the needle doesn’t blur itself. One lazy, sweeping circle, and it points steadfastly in her direction. “Amazing,” Ilya breathes, glancing up at her. “That’s amazing. What does it mean?”

They are in bed together. Ilya’s bed. She’s on her back, her mink-dark hair is a mess, and her clothes are long forgotten on the floor, mixed with Ilya’s. Both sets are so dark, it’s impossible to parse what belongs to whom.

She pitches her head back and laughs when he takes her by the ankles and practically pulls her into his lap. He ducks down and buries his face in her neck. Her fingers disappear into his hair, and she hiccups in surprise when he plunges into her, her eyes blown wide open, her mouth a grinning, empty bear trap.

Ilya’s back is a tilled field of red, weeping furrows from his shoulders to his hips, a darker color than the handprints Eustacia has left on him. His breathing shudders when she begins to whisper against his ear, her palms making his shoulder, his neck, his temple a canvas for her blood.

You’re bad for each other, Asra tries to tell her, you’re going to stop making light. You’re going to burn out.

Ilya fucks her harder, moaning against her mouth. He chokes on a gasp when she throws her legs around his waist and drives him hard into her. “The moment between my birth and my first breath, my mother took me by the throat and feet, and she broke me over her knee,” she laughs against Ilya’s lips.

It is a story Asra has only heard in her dreams, and only because she dreams loudly.

“There is no one that will love you like I love you, she told me. Kissing my mouth to silence the screaming, she told me, you are mine, and only mine, and only mine, and only-only mine.”

I don’t love you like that, Asra tries to shout, I never loved you like that. Ilya will love you that way, and you’ll hate him for it.

She leaves the story and leans up to Ilya’s searching mouth, listens to the strange poem he breathes into her, “Early this morning, late last night, two dead men rose up to fight. Back to back, they faced one another, drew their swords and shot one another.”

Asra has dreams of being trapped inside a coffin. He knows these are Ilya.

Even from the beginning, Ilya was an eccentric person. Jittery and gliding by turn, a stammering shipwreck of a human being, then a master showman.

In his three ring circus, Ilya is the ringleader, the acrobats, the clowns, the tigers, the sideshow attractions, and the dunk tank, all wrapped into one powerfully confusing and irritating package.

When the eccentricities turn into erratic behavior, however, Asra finds himself putting his weight on his back foot and preparing himself for the worst. While he wants to protect himself, he’s also dumbfounded that he is terrified for the doctor at the same time.

Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, Ilya seems to lurch into violently shifting personalities. He is cool and withdrawn, then he is loud and brazen, and after that, he becomes bright and jovial. He slings jokes in a deadpan, he distances himself from the servants, then flirts filthily with anyone that will stop near him.

On the inside of a week, Ilya has solidified this upsetting behavior into a cohesive whole, and Asra is drawn to him and repulsed at the same time. He justifies this attraction with his concern: there is a reason Ilya has been acting this way, and he has to know if that reason is a danger to anyone else.

Asra warms to him again, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the absurdities coming from Ilya’s mouth, his strange new cadence, his easy and lazy repose. It isn’t Ilya.

But it comes to him, and, of course, it comes in the form of a ghost.

Already, Ilya had been too close a mirror to Eustacia for comfort, but seeing this carefully crafted façade makes images flash over Asra’s vision, and he is disgusted with himself for being so desperate, for allowing himself to be so easily read.

Ilya was experimenting on himself—finding the skin that Asra would best respond to, and slipping into it like an outfit. Testing him, finding the most pleasing cues to take. Changing himself to suit Asra’s needs and desires.

The doctor has fabricated a Eustacia-skin suit, and Asra can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe, so he cuts off what is strangling him.

Asra is at the palace for his own purposes. Ilya has never, ever been one of them.

Asra has dreams about eyes as black as the new moon, teeth more ivory than enamel, and hands with too many fingers. Eustacia sings sealsongs in her sleep, and she wakes up to kiss him. Eustacia isn’t human, and she loves him as one of her punishing few. Eustacia is a monster, and she laughs and tells him that she is his monster.

He tells her that he can’t wait for her to come home, that he never wants to be apart again.

She tells him soon. She will be home soon.

Asra has dreams about warm smothering, and being trapped inside coffins, and burning in body pits, and drinking blood, and forcing curses. He knows these are Ilya, and he forces himself to wake up.

Ilya has long since stopped being a reliable diversion, but now he’s turning from a possible problem to an outright liability. He presses and prostrates himself, foolhardy and blind to Asra’s real desires and motives.

This is the one saving grace of the situation—Asra has never let Ilya as close as Ilya wanted to be. He has to be concerned about Ilya’s white knight ideas, but he doesn’t have to worry about Ilya toppling his plans like a poorly-built tower.

Asra is so close. Eustacia is so close.

That’s his solace, his goal, his peace.

More and more, Ilya knows to stay clear of him. He no longer visits Asra’s room in the dead of night, he no longer speaks romantically the rare times they do speak. There are no compliments, there are no flowers.

He’s withdrawn, but Asra can’t find anything to enjoy about it.

Ilya might’ve backed off, but when his eyes land on him, they burst into flame the way they do when he thinks he’s found the cure to the plague, and he’s absolutely certain that this time it will work. That can only portend truly bad things, and Asra takes his time shoring up the protection spells on his room at the palace, on the shop in the marketplace, and on his own body.

Using a mirror and stretching as much as he humanly can, Asra dips his fingers into some of Eustacia’s old, blessed ink he’d spirited from the shop, and draws two of her dedicated sigils comprised of runes between his shoulder blades, and a third on the small of his back.

Soundness of mind, solidity of body, and savagery of wit.

The ink glows with his magic, and settles into his skin, leaving him feeling warm and less exposed. The shapes are sloppy, but legible when he looks at them in a bigger mirror, and his heart starts to hammer an off-beat tattoo at the thought that, soon, he will get to see her crisp images once again, all painted with her long, sharp nails.

Or, maybe not. She always kept her nails clipped short for him.

“You’ve got something on your back,” Ilya notes drily around the tincture clamped in his teeth, passing him in the library with a stack of books in his arms that weigh down his entire top half. Asra yanks up his shirt collar, but Ilya says nothing further, dumping the books on his desk and submerging himself in his gruesome diagrams.

“Is there…something on your back?” Nadi asks, hours later, as she gently pulls the fabric of his shirt down for a quick look. “Oh, Asra. I do hope you know what you’re doing with…whatever that may be.”

Asra lets her look, but he doesn’t provide any further information or assurance. The hour is drawing closer and closer to none, and Eustacia will be returned from the place he could not follow. He will retrieve her himself.

He offers the Countess more tea, and looks at her through his lashes with an easy smile as he pours to her mark. She leans forward, the picture of grace, and retrieves her cup.

If there is only one, single thing he will miss about the palace, it will be Nadi.

He’ll miss her bravery, her cunning, her intellect, and her biting wit terribly. He will miss playing chess, walking the gardens, and splashing in the fountain with her.

He will miss disparaging her husband, too, but that is a sorrow he’s more than willing to deal with.

“Asra,” she starts, waiting until she has his full attention to continue. “Have you noticed anything amiss concerning Doctor Devorak? I can’t help but ruminate on his absence as of late, and I’m becoming concerned by his demeanor when he does surface from his work.”

Asra only purses his mouth thoughtfully, shaking his head. “I have, but I think he’s convinced that he’s on the brink of a breakthrough. It might be better if he was allowed some space.”

Nadi sighs and lets her eyes drift to the gardens below them. “I’m sure you’re right, Asra. At the very least, I do hope it is so.”

Years have passed since Eustacia came back incomplete. Not wrong, but not whole either. Asra has broken her many times trying to fit her pieces back together, but the woman he speaks to in the water today more resembles the woman he’d known before than she ever has.

She eats pumpkin bread with her long nails, speaking to him excitedly, and he still drinks it up with relief. Her excitement tastes like her magic—crisp and golden, like nectar, seductive and glowing, like honey.

Her hair has air-dried into waves like frayed ribbons falling into her makeup-free face, and he can look straight at her and think not at all of slantways rhymes and bodies beautiful in the wrong ways, only that, out of every face he has seen in his entire life, this is his favorite.

A little beastly, a bit monstrous, but so familiar he would recognize it in the next life, and the one after that.

It hurts him that she remembers nothing of him, let alone her history, but he is still relieved everyday that she’s here at all, existing in the same world he does.

She slaps her hand on the lip of the fountain and forces a hard swallow down her tattooed throat, her new moon black eyes wide. “Such a tit I am, master, I haven’t told you the wildest part of this idiotic tale. After the Countess left, Doctor Jules broke into the shop.”

Ice lances through Asra’s chest, grabbing his lungs in a fist so he can hardly breathe. “What?”

“Doctor Jules. The murderer. He broke into the shop…” she frowns and looks down at her knuckles, “he was looking for you.”

“Did he try to hurt you?” Asra breathes, sitting forward, desperately wishing he was next to her.

“There’s something in me that thinks it wasn’t his intent,” she admits. “I went on him, as I am wont to do by nature, but he never put hands on me except in defending himself. Then he wanted his cards read. He’s…a strange man. Strange enough that I might even feel a little tenderly for the poor sob, murderer or not.”

The lance widens, turns into a sword, moves in such a way that Asra thinks he’ll be sliced in half from the inside.

Ilya has found the one person Asra values most in the world, he is nigh-on impossible to stop once he has his mind around an idea. She falls a little in love with most everyone she meets, and very hard for a punishing few.

Ilya, Asra can already see, will be one of Eustacia’s punishing few.

#the arcana #the arcana fanfic #asra #julian devorak #asrian #asra x mc #julian x mc #who's ready for more inconsistent nonsense? i know i'm not #i've never written anything less than 1k words and it looks like i'm not about to start #rags wrote a thing #i think me and this pairing are done-zo for a while

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doctorsloth33-blog · 6 years

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Destan “Doc” Loche Autobiography, Part II

The first eight months I spent in Hammerfell consisted mostly of treating minor injuries and setting the basic standard for care within the Legion. I was stationed in Hegathe where the General resided with his Staff and, to my surprise, was placed as second in command of the entire detachment of Healers. The former Adept had deserted in the middle of the night; camp rumor claimed that he eloped with a local woman. Most of the Healers under the command were fresh graduates from the various magic schools across Tamriel, with only a half dozen veterans. Our commander was an old Nord Master by the name of Lorrick, who hated Hammerfell, the heat, the ocean, and hated us most of all. We were generally seen as an annoyance by the curmudgeonly Master and anyone who was injured less than mortally was a malingerer and a "milk-drinker." I was informed by him that he expected me to handle day to day operations.

I had fifty mages under my charge, and of the fifty as many as forty of them could be out in the field with the Legion at any given time. I myself occasionally became attached to units conducting training exercises simply because I ran out of other personnel to send. Around twenty of my Healers were permanently attached to units in other cities including Sentinel, where the General was forced to declare martial law. The Legion suffered its first combat-related fatality during a riot there; three others were so grievously wounded that they had to be transported back to Hegathe for Master Lorrick to attend. I was required to assist him in their treatment and learned a great deal. While working, Lorrick was surprisingly forthcoming and receptive to questions. We placed a metal plate in one young Imperial's skull that had been fractured by an unknown missile dropped from above. It was delicate and tense work. We first removed the splintered pieces of bone, then cut a circular hole in the man's skull to match the measurements of the plate around the fracture. It was made of gold and I queried Master Lorrick if it would not be cheaper to use steel or even iron. Without answer, he gently placed the plate inside the man's skull, held it with a long thin instrument, and summoned a flame incantation. He carefully traced the perimeter of the metal circle with a glowing finger until the edges began to glow. Once he'd made a complete round he changed his spell to a freezing touch and placed his palm directly on the plate. He stepped back and gestured for me to look, and I saw now the need for such an expensive material. The gold, which melted quickly and at a low enough heat that there was no danger of damage to the surrounding bone, had fused directly to the skull.

"This technique removes the necessity of using pins or screws which can damage the brain," Lorrick's tone was that of an instructor, his usual vitriolic demeanor softened. "You listen well, and have a good mind for this work Adept." I was floored by the compliment and barely managed to utter my gratitude. Thus began my tutelage under Master Lorrick. I owe everything I know of the Restorative Arts, both mundane and magical, to what that old Nord taught me. He showed me that nearly all the schools of magic can be used to help heal. A powerful illusionary incantation to make the patient feel a pleasant massaging sensation in place of the tremendous and horrible pain of a scalpel slicing through flesh. Swift application of flame can seal the ends of vessels that are pouring lifeblood from a wound, and an apprentice level spell of Alteration can make the wicked barbed head of an embedded arrow as soft and pliable as freshly made dough, allowing easy removal without the risk of further damage. Master Lorrick taught me infinitely more in six months than I had learned in four years at the College. He also insisted I, and all of our men, attend general combat training at least twice a week. "A dead healer is no use to anyone and a blade is the surest way to safeguard your own life." I started a sick call where the Legionnaires were allowed to come before duty and be seen by one of the Healers for basic ills and injuries. I kept five Apprentices on duty from 5 o clock to 8 o clock, and I set up a separate tent for general and staff officers. It was here that I met my closest and dearest friend Lucius. He was the Legion Vexillary and, as tradition dictated, the youngest and most junior officer in the entire Legion. I had begun packing my things up after an uneventful morning when he pushed the flap aside and lingered, hesitant, in the entryway.

"Come in," I waved to him and began taking things out of my bag, "come in and have a seat." "Yes, Adept." he paused for a moment, unsure, and then snapped to attention and saluted, adding a "Sir." It took me so much by surprise that I laughed. He tried very hard not to scowl but did not succeed. "Sorry, sorry. Vexillary right?" He nodded, relaxing, "I assure you it wasn't my intention to mock you. I'm almost sure that either you outrank me, or that we're peers at the very least, so there's no need to 'sir' me," I gestured to the chair again, "please have a seat. My name is Destan Loche, Adept second grade. You may call me Destan. What is your name?" "Vexillary Sulla, Adept," he grumbled, taking his seat. I ignored his stubbornness and sat across from him, rolling my sleeves. "Well Monsieur Sulla," he snorted derisively, "what is it that ails you?" His scowl quickly subsided and, under the deep tan natural to Cyrodiils, I could almost detect a redness to his cheeks. "Well Adept," he shifted in the camp seat uncomfortably, "when I awoke this morning to make water I," he paused and the redness increased, "I noticed an intense burning sensation and some sort of discharge," he finally blurted, eyes on the dirt floor. I nodded and asked him a few basic questions, much to his ever-growing discomfort, and ascertained that he had picked up a common malady gained from acquiring less than reputable female companionship; generally of the kind that requires an exchange of currency. A common enough occurrence in the camp of an army, but potentially embarrassing for a member of the General's staff. "Well, there are two options available to you." I stood up and retrieved a pack of instruments neatly rolled up in my bag, "The first is that you return to your quarters and drink large amounts of water until the malady passes." His face scrunched up.

"And what's the second option Adept?"

"The second option," I unrolled the pack and retrieved a long skinny metal rod with a small, smooth cone at the tip, " is that I insert this instrument into the affected area and draw it back out to clear the puss, and then flush the area out with a salve." Lucius blinked at me, expressionless. He sat like that for a while, considering.

"How long will it take the malady to pass on its own?"

"It could pass within a week," I shrugged, "or it could fester and worsen for another month and you'll be right back here having the procedure done anyway."

"Understood. Shall I return, or can you perform it now?"

"Now would be best, " He nodded and I added, "it will take me a few moments to prepare the salve and clean the instrument. I will give you something to numb the pain but if you keep a flask I suggest you empty it."

"Sound advice Adept, I was just thinking the same thing,"

By the time I completed simmering the potion for pain, Lucius had drunk half of the brandy in his flask. When I returned after cleaning the instruments and preparing the salve, there was only a swallow left, which I took for myself to steady my hand. He was well and truly prepared, giggling and singing half-comprehensible songs learned in taverns. I used oil from coconuts to lubricate the instrument and gave Lucius a belt to bite down on. Without a word, he clenched the leather between his teeth and gave me a nod. A sharp intake of breath on entry and a deep, guttural grunt on the retrieval were the only noises he made. I could hear the leather of the belt squeaking and an alarming crack came from the arms of the examination chair underneath white-knuckled hands. I used a large syringe to take up the salve and applied it to the entry of the phallus to clean the urethra and held the shaft upright for around two minutes. I had mixed in some Juniper berry with the salve and could see that the cooling sensation brought great relief. I released the phallus and instructed him to remain disrobed until it had completed draining. The entire procedure had taken less than five minutes.

"All done, Vexillary," I'd decided to not further tease the man over formality given the pain I'd just put him through, " there may be blood in your water for a few days and there will be some sensitivity, these are both normal and expected. I'm sending you back to your quarters with an order for two days rest and I expect you to use them. This," I handed him a green bottle, "is medication for the pain. Only take a swallow twice a day, evenly spaced. It should last you for four days." I began tidying up, putting the instrument back into the boiling water, scraping the salve and oil back into their respective containers. Lucius secured his tunic and sword belt once he verified that he was no longer draining salve. He sat back down and remained, pale and sweating, for a long while. I realized once I finished cleaning that he hadn't spoken since before the procedure.

"Vexillary, are you alright? Did you understand my instructions?" He nodded, still staring off into a corner, "Do you need me to do anything else for you? I can escort you to your quarters, or call for a runner if you'd like."

He finally looked up at me. His cheeks puffed and he blew out a long, exhausted breath.

"Doc," his was voice strained, "I believe you can take me for a drink." He smiled and I found myself grinning along with him.

"Of course Vexillary," I held my hand out. He grasped it and pulled me down to eye level.

"Lucius. My name is Lucius, doc. My friends call me Luc."

"Alright Luc, let's get you that drink."

I have been friends with Markus Lucius Sulla ever since. During the rest of our time in Hammerfell, we were inseparable. I taught him to conjure forth flame and he showed me the proper way to backswing the mace I carried. He showed me how to compose poetry, and I showed him how to cast a net to catch fish in a river. We chased Redguard women and brawled with their jealous suitors. He would make up terrible drunken songs of our imagined conquests, and I would knit our scrapes and cuts back together before muster. It was a wild and enjoyable time, but one that is enormously bittersweet. Two boys, barely past the threshold of manhood, who were just enjoying life. Perhaps we would have done something differently if we'd known what was coming. Perhaps we would have prepared.

On the eighth month, second week, and third day I was assigned to the Tenth Legion in Hammerfell the Dominion army fell upon our heads and brought the world down around us.

End Part II.

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